The Old Log Cabin

 When I paddle along the shore of a lake or river, I always keep an eye out for old cabins. Usually, I can spot them from the water, but the one in the picture was hidden deep in the bush. I found it by luck, on the north shore of Tchentlo Lake while on a canoe trip. This is the story of what happened.

Author and Steve Flawith exploring the old cabin.
Tchentlo Lake, Nation Lakes Canoe Route, BC, Canada.

To escape an incoming storm, my paddling companions and I landed our canoes on a sandy beach. We climbed up the bank, rigged up a tarp, and waited for the storm to pass. Ten minutes later, a few raindrops bounced off the tarp, but that was all. The storm missed us.

We liked the feel of forest around us, so we decided to stay a little longer. Some of us made tea, others took a nap, I went for a walk. 

Not too far from our temporary camp, I noticed an old trail on the forest floor. I began following it. Not an easy task, considering how often it disappeared under the moss, only to reappear when I took a few steps farther into the unknown. The path led me far enough into the forest that I began to wonder if I should go back and get my compass, just in case I got lost. But there was a rise in the terrain, and you know it goes with rises and hills and mountains. I had to see what was on the other side.

Once at the top of the rise, I looked over my shoulder to orient myself. I could still see blue water through the branches of the trees. This puzzled me. At this distance from shore, the sub-boreal forest should have completely shut me in from the lake. "Well," I thought, "at least I won’t get lost. If I come back to this rise, I’ll know where I am." I pressed on.

Soon, I noticed partly decaying stumps sticking up from the ground at regular intervals. An explanation for the semi-openness of the forest began to take shape in my mind. Someone had cut down many of the trees. But why? A few steps later, I saw the cabin. Now I had my answer. The person, or maybe I should say "persons", who had built the cabin had only cut down trees of the right diameter for their purpose. Since they did not damage the trees that were either too small or too crooked, the forest had recovered quickly. As a result, the area around the cabin was more open than the nearby virgin forest, yet it was so well integrated with it that I had almost failed to see the difference.

I returned to my friends and guided them back to the cabin. We pondered over who had built it. How many years ago? Were they trappers or miners? Why had they chosen a spot this far into the bush instead of closer to shore? Had they brought the cast iron stove, now rusty and hidden under the fallen timbers, by canoe, or had they dragged it on a toboggan or a sleigh over the winter ice? Asking the questions seemed to make us appreciate the fortitude of the builders. In the end, though, no clear answers prevailed in our common consciousness.

There was one thing we could not fail to notice—and many of us remarked on it. Nature was slowly reclaiming the cabin. Soon, the logs would be completely gone, and the moss would reach high-enough to cover the cast iron stove. Once that happened, no one would ever again wonder about the people who built this refuge in the wilderness.

I love old cabins. They make me appreciate the temporal nature of my life.