A Personal Writer's Retreat

This past winter I had been looking forward to a number of things this spring, especially setting aside some time just for writing and other basic life functions. Of course there are things to do that are connected with trail organizations and so forth. But I’d like to balance that out with inner-directed projects and “alone time”. Three goals currently important to me are: to find a good place to be for a few days; to write 10 pages a day (my take on the advice of Natalie Goldberg in her Writing Down the Bones, etc.); and to spend as much time in the Sun as practical for the long-awaited experience of outdoor warmth and of starting my tan. The best would be a milieu without distractions. with proximity to water an important plus.

A while ago some friends -- one of the couples in our book group -- showed us around their property, an old farm in a rural area of East central Maine about 40 road miles away from where I live. It is located quite far off the state roads, across a river, and at the dead end of a dirt road with few other neighboring houses. This was their home for many years while they raised their children. Now they live in Bangor, but kept it as a second home, a sort of getaway location. Their land encompasses many acres of fields and woods, and is bisected by a substantial stream.

The main house has no commercial electricity. But they have set up a small hydropower plant on the stream. Along with a windmill generator enough electricity is provided to run a few appliances.
On the property from a previous owner who rented them out, are 3 cabins. On the tour I instantly became fond of the most remote of them, located in the back acreage of the farm, across the stream from all the other buildings, and adjacent to a pond formed behind the small hydropower dam. (I was already imagining a swim there.)

I told my friends that I had been looking for a spot that would be ideal for a “personal writer's retreat” and that cabin seemed perfect. I asked to stay for a long weekend in April when the weather became better. I offered to pay rent but they generously welcomed me to stay there for free. I told them that if they insist on not taking money that they should at least tell me some job to do that would be helpful to them, so I can do something in return.

Just for interest -- I love maps and this kind of stuff -- I did a screen shot of the satellite snow depth analysis on the immediately prior Wednesday and placed a topographic map section next to it, to help identify features. A gray blob on the satellite picture, which is a nearby lake and a distinctive wiggle in a river in the area, helped anchor my judgment of the correspondence between the satellite image and the map. I was interested to see the match between the satellite analysis and the reality. By the false-color scale the pixels in the area looked like 2-4 inches, which would go fast unless protected from the Sun.

When the time came I stayed from a Thursday afternoon through Sunday morning. Expecting snow I brought a small plastic sled to transport my gear and firewood. There was no snow near the house (as foreseen above) but the sled glided perfectly on the grass and thus was a big help.

It is a simple but comfortable small cabin with a kitchen and living / dining area. A bedroom with bunkbeds to sleep two is separated by two head-height walls and a curtain screen. Energy is supplied by tanks of LP gas which run the cooking range, the lighting and the refrigerator. (It still blows my mind that a device using a flame can produce cold temperatures.)

There is a wood stove for heat. The brand of the stove is Trolla, which gave me a funny imagery of ugly but amusingly mischievous legendary beings! It is very adjustable and kept a comfortable temperature. I ran it almost continuously, as the daytime period with comfortable outdoor temperatures was only a few hours long. Water is obtained from a nearby clear free-flowing spring with tasty water. An old-fashioned “two-seater” privy is located a few yards beyond.

When I got there ice still remained on the North (cabin side) of the Pond. In fact I had to break a hole in order to get in for a rinse. (Thus fulfilling the steretype of the hardy Mainer!) I was careful not to use soap as it's in a trout stream that is actively fished. The ice was all melted by the next day.
I wasn't sure if this would be the first time somebody was out there in the recent months, so I had anticipated the need to clear some paths of snow. In actuality there was none anywhere near the main house, but I did open it up to look over its condition and see if the mouse traps had caught anything. I found that everything looked OK, did not find any dead mice or any other messes, and so turned the alarms back on, locked up and did not see a need to return.

There did not seem to be any winter debris needing removal nor other obvious need in the dooryard. Though I am pretty handy with tools and am an acceptable sawyer, mason, plumber, electrician, computer & gadget repairer and janitor, there was no apparent need there for any of my skills, so I spent all my time down around the cabin. Daily I tried to do whatever chores I could to repay their favor. So I spent 2 or 3 hours a day cleaning, fixing, organizing, raking, splitting campfire wood, removing horse manure, etc.

I was told that a neighbor from down the road might stop by to check on the place if he thinks someone is there. It is of course good that there is a local person who looks out for their interests. Given how long they lived there, I expected as much. (Even among a pack of mostly stand-offish neighbors there always seems to be one neighbor who welcomes you right from the start and maintains a helpful relationship. It's happened everywhere we've lived, thank goodness.) He is supposed to be a nice guy and am expected to introduce myself and tell him I am a friend of my hosts. Disguising my real reason which was to avoid unnecessary social interactions I had asked my hosts if we could just call or email him ahead of time and maybe save this nice guy some worry and an unnecessary trip. But my suggestion was not acted upon.
Around 5 pm on Thursday I was surprised to see a woman walking rapidly along the stream bank, and then further astonished to see her approach the cabin and unhesitatingly and obviously continuing in front as if to look in! I went outside, and making the only assumption that seemed obvious to me for a woman acting so familiar with the property and so bold, I asked if she was the Horse Lady (I knew beforehand that a horse owner sometimes uses the meadows, with the consent of my hosts.) She was completely puzzled and said "HOSSES! There's no hosses around here." This struck me as strange as she had just tramped through a trail littered with horse poop.
Though she did not identify herself, I concluded that she was there to check up and that the fishing pole was just a ruse to justify coming into the property. So I told her I was staying in the cabin for awhile with the permission of my friends. She seemed to accept that. I said "Going fishin'?" She said "Yup" and broke off the conversation. I replied "Fish away!" She didn't seem to seriously fish, but what do I know. Because of all this I made a wrong assumption about her.
On Friday around noon I looked for a nice sunning spot. There was still snow at the edge of the lowest field (that was gone by Sunday), and snow remained in the woods and on the adjacent edge of the uppermost field. Fortunately there was a large bare and dry area in the middle field and it was conveniently adjacent to the cabin. So I set up my lounge chair there. I was reclining in the chair, with a small box on my lap as an impromptu desk, writing and enjoying a sunbath.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

A car! I'd better get the hell out of here.

How on Earth did they drive up so

Through roadless woods, and depth of snow?

(Remember: the road dead-ends below the farm.) I was indisposed to receive guests just then and so retreated to the cabin. A few minutes later a couple appeared in the cabin dooryard: the same woman with a fishing pole as the previous day and an unfamiliar man. He walked up to the porch and loudly hailed me. I stood in the doorway, and again making a logical assumption, asked if he was the man my hosts had told me about. He said "No. Who are you?" I told him and said I am a friend of the owners. He told me his name and chatted for a minute, then went over to the dam and sat while the Mrs. fished. I returned to the cabin. In about 20 minutes they disappeared. I was washing dishes when, through the kitchen window, I saw a glint up in the woods. With my binoculars I discerned that it was a vehicle of some kind. Soon afterward I heard sounds of tires apparently spinning out in mud. So I went up to offer help and when I got there shouted above the noise "Need any help?"

Family reunion time. There were that same couple and their Akita and a man around 20, in and around a dune-buggy type vehicle. The young man was giving them a jump start from his truck battery. The older man came over, and obviously responding kindly to my gesture of help, began bubbling with conversation, asking me what I did for a living, etc. and even teasing about seeing a yeti cross the field earlier. He obviously had sized me up and concluded I was "good people" and introduced the young man as his son, and even introduced his dog, but oddly not his wife. Maybe he felt she is indeed shy of strangers? Her behavior the prior days would seem to say so.

As we parted he gave me the thumbs-on hippy handshake (remember those?) and told me I was "the coolest librarian" he'd ever met. Just goes to show how one can misjudge people (both parties in this encounter.) Though he told me that people come to fish there all the time, as that is a trout stream, I saw no one after that.

On Sunday morning I packed up, sledded my gear back up to "Rocky" my patiently waiting vehicle. As it turned out I had not been off the property in that entire time. The snow in the drive and in the dirt road had all disappeared! What a difference four days can make at this time of year, and what an internal difference it had made in me to have had all this calm, productive time.

On my return, as I neared the bridge over the river I saw a police car approach from the opposite direction. I wondered why he would come all the way along that remote road? Maybe part of his routine patrol? I gave a little wave as we passed as one is supposed to in the country, where the lack of that little courtesy telegraphs "I'm a stranger." A few seconds later, looking in my rear view mirror I saw him turn around, which gave me momentary concern, but nothing came of it, and so the welcoming feeling remained.
The weather was cool, but beautiful and sunny all four days. The sound of the stream going over the small dam was soothing. The cabin and its environment were very pleasant. I am grateful to have fulfilled my goals for this "personal writing retreat": write at least 10 pages a day no matter what, get plenty of sun time, and absorb peace and quiet back into my being. I have good memories of time well spent.