I came across these fascinating photographs on my Facebook feed a while ago. I scrolled through and found myself staring at every nook and artifact in each photo. I’ve been wanting to write about this, but every time I sat down to click at keyboard I felt the nagging need to shelter and savor the memories for just wee bit longer. But I recently looked at the photographs again. And then I was taken back to a slip of time that had somehow been cobwebbed over in my memory.
There was a house in the Boundary Waters, a shack really.
We portaged there after taking a boat to the cabin we were staying in for the week. Not being a nature girl, I had nothing appropriate to wear. I assure you that Tretorns, madras plaid bermuda shorts, and a Polo short are not Boundary Waters attire. I had never paddled a canoe, much less hoisted it over my head to carry down an overgrown path. The mosquitoes were swarming a fantastic din in my ear, taunting me with nips on my ankles and cheeks. My choice was to swat and drop the canoe or suck it up while being sucked at mercilessly. I had welts on my legs by the time we came to a resting place. I was new to this so my companions humored me and stopped earlier than their usual break. I assume they likely portaged all the way across this slice of land in the past. But weak, tired, itchy me need a breather. And so we stopped. My companions, ever the spirited nature lovers, suggested we walk a bit. My eyes bugged out at the thought of moving again. I had secured a spot on fallen down branch and just wanted to rest. Alas, my party was weaving through the brush, waving their hands in front of them to knock down the growth. There was no path to follow so I scurried along lest I be left in nature all alone.
We came to very small clearing and saw an old log cabin. It was a tiny log shack that was clearly handmade and not just made to look that way from some mail order kit. We called out HELLOOOOOOO! Surely no one lived here? I mean, it was the middle of freaking nowhere on a nameless island somewhere in the crystal waters between America and Canada. We all stood silent, forgetting our scrapes and mosquito bites, forgetting we had even come from a time and place unbeknownst to the inhabitant of this dwelling. No one answered our even shriller HELLOOOOOOO. There was no sign of a boat or even a dock, and there was no other way off this island. The brush was overgrown but looked just like every other inch of nature we ventured through. Wildflowers in shades of yellow and blue peppered the area, and what looked like tattered Holly Hobbie-esque curtains flapped in a front window. We peeked in.
I wish I had photos of what we saw.
I had my Nikon, outfitted with a zoom lens.
But snapping photos seemed like a violation of sorts.
Instead I stared intently, promising my brain to tattoo the images upon it.
The tiny log cabin was a perfect square. There were benches in front, and I could picture the sunset views over the water perched from there. There were tattered curtains blowing in the windows, stick frames, no glass. There was no door. We peeked inside but didn’t wander in, not wanting to violate someone’s home, abandoned as it was. There was a black rusted stove that looked an awful lot like the Holly Hobbie one I had for my childhood dollhouse. Across from the stove was a thin mattress atop a log bed. The mattress was threadbare blue ticking with straw filling spilling out the sides. The walls were bare. No books. No paper. Just a few tin plates and old cans with labels peeled off or disintegrated. There were clear signs of life amidst the clutter and dirt floor. A handmade broom even stood in the corner. There were various implements but no doodads. No clothing hung on empty hooks. No gear, no shoes, no personal effects. The exterior walls were stuffed with fragments of straw and brush and stones. Wadded up bits of newspaper crackled as we touched the decaying bits of wood. In a back corner, farthest from the water’s edge, there were rolled sheets of newspaper stuffed into the walls. They were faded yet legible. And the year was 1931.
Stumbling onto this place was a gift, albeit an unsettling gift. It was a serendipitous peek into a life foreign to mine, a time that escaped me, and a kinship with the harshest of nature in this Minnesota wilderness. No one in town had seen this place. No one had heard of such a tale. We did not divulge the coordinates, keeping this secret a bit longer. We had a tryst with someone’s personal history and we honored that.
Who lived here?
Whose hands built this place?
What brought him here?
How long was he here?
What became of this hermit?
Those questions haunt me still.