Cabin Living

The morning rays of today's sun shines through the windows of the loft of my little cabin.  Though filtered, it penetrates the many branches of conifers and alder.  It is late winter so the leaves of the alder have yet to fill in the forest ceiling.  My eyes adjust to the light before I climb down the pole-ladder to the cabin's main room.  There I'm met by my forest cat waiting for his morning milk. I should say, the cabin's forest cat since it came with the cabin. I slide open a double hung window and pull out the milk from the orange-crate that is nailed to the outside of the window that acts as my refrigerator.  This works well in the winter time when temperatures are below 45 degrees, however, when spring begins to birth forth her wondrous works of life, the milk gives way to mice and whatever else the cat can find crawling, scampering or flying through this small Northwest jungle. I pour a little milk into the empty tuna can that acts as his dish.

The cabin is far from any source of electricity or any real source of plumbing.  I rely wholly on mother nature for my refrigeration and water.  Some times this works well in some kind of symbiotic perfect harmony, and other times it is anything but symbiotic. For instance, there were times I would return from an outing to find raccoons on top of the orange-crate reaching through the slats of wood that make up the crate, trying to reach the cheese or something else that called to them.  Another time I came home to a trail of flour that ran from the main-room then up the trail before it disappeared into the salal of the forest. It seems I did not secure the door properly before leaving; and the little thieves burgled the cabin of it's dry goods while I was away.