My Cabin

By: Alex Peterson © 2005
(Used with permission)

Alex is the son of Randy, a friend of mine who lives at the south end of Little Bass Lake. At the current time Randy owns a cabin and a log home, but when this story was written the log home hadn't been built yet. Alex was 13 years old and in the 7th grade at John Adams middle school in Rochester, Minnesota when he wrote this paper. Itís here below exactly as he wrote it (ie, it's word-for-word and has not been edited).

My cabin is my favorite place to be when I want to get away from it all. My Father and I take the four hour drive to our haven up an hour west of Duluth to get away from our busy city lives. The trip up seems on going but it is well worth the wait. My anticipation is of smelling the fresh pine scent of the north woods on Little Bass lake. I can't wait to feel that warm northern breeze that keeps you cool in the summer and keeps the bugs off. My anxiety makes the trip endless.

When we finally get there I help my Dad unpack our belongings that we have decided to bring with us. Our cabin is a small log cabin with one bedroom and one bathroom. But that is all we need. I can always smell the incense burning from our tattered screen porch. Our cabin has very few comforts of the big city. I believe that is what makes us want to come back so often. I can hear Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture" with its prolific cannons bursting through the heavens. My Dad is pretending he is Tchaikovsky himself directing the cannons. All the while his is sitting by the fire with our friend Jerry, griping about their work and speaking of how fast I have grown up.

Later that night when the sun is hovering above the horizon, I can smell the garlic odor of my Dad's parmesan potatoes. I swear to him we would be rich if he would just introduce his idea to the world. But he chooses for it to remain a family secret. Now I am sitting next to a crackling fire that warms every fiber of my being. I am watching my favorite movie "Gladiator". I can hear the battle cry of the warriors who continue to fight despite knowing their purpose is in vain. My Father's and my movie likings differ greatly. He likes a good action moving with a good ending and an exciting plot. I like a bit of everything. By now dinner is on the table and I am forced to leave my movie to join my Father in our inaugurating cabin celebration. We eat and talk of how we will awake early tomorrow to go slay the fish in the morning, even though we both know that neither of us could be motivated to wake before nine.

The next morning we are out trolling around our humble lake that is as still as glass. Both of us are soaked from the night's storm. The wetness does not bother either of us because it is quite pleasant outside. I love the sweet smell of the mornings' dew on the grass which desperately needs a trim. "Much like your hair", my Father reminds me. Neither of us catch much but it is alright because just the experience is worth it all. After our troll we stop at Jerry's to have brunch and a coke. I like to go swimming at Jerry's because he has the move perfect beach in all of northern Minnesota. The sand is warm in between your toes when you plunge your head into a good book.

Later that night we sit around the bonfire and feel depressed about our departure in the morning. My Father and I try to pick out the constellations lit up by the moon in the night sky above. He knows much more about astronomy than I will ever know. I realize by now that all these trips will be bittersweet for the rest of my life. I know that I will have the sweet satisfaction of enjoying the superb weather and activities but then I will deal with parting from my favorite place. I guess that too much of one thing just doesn't make it special anymore.