At the height of the early days pandemic, when we were all newly trapped at home monitoring every new case and minor throat tickle, there was casual chatter on social media about how nice it would be to escape it all and move to a cabin in the woods.
I actually did.
Do you remember that time? It was so scary. It felt like the world was collapsing, and death, while always all around in theory, was making itself very visible. A mythical “cabin in the woods” sounded like a reasonable way to escape the madness of the pandemic and the inherent danger of being in proximity to dangerous biological weapons: other humans.
Some background: I was already living in one cabin in the woods right before COVID hit. I’d just given notice at my job at a wilderness lodge on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in northern Minnesota. I was going to move out of my current little cabin onsite there into a much smaller, more rustic one closer to town and start a new phase of life in northern Minnesota: depending on the income from my weaving for my livelihood, and cleaning vacation rentals independently as I built my art business.
The timing was such that I’d had named my last day of work more than a month ahead of time, and it just so happened to coincide exactly with the date the state went into shutdown.
Instead of moving into the cabin I had lined up, where I’d have no running water and little connectivity to the outside world, I instead spent the next two months in almost complete isolation with my parents at their house in the Twin Cities suburbs.
I felt fortunate to be home with my mom and dad where I could keep an eye on them (I’m certain they felt the same) and weave in their basement, but I also felt a sense of urgency to get back to my “real life” in northern Minnesota. I worried that if I was gone for too long, inertia would set in and I’d never get back.
So after two months of quarantine with my parents, I stuffed my tiny car with yarn and looms and clothes and drove the five hours from my parents’ house north to the picturesque shore of Lake Superior. Even though it had been an adjustment to live with my folks for those two months, I suddenly didn’t want to leave. Aurora mewed from his kennel in the front seat, confused at yet another upheaval.
At that time, early May 2020, there had still been no known cases of Coronavirus in tiny Grand Marais, Minnesota. The entire town had shut down and there was a sense of separatism among locals. Someone even cut down a tree across the only highway leading into town, a desperate and delusional attempt to keep people (and the disease) out. I was terrified of being the one to bring Covid to Grand Marais, and happily accepted my landlord's terms of quarantining for two weeks in the cabin before seeing anyone or starting work, which I had planned to do anyway.
The cabin was not publicized as a rental and the owners, who were eccentric artists, only rented the cabin by word of mouth to people they trusted. I had already had to pass a sort of “energy test” before they’d allow me to move in, meeting and charming them a few times previously over the winter before COVID.
I had reservations about how involved they were in the rental situation, but it was the cheapest place I could find to get me through this transition phase of my life. (Read on to understand why it was so affordable.) But I just wanted a place to live; I did not want to be judged for my “energy” in my own home.
And that day, after leaving my family and enduring the long drive, my energy was shut down and anxious. To my dismay, the landlord was waiting for me when I arrived, tapping on my car window as soon as I pulled up, eager to instruct me about how to move my things in and where to park my car. He also wanted to reiterate the “conditions” of my moving in–complete isolation for two weeks. Complete isolation had sounded fine a few weeks ago when I made plans to return, but now it felt unbearable. My energy soured even more.
The cabin-in-the-woods was nestled out of sight fifty or so yards away from where I’d park my car near the landlords’ house and art studio. I carried Aurora out to the cabin, walking the soggy path from the car along the edge of a long field. The grass was golden brown, laying flat from being crushed under a winter's worth of heavy snow. The ramshackle cabin was tucked back into the balsams at the edge of the field, so it was invisible from the main house or parking area. If you didn’t know where to look, you’d never know it was there. A grouse thumped its wings somewhere from the trees, echoing my own racing heart.
When we got inside the cabin, I let the cat out of the carrier and promptly burst into tears. Aurora tried to hide under one of the pieces of rickety furniture. I pulled him into my lap and we sat on the wooden floor, surrounded by dust and dog hair, and cried. I murmured into his fur that this was our new home, and we were going to thrive there. Neither of us believed it.
The cabin was minuscule, about 300 square feet. The main floor could fit only the kitchen, a mini-fridge, a table, and the propane heater under the stairs. A massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooked a covered porch that was the size of the entire cabin. Because there was no running water, a large blue plastic jug on the edge of the kitchen sink held both drinking water and washing water. The sink drained via PVC pipe into the woods outside, a probable code violation that would never be noted because anyone living there was a secret, off-the-books renter. Officially, I was a ghost.
Upstairs was a gross full-sized mattress on the floor, a dresser, belongings and dog hair left from previous tenants, and big windows overlooking the field.
The bathroom situation was both my biggest hesitation and the sort of claim to fame about the cabin. The old wooden outhouse was a short walk down a little trail through the balsams and operated on a “humanure” system (also not up to code). This meant that the outhouse looked like a pit toilet–there was a toilet set, toilet paper, etc.–but beneath said toilet seat, instead of a pit in the ground, was a five gallon bucket. After you used the bathroom, you covered your waste in said bucket with a scoop of sawdust, which was kept in a garbage bag in the corner of the outhouse.
When the bucket got full, I lifted it out of the hole, trying not to look at or smell it or spill it as I carried it a few steps back into the woods where there was a “compost” pile: some boards nailed around four trees and where years worth of waste was composting, and to which I would add mine.
Despite its quirks, I liked the cabin. The field unfolding in front was sunny and grassy, and would blossom wild and colorful when summer came. The light filtered through the evergreens around the three other sides of the cabin. The smell of spring melt in the conifers reminded me of so many springs, of camping as a child, of an unplaceable nostalgia for the thing that was happening at that very moment that I knew I’d long for again someday. I imagined weaving many tapestries in front of that big window, reading books on the front porch overlooking the field.
After a phone call home, a deep clean of the cabin, and a few hours of moving in and organizing that first evening, I was feeling a little more optimistic.
I got ready for bed and went out for one last pee. As I turned around and the door swung shut behind me, I realized with a jolt that the handle was locked. The keys, left inside by the landlord earlier, were still on the counter. I panicked, violently trying to open the door. It was useless. Aurora, who had finally overcome his fear and started to sniff around the cabin, sat on the stairs and looked at me with grave disappointment.
I was locked out. My cellphone was inside. It was early May and cold, and I had no shoes on.
I looked across the field and saw lights glowing from the landlord’s house. Before my pride could stop me, I ran sock-footed, cold, and embarrassed across the dew-wet field toward the main house. A waxing gibbous moon glowed overhead and–I’m not kidding–an owl hooted from the woods across the field. I had the sensation I was floating over the field like a wraith, like the ghost I was. I must’ve looked wild to the landlord when he opened the door. After being so annoyed with his omnipresence and helpfulness earlier, I was desperately thankful for that helpful presence now.
He kindly got dressed and came out in the cold to help. It took us a half hour or so to break into the cabin, but we eventually succeeded. He worked with patience, problem-solving while fielding my endless apologies for the inconvenience, risking being near me and my city Covid germs to help me get back inside.
For all of irritation toward him earlier, this man was now my savior. For all my desire to escape humanity and be a solitary woman in a cabin in the woods, there I was on my first night, socks soaked through to the bone, dependent on others for help.
Thank you for reading! Read Part 2 which gets into my challenging two week isolation in the tiny cabin in the field, and a bit about how being alone by choice and being in forced isolation are very, very different.
This is such a beautiful description and daring act, something I would love to do but will never do it. I am subscribing to your newsletter to know more about you.
I love this! I can’t wait for part 2.