A bleak and a dreary day to be in the forest, but any day amongst the trees is better than a day away from them. I had no intention to return to the winter cabins today--the ones I discovered last January. My aim was Beam Rocks, with their view out over the wintry countryside to the east. And I'd have made it up the slippery, snowy road even in my pitiful little Kia Soul--if not for some oblivious, inconsiderate jogger.
I was chugging nicely up the mountain, despite the baloney-skin tires and the car's awful handling, when I saw a woman jogging down the middle of the snow-covered road. She must have heard me coming up behind her, but she refused to make room, so I had to break my stride, dropping the car down into second gear, then first gear. (The car's a stick, which usually completely makes up for its poor winter performance; I hope to never drive an automatic again.) Of course, there was no recovering from that loss of momentum on the snow. The tires begin to roll and skid, gaining no traction. I was so mad at that clueless woman. Why couldn't she have just moved four feet to one side? But there was no way around it. I had to put the thing in neutral and drift backward down the slippery hill till I could turn the car around and seek another destination. Hence the winter cabins.
You have to hike into these sites, unless you come in high summer, when the narrow dirt roadways are dry. But it's a good hike, about an hour and fifteen minutes from the road that runs through Linn Run State Park. The little one-room cabin in the second and third photos is just a place I sometimes admire when I'm hiking out this direction. What I wouldn't give to have a place like this! The family name "Kalp" is written across the belly of the craftsy 1980s-style wooden goose above the door. If this were my place, though, I'd surround it with a whole lot less rusting debris, and I'd put curtains in the windows. (The thought of some woods-walker seeing into my cabin at night just creeps me the hell out.)
This other cabin belongs to the Forbes State Forest, and I actually have an email from a ranger saying that the public is allowed to use it for free. It was deeded to the PADCNR, and they don't really seem to know what to do with it. Last time I was out this direction, I bemoaned the fact that--although all the cabins were closed for the winter--they didn't have the peaceful seclusion of being snowbound. It was eerily warm that January, and the locations were easily accessible to anyone willing to walk a few miles over neglected trails. Today, winter was putting in a cameo appearance...but still nothing dramatic. After an incredibly cold spell earlier this month, January and February are all set now to return to their new default: chilly, gray climate change endless Novemberesque season of drear.
The place has changed a little since the last time I was here. Someone removed the big picnic table, and the jumbo bottle of Cuervo is gone. But the same frequent visitor keeps his pots on the mantel and his clay pigeons in one corner. The silence here was perfect, broken only by an occasional gust of cold wind, tugging at the walls and windows. It was surprisingly cozy just to settle into the little white plastic couch, and there I sat to relish the solitude and quiet. I read a book, stared at the walls, wondered what it would be like to spend a night in the place.
Honestly, if I were to start frequenting this two-story cabin, I'd need to make it feel a little more comfortable. I'd have to pack in some sheets or towels to place over the windows at night. There's a broom in the corner near the staircase; I'd definitely have to put the thing to work. Aside from that, an air mattress, a lamp, some blankets, some books, a kettle and French press coffee maker...then we'd be good.
This is the upper floor, the bedroom. Like the lower level, it's completely unfinished, but what potential! How is it that I've never been to this place when the trees are in leaf? Maybe it only appears when skies are gray and trees are bare.
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