Surviving Time

The cabin my great-great uncle built—the split log cabin that, with the help of many old relatives, was a testimony to our hard work and collaborative skills. Situated on a half-acre plot of land surrounded by cedar and fir trees, on the corner of US Hwy 50 in small sub-division in the town of Strawberry, was completed in 1951. A five minute walk to the South Fork of the American river, and with a breath-taking view of Lover’s Leap, similar in appearance to that of an old Swiss chalet, was originally designed by Lutz Aynedter, a German WWII veteran who fought in North Africa.

The two-story, four room cabin, cannot be compared to a cabin of any other in the South Lake Tahoe area, nor has it been. While some might say that it’s the rustic fireplace in the middle of the living room, or the loft upstairs with its very own covered balcony, or the large, pollen coated, double-paned picture windows that sit just below the ceiling—that I can proudly say my father installed himself—that let sunlight filter through the tops of the age old fir trees, or the deck painstakingly laid down timber by timber by my family, or even the rich mahogany red trims accompanied with a creamy mustard yellow, it truly boils down to the company you spend time with up there, and the feeling that the cabin instills in you when you’re sitting down, reading a book, or sitting out on the deck watching the Stellar Jays.

Waking up in the morning, I would draw the curtains over the old steel-framed, fifty’s style windows above my bed, turn on lamp in the corner by pulling on its chain, and breathe in. The freshness of mountain air can jumpstart the day—a crisp, brisk air blowing in through the open window brings with it the smell of warming moss on granite boulders, dew steaming off of trees and low lying shrubbery, and birds warbling, or sometimes even pecking at the trunks of the older trees. Usually getting up relatively early, I walk through the hallway into the main living area, put on a kettle of hot water, and sit down to watch the sun rise higher into the sky. Early in the morning, or even late in the afternoon, it’s quite hypnotizing to watch the dust motes float down from seemingly nowhere and alight on furniture and the polished hardwood floor. While most qualities of this cabin are those that make one think of home—the kind of home that’s not filled with social status, stress, piles of homework, and a busy lifestyle, the kind of home that’s relaxing, the kind of home where you can sit down without a purpose, the kind of home where even the best of movie directors aren’t able to capture in their greatest films.

Around midday, I see climbers slowly making their ascent up the many routes on Lover’s Leap. Nostalgia often washes over me as I sit on the weathered plastic lawn chairs placed in pairs out on the deck; I remember sitting in those same chairs from when I was a young kid in grade school, inviting my old friends, who now, have moved on to better and bigger things in college. Whilst reminiscing, I place peanuts, kept in a container above the fridge in the kitchen, on the hand crafted wood railing like I have years past. The railing, now rotting, is not as safe to lean on as it has been in past years; it was repainted just last summer with the same creamy yellow trim color used over 50 years ago, but underneath its warmth lay a decaying silhouette. And, just like in years past, my dad will mutter something about how unsafe it is, and how he’ll need to replace it, though we all know that he’ll never get around to it.

Amidst the feelings of contentment and tranquility, I’m often interrupted by the sounds of rushing traffic, not 100 feet away from the edge of the deck. On some nights, the traffic can be a means of lulling me to sleep, but voyaging across is always dangerous. I’ve walked. I’ve jogged. I’ve sprinted. Crossing Hwy 50 is no matter to be taken lightly; I have nearly been hit by a car more times than I’d like to say I’m proud of. On this particular day, traffic was slow, with only the occasional car every few minutes. It has been worse, though. In the summer, when I visit for a week or so, cars can stream ceaselessly in both directions. Being our only means of cooling off on a hot, dry summer Tahoe day, my friends and I have to dance with death crossing Hwy 50; we wait until cars are a good distance away before bounding toward icy mountain snow melt.

Snapping back to the present moment, I hear the same familiar calls of my mom and dad, “time to go,” “time to lock up.” The cabin—now devoid of people and conversation, comfort and warmth, activity and rejuvenation—was desolate. I locked up the back door with my dad, pulled the scarf tighter around my neck as the late afternoon breeze was picking up and rolling through the mountainous valleys. Clambering into the car, I could no longer smell the crisp, fresh air of the cedar and fir trees. Instead, it was replaced with the stench of wet dog fur, car heater, and gasoline. Pressing the palm of my hand to the window as we drove away on that same dangerous Hwy 50, I began to count down the days until I would return.
--Eric Singer (0pd)