By Steve Gibbs
The trail in the forest slowly disappeared. By the time I crossed the roaring river on the creaking rope bridge, the trail was gone. I had to follow the stars. My goal was to reach my grandfather’s old hunting cabin. It hadn’t been used in nearly 100 years and I had never been there. I learned about it from my grandmother on her death bed.
I pushed through thick pine trees, their dead branches protruding all the way to the ground. The dry brittle needles crackled under my feet. The smell of pine scent was in the air. The dark elephant gray skies warned of an impending storm. From time to time the air would rumble with distant thunder. I drank my last sip of water. It was warm and tasted of aluminum from the canteen it had been sloshing around in for six days.
I entered a clearing and there stood the cabin. The field was full of lupines and California poppies that filled the air with a sweet, spring aroma. It was made of aspen logs and was two stories high. The door was made from roughly hewn pine logs, sawed thin and nailed together. The windows were shuttered closed. They contained no glass.
When I pushed the door open, it groaned from a century of rust caked around the orange-colored iron hinges. I immediately heard a skittering and fluttering as forest creatures who had taken up residence in the cabin scurried out of sight and disappeared through small cracks in the walls and floor. An owl flew out the door, its wings making a whooshing sound past my ears.A family of squirrels pushed a shutter open and leaped down to the forest ground. Ravens flew up through the chimney into the darkening sky. A porcupine waddled out from under the single cot, across the floor, and down the front steps. I gave it a wide path, not wanting to be stung by its quills.
Inside I found a small stack of firewood stacked next to the primitive stone fireplace. I quickly built a crackling fire and took a seat in the old rocking chair. The smoke from the fire filled the room with a warm, toasty aroma. On the counter I found an old leather photo album. It felt soft to the touch, like it was ready to fall apart. Inside were pictures of my grandfather and his hunting buddies standing proud outside the cabin with two freshly killed deer hanging from the nearby sycamore tree, ready to be skinned and cooked up for dinner. It was like I had gone back in time.
The trail in the forest slowly disappeared. By the time I crossed the roaring river on the creaking rope bridge, the trail was gone. I had to follow the stars. My goal was to reach my grandfather’s old hunting cabin. It hadn’t been used in nearly 100 years and I had never been there. I learned about it from my grandmother on her death bed.
I pushed through thick pine trees, their dead branches protruding all the way to the ground. The dry brittle needles crackled under my feet. The smell of pine scent was in the air. The dark elephant gray skies warned of an impending storm. From time to time the air would rumble with distant thunder. I drank my last sip of water. It was warm and tasted of aluminum from the canteen it had been sloshing around in for six days.
I entered a clearing and there stood the cabin. The field was full of lupines and California poppies that filled the air with a sweet, spring aroma. It was made of aspen logs and was two stories high. The door was made from roughly hewn pine logs, sawed thin and nailed together. The windows were shuttered closed. They contained no glass.
When I pushed the door open, it groaned from a century of rust caked around the orange-colored iron hinges. I immediately heard a skittering and fluttering as forest creatures who had taken up residence in the cabin scurried out of sight and disappeared through small cracks in the walls and floor. An owl flew out the door, its wings making a whooshing sound past my ears.A family of squirrels pushed a shutter open and leaped down to the forest ground. Ravens flew up through the chimney into the darkening sky. A porcupine waddled out from under the single cot, across the floor, and down the front steps. I gave it a wide path, not wanting to be stung by its quills.Inside I found a small stack of firewood stacked next to the primitive stone fireplace. I quickly built a crackling fire and took a seat in the old rocking chair. The smoke from the fire filled the room with a warm, toasty aroma. On the counter I found an old leather photo album. It felt soft to the touch, like it was ready to fall apart. Inside were pictures of my grandfather and his hunting buddies standing proud outside the cabin with two freshly killed deer hanging from the nearby sycamore tree, ready to be skinned and cooked up for dinner. It was like I had gone back in time.
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