I have been called home, to the Montana mountains and a small family cabin there. I left Portland hours after the movers backed up my furniture and boxes to haul to a storage unit in Livingston. On the evening of the second day of my drive, I arrived, unpacked the loaded Pathfinder, got the water system running, and built a fire to dispel the chill of winter contained within the logs of the cabin.
The desire to come here, for as long as the weather will allow, came on me suddenly last summer, during my annual vacation month in the cabin. I had just begun writing in earnest, was once again figuring how to stretch my savings out as long as possible to give the words a chance to flow, when it struck me that I was part owner of a writing retreat. An isolated cabin on a dirt road in the mountains, closest full time human neighbor over a mile away as the crow flies, town a dozen mile drive when the road is passable…. and surrounded by life at its most basic. Yes, a writer could not ask for better than this.
So here I sit on the porch, computer on my lap and sun on my back. I am one month in, with four or five to go depending on weather. I have already been somewhat stranded by a driveway and road too muddy for easy passage despite four-wheel drive. The 80 pound bags of sand in the back of the rig have helped (rig is the local term for vehicle). But it has been easy enough to stock up on groceries when I do finally make it down the hill, and there were nettles by the creek when I ran out of fresh greens.
So I will be here for a while, trying to capture some of the flavor of this life and pass it on as I get to town and the access to electronic communications (did I mention that I have no cell service or Internet here? Just a landline, and a hike up the hill with my phone to check messages.) It seems like the chance of a lifetime for me to have this freedom for however long it lasts; how could I have done anything else?