Return To Fort Yea
“He is richest who is content with the least for content is the wealth of Nature”—Socrates
. . .
Snowflakes sifted through open corners into the fire-lit warmth of our cabin, but this was tolerated, to say the least, because we were so mystified with the idea of even being there, that we felt sort of privileged that a few of the flakes should decide to visit us that Thanksgiving Eve. Besides, there was no way we could expect them not to; the cabin was built during a two week period in midsummer of that year using primarily the remains of a much older cabin, dilapidated and consisting of many rotten timbers.
Mic, my vagabond cohort, and I were out that summer exploring the wilds of the Pacific Northwest during a period in our early twenties when life seemed eagerly ready to present such an activity: on vacation from jobs, longing to explore, young and free to travel. We headed north, to the woods, to see what we could see.
Miles from anywhere, while hiking up an overgrown gulch in the Sawtooth Mountains of central Idaho towards who knows what, we stumbled upon the weather-beaten remains of what appeared to be a century old miner’s cabin. So taken were we by the thought of what kind of man could live in a structure such as this cabin must have been, rustic and fundamental in the heart of a mountain wilderness, that we decided to try and reconstruct his home off to the side using as much of the original as we could. What we could not use because of deterioration we would match as closely as possibly from the richness of the Idaho forest, dense as it was with sturdy pines and abundant willow clusters.
With no experience whatsoever in the art of log cabin building we set to work. Time was not on our side because we had only a matter of weeks remaining in our summer expedition. With only an axe and an overused hatchet with which to work, the cabin bore witness to our crude workmanship. It undoubtedly looked nothing like what our miner friend had built using probably the same tools, but for as unstable, lopsided and rickety as we built it, “Fort Yea” served us well as a summer haven.
We knew the forthcoming winter would be harsh up in the timber covered mountains above Boise but deep within each of us was a longing to return when the cabin would be covered with snow. We had visions of sitting by a glowing fire with winter flourishing outside only an arm’s reach away.
And so the yearning grew inside each of us as the seasons slowly turned. We had left the mountains after our short stay to return to jobs and other responsibilities, but our adventurous natures and restless spirits brought us to a pint in mid November that we decided to revisit the Idaho high country to spend Thanksgiving in the cabin.
Packed for warmth we drove to the closest navigable point. The ice covered dirt road we took wound like a snake, hugging the bottoms of skyscraper-high mountains, many almost perpendicular to the road. The low-arcing winter sun found it impossible to peek over the tops of those mountains to shed event he slightest amount of light or warmth on the frozen ground. Unloading the car we prepared to hike the three miles or so up the steep, rugged gulch towards what was hopefully a still standing structure.
It was all so different this time. Last summer the land was dry and dusty, baked by the sun to a golden brown. But now, Thanksgiving Eve, Old Man Winter had transformed everything into a while ocean of icy, shapeless figures. The trail itself was no longer there as steady snowfall added layers upon layers to everything we could see.
We must have stood in the snow for twenty minutes with our packs on just taking in the natural majesty of where we were and contemplating on the risks of our journey. Not only was it a steep climb but this time we would be plowing through over two feet of new fallen snow. I trusted myself though and thoughts of finally seeing our cabin secure and dry in the midst of that storm drove my up the mountain with a sense of determination and a feeling of strength I had never known.
All of the familiar trail signs were now hidden away from us by the thick white carpet. Now and then a fallen tree across the path or one of an unusual shape that towered above us would be noticed and acknowledged giving us clues to our whereabouts. We had to move as quick as our tired legs would let us for if our cabin, like all the weak in the forest, had given way to nature’s immense powerful force and had collapsed and had been buried in the snow we would be forced to turn away and head back. With the sting of nightfall hovering above us the thought of being stranded was beginning to tug at my subconscious.
The gamble was there but it was overpowered by instilled belief in ourselves and a longing to experience Thanksgiving in a shelter crafted by our own hands. Anticipation overtook me as I came to the last bend in the way of the small clearing by the creek where our cabin hopefully stood. I had a feeling of wonder like I had never before experienced in my life. Would I have a shelter to enter and protect me with needed refuge? Or would my dreams be shattered and left out in the cold to diminish and crystallize?
My eyes filled with the familiar sight of the north wall of Fort Yea as soon as my path of vision cleared. Although I could barely make out its squat, rustic shape my hopes rose as I determined that it was definitely standing, it was definitely there. Mic was beside me for the first sight of that glorious shack and I could see his face light up and his eyes swell with delight as he darted toward the other side, to the door. I hurried alongside and overtook him, wanting to be the first to see, the first to stand inside our hopefully dry shelter.
When I reached the door, kicked the snow bank out of the way and finally viewed the cabin’s interior I stopped and slowly walked in. For Yea was exactly as we had left it in summer, dry and beckoning us to come in and share the wealth it had saved for us. I obliged and sat down in that small wooden oasis, that rectangular item in the snow that would shelter me from the storm and cause a whole new feeling to arise in me on that special Thanksgiving Eve.
For it was then that I realized just how abstract wealth can be and how little is really needed to ensure contentment in our lives if only we allow it to happen. Since that year Thanksgiving has taken on a new dimension for me. It means much more than the tangible aspect of it which always invades the season. If allowed, the feeling of Thanksgiving will transcend ordinary boundaries with an outpouring of universal love of humankind and will cause the heart to swell with thankfulness for the most basic of things in this life.
And so we lit a fire in the rusty old pot-bellied stove we dug up across the creek, back when summer warmth allowed such activities. Night began to fall as we prepared to eat our Thanksgiving dinner, huddled as we were around the small fire, deep in the heart of winter season, soon to have our bellies filled with rice, soon to sleep in the simple shelter our own strong hands provided us.
S.P.Bohnstedt (aka Phfrankie Bondo)
Age 21
Winter, 1975
“He is richest who is content with the least for content is the wealth of Nature”—Socrates
. . .
Snowflakes sifted through open corners into the fire-lit warmth of our cabin, but this was tolerated, to say the least, because we were so mystified with the idea of even being there, that we felt sort of privileged that a few of the flakes should decide to visit us that Thanksgiving Eve. Besides, there was no way we could expect them not to; the cabin was built during a two week period in midsummer of that year using primarily the remains of a much older cabin, dilapidated and consisting of many rotten timbers.
Mic, my vagabond cohort, and I were out that summer exploring the wilds of the Pacific Northwest during a period in our early twenties when life seemed eagerly ready to present such an activity: on vacation from jobs, longing to explore, young and free to travel. We headed north, to the woods, to see what we could see.
Miles from anywhere, while hiking up an overgrown gulch in the Sawtooth Mountains of central Idaho towards who knows what, we stumbled upon the weather-beaten remains of what appeared to be a century old miner’s cabin. So taken were we by the thought of what kind of man could live in a structure such as this cabin must have been, rustic and fundamental in the heart of a mountain wilderness, that we decided to try and reconstruct his home off to the side using as much of the original as we could. What we could not use because of deterioration we would match as closely as possibly from the richness of the Idaho forest, dense as it was with sturdy pines and abundant willow clusters.
With no experience whatsoever in the art of log cabin building we set to work. Time was not on our side because we had only a matter of weeks remaining in our summer expedition. With only an axe and an overused hatchet with which to work, the cabin bore witness to our crude workmanship. It undoubtedly looked nothing like what our miner friend had built using probably the same tools, but for as unstable, lopsided and rickety as we built it, “Fort Yea” served us well as a summer haven.
We knew the forthcoming winter would be harsh up in the timber covered mountains above Boise but deep within each of us was a longing to return when the cabin would be covered with snow. We had visions of sitting by a glowing fire with winter flourishing outside only an arm’s reach away.
And so the yearning grew inside each of us as the seasons slowly turned. We had left the mountains after our short stay to return to jobs and other responsibilities, but our adventurous natures and restless spirits brought us to a pint in mid November that we decided to revisit the Idaho high country to spend Thanksgiving in the cabin.
Packed for warmth we drove to the closest navigable point. The ice covered dirt road we took wound like a snake, hugging the bottoms of skyscraper-high mountains, many almost perpendicular to the road. The low-arcing winter sun found it impossible to peek over the tops of those mountains to shed event he slightest amount of light or warmth on the frozen ground. Unloading the car we prepared to hike the three miles or so up the steep, rugged gulch towards what was hopefully a still standing structure.
It was all so different this time. Last summer the land was dry and dusty, baked by the sun to a golden brown. But now, Thanksgiving Eve, Old Man Winter had transformed everything into a while ocean of icy, shapeless figures. The trail itself was no longer there as steady snowfall added layers upon layers to everything we could see.
We must have stood in the snow for twenty minutes with our packs on just taking in the natural majesty of where we were and contemplating on the risks of our journey. Not only was it a steep climb but this time we would be plowing through over two feet of new fallen snow. I trusted myself though and thoughts of finally seeing our cabin secure and dry in the midst of that storm drove my up the mountain with a sense of determination and a feeling of strength I had never known.
All of the familiar trail signs were now hidden away from us by the thick white carpet. Now and then a fallen tree across the path or one of an unusual shape that towered above us would be noticed and acknowledged giving us clues to our whereabouts. We had to move as quick as our tired legs would let us for if our cabin, like all the weak in the forest, had given way to nature’s immense powerful force and had collapsed and had been buried in the snow we would be forced to turn away and head back. With the sting of nightfall hovering above us the thought of being stranded was beginning to tug at my subconscious.
The gamble was there but it was overpowered by instilled belief in ourselves and a longing to experience Thanksgiving in a shelter crafted by our own hands. Anticipation overtook me as I came to the last bend in the way of the small clearing by the creek where our cabin hopefully stood. I had a feeling of wonder like I had never before experienced in my life. Would I have a shelter to enter and protect me with needed refuge? Or would my dreams be shattered and left out in the cold to diminish and crystallize?
My eyes filled with the familiar sight of the north wall of Fort Yea as soon as my path of vision cleared. Although I could barely make out its squat, rustic shape my hopes rose as I determined that it was definitely standing, it was definitely there. Mic was beside me for the first sight of that glorious shack and I could see his face light up and his eyes swell with delight as he darted toward the other side, to the door. I hurried alongside and overtook him, wanting to be the first to see, the first to stand inside our hopefully dry shelter.
When I reached the door, kicked the snow bank out of the way and finally viewed the cabin’s interior I stopped and slowly walked in. For Yea was exactly as we had left it in summer, dry and beckoning us to come in and share the wealth it had saved for us. I obliged and sat down in that small wooden oasis, that rectangular item in the snow that would shelter me from the storm and cause a whole new feeling to arise in me on that special Thanksgiving Eve.
For it was then that I realized just how abstract wealth can be and how little is really needed to ensure contentment in our lives if only we allow it to happen. Since that year Thanksgiving has taken on a new dimension for me. It means much more than the tangible aspect of it which always invades the season. If allowed, the feeling of Thanksgiving will transcend ordinary boundaries with an outpouring of universal love of humankind and will cause the heart to swell with thankfulness for the most basic of things in this life.
And so we lit a fire in the rusty old pot-bellied stove we dug up across the creek, back when summer warmth allowed such activities. Night began to fall as we prepared to eat our Thanksgiving dinner, huddled as we were around the small fire, deep in the heart of winter season, soon to have our bellies filled with rice, soon to sleep in the simple shelter our own strong hands provided us.
S.P.Bohnstedt (aka Phfrankie Bondo)
Age 21
Winter, 1975
...really, you must go here
3 comments:
Wow! What an adventure. I was reading like a kid reading a comic book.
I worked on the railroad in 1976 for a year to take a break from college. It was the time of my life.
Oh, I came over from Mic's blog.
My Brother thank you for smithing. I enjoyed it very much. Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.
I believe there is a Fort Yea waiting for everyone. Unfortunately, unlike you and Mick, not everyone discovers it. Nice job, P-Man. Cheers!!
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