“Over the roofs of men & mice, the mountains run on their own high powered fuel.. What it is that makes visitors want to come here, sight unseen, unprepared and vulnerable, is a mystery to me. My warnings are many. and often seem to fall on deaf ears. Despite my detailed realism, clearly stating that arrival before dark is advised and that the yurt will be stone cold when they arrive, they float into the windswept cage of this valley, hapless, and alone, fumbling with their meager supplies at the side of their cars, without a sled, even without skis or snow shoes, and frequently well beyond the lonely hour of sundown. Some have never made a fire, from sticks & a match. Maybe it sounded romantic, maybe cozy, which it could be and hopefully will be, but not without a lot of effort and discomfort. Tonight, I see a booking for a man, woman and infant. I worry, starting late in the afternoon, knowing that I’ll likely be making a 4th trip up there today, to turn on the one electric light, and do one final shoveling, to clear the deck. I’ve cleaned up from the last guest, who left half burned lumber scraps in the wood storage, and I realize, too late, my mistake, having stocked a few items of kindling too long for the fire box. One or two have dumped ashes in a plastic trash bag inside the yurt, trying to be tidy. One who came after I was asleep, burned the recycling box, even though there was newspaper. Another stole the special bar of solid dish soap, by accident he claimed, thinking it belonged to his girlfriend. Several have abandoned toilet paper to the rodents, not noticing, I guess, the small impenetrable container into which it should have been returned. The top to the garbage can holding dry peat moss for outhouse use, can often be found where it blows off to, in the woods, after they leave. Or the door has been left open, to bang and bang, snow blowing inside, to surround the mint green, wooden toilet seat. One left a brand new down sleeping bag, perfectly stuffed into its elegant stuff sack and did not respond or seem to want it back. Another group cooked something that spilled all over the hearth, and it took a week to get the onion smell to go away. I realize it’s not easy to manage life, in the yurt. I lived there for a summer, & tried to learn the ropes myself. I could only imagine what freezing would do, to all the amenities. It’s not for glampers, not now, not under these conditions. It’s for campers who’ve done winter and know what the score is. On my last trip up for the day, pulling a load of properly sized kindling, new batteries for the lanterns, my axe, to split and load the wood box, a fork and a knife to add to the cutlery collection, and fresh pillowcases, I stopped and turned to face those mountains. A fierce light was glowing on the highest peaks, painted on & touched by a sky magic, that was not here at ground level. I felt the smallness of my little being, the mighty utility of my sled, my axe, my snow shoes. I knew better than to grab at their majesty or try to cling to any of it. Later, after my chores, as I clapped my gear on the back porch to get the ice and snow off before entry into my home, I remembered a long, long time ago. When I was 33, or something akin to that, and was about to be separated from my mountains for a good, few decades to come. I thought at the time, I couldn’t live without them, and the loss I felt was so acute, I pushed it so far down in my system, it couldn’t resurface, until today. But I’m back, I’m here. My elders in the wilderness landscape have barely yawned, it seems, at my absence. It’s humbling, but it was the right plan, the only plan. I’m back, and I’m here. At home, really at home, and moving from one dwelling across the snow, to another, in short spurts of primal energy. A Tomten or totem thing, I guess, that will never, ever flame out.”
