The Window in the Woods

I was awake. The cold had finally crept into the cabin. I’d fed the stove for the last time around midnight. Then, I let it burn out. It was time to leave.

It’s Alaskan tradition to clean the stove, then pack it with kindling and wood. The next man should only need to provide a spark to get heat. You never know what condition he’ll be in when he arrives. I piled the charred black remains of the fire into an old metal box. A week’s worth of dust and dirt was in a pile by the door, ready for its final sweep. I felt the pores on my face tighten as they met the icy February air. The forest was dark but unlike what you might find outside the Arctic Circle. There were trees, but few survived this far north. Most of the landscape was tundra. I made the final sweep and retreated to pack my gear and get dressed.

I clicked my watch at 4:03 a.m. and started skiing. It was 11 miles back to the truck that had been sitting dormant for five days. The ski out is always lighter, but this time especially so. I pulled a sled out—which I will never do again—that had been packed to the brim with extravagant food and luxury items. Think cans of beans, two full blocks of Costco butter, journals, and books. Pure insanity. Most of the food was eaten. What remained was left for the next visitor—whoever that may be. I surveyed the cabin one last time. I looked at the two big blocks of butter sitting on the windowsill above the stove. I laughed and walked out the door.

While skiing, my mind drifted to my truck. Hopefully, it would start. Hopefully, it hadn’t been broken into. It’s a piece of shit, which deters most thieves. I also left a handle of R&R on the hood as a peace offering. The Eskimos prefer beer, but it’s too fucking cold for beer to sit outside this time of year.

The terrain was gradual. I was on XC skis. BC skis would have been better. The boots would have been warmer too. The route crosses a valley, which means whether you are going out to the cabin or back to the trailhead, you ski downhill first, then climb second. It looked like a V on my watch. The lighter sled was much better, and I made great time getting to the trailhead. I was on the final uphill when I saw a face peek over the horizon.

“Hey!”

I skied up and surveyed the group.

“Hi,” I followed.

“Were you out at the cabin?” the scrawny guy asked.

“Uhh, yea?” I answered.

“How’s the trail?”

There were four of them—two men, two women—all around 35. The two women were dressed in leotards and tutus. You notice something like that in the middle of nowhere. Normally, this would cause me to scoff, but their gear was beat-up and their demeanor was carefree. They’d be fine. The other man—the non-scrawny man—would also be fine. He didn't give a shit, but was annoyed by all the questions. So maybe he did, in fact, give a shit. He looked on while skinning his skis. His face was cold. His eyes dead. A cigarette hung from his mouth. His jacket had a tear that had been patched. He had just jumped out of the truck but looked like he just got off a fishing boat.

“It’s good, easy to follow, almost seems groomed in spots,” I said.

“Ohh, good! Do you think these are good skis?” he asked, producing an old ski with BC bindings.

The whole time he was moving around—he couldn’t stand still—running in circles around the car. I could see the other dude wasn’t looking forward to staying in a cabin with this guy.

“I think they’ll be fine! The first four miles are downhill. It’ll go fast.”

“Ohh, great, great.”

I looked at each member of the group once more, then moved to the other side—the driver’s side—of the truck. The R&R was no longer on the hood. I was changing into my boots as the man rounded the corner of my door and started to whisper to me.

“Hey, it’s one of the girls’ birthdays.”

“Ohh, nice.”

“Okay, so, I brought five pounds of crab.”

He stared at me. At a pullout 100 miles north of Fairbanks, I stood staring at the man, him back at me. This went on for ten seconds.

“Okay?”

“Okay, so yeah, unfortunate—I forgot the butter. You wouldn’t happen to have any, would you?”