hen I first wrote of the cabin, it was years ago. When I first wrote about it, it was our first trip up there and it was as if we were different people. We’ve changed a lot since then and so has the cabin. Flanked now on either side by wide and sturdy decks, a remodeled kitchen with a built-in sink and propane-powered grill, better furniture and beds, and wider gravel parking areas. It is so different than it was when we first got it. We were so different then too.

Under rainy and gray cold skies, we stopped on the way to explore the fish ladders a little bit. We walked over slippery grates beneath which water roughhoused with itself. We found abandoned machinery, locked still in cages, mysterious red clamps embracing a bolt three feet high. The water in the river was violent and harried, more gray and white foam-crowned water moving faster than I had ever seen water move; the noise was deafening.

When we drew closer to the cabin, we were surprised to see a few bits of snow on the ground. I had read of the weather advisories but that was all supposed to be a few thousand feet above us. But, by the time we arrived, we found everything under a few inches of snow. The drive way up the hill was unmarked by cars and a few branches were down. No one else had passed that way.

I was worried that it would snow again in the night which might make returning treacherous or impossible but, joined by two friends, decided to stay through the night, a night which, like all nights at the cabin, was fueled by battery-powered music and flame-cooked food, laughter and conversation, and the autumnal smell of wood burning in a fat, old iron belly.

All through the night, I heard the sound of the river. Snow fell as we slept.