The old logging road was barely more than two ruts in the dirt, swallowed by pine needles and shadow. But as we rounded the final bend, the cabin appeared, nestled perfectly between towering pines, smoke gently curling from its stone chimney. “Home for the weekend,” I grinned at Chloe, my best friend since kindergarten, who was already rummaging for the cooler.
This wasn’t just any cabin; it was the cabin. Rustic, remote, and utterly devoid of Wi-Fi—exactly what we needed. A well-worn fire pit sat squarely in front, framed by two sturdy Adirondack chairs, practically begging for a blaze.
As the sun began to dip, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple, we got the fire going. The scent of pine and woodsmoke filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of the forest.
We uncorked a bottle of a rich, jammy Zinfandel, poured generous glasses, and settled into the chairs. The conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl.
Later, as darkness truly fell, the stars put on a show I rarely get to see back home. Each one was a pinprick of pure light against the inky black, and we lay back, pointing out constellations and sharing quiet dreams.
The next morning, the sun barely filtered through the dense tree canopy when I felt the pull of the day. A rich, dark roast coffee brewed slowly on the cabin’s old stove, its aroma weaving through the small space. With a steaming mug in hand, and a fresh copy of a fantasy novel — I think it was the latest from Sarah J. Maas — I curled up on the porch. Hours melted away in the pages, interrupted only by the rustle of leaves or the occasional chirp of a bird.
After a hearty lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup, it was time for a different kind of relaxation. I pulled out my trusty Walther P22. We found an old log, set up a few empty cans, and took turns aiming downrange.
The crisp ping! as a can spun off the log was incredibly satisfying. It’s a different kind of focus than target shooting, more about the immediate gratification of a well-placed shot. Chloe, who usually sticks to larger calibers, even enjoyed the snappy recoil of the P22. There’s something incredibly therapeutic about the rhythm of loading, aiming, and firing in the quiet of the woods.
As dusk approached, we gathered more firewood, knowing another evening of stars, stories, and the comforting warmth of the fire awaited. This cabin, with its simple rhythms and the company of a true friend, was more than just a getaway. It was a reset, a reminder that the best adventures often happen when you unplug, step outside, and let the wild take over.
While we cook dinner and sip smooth bourbon, my all-time favorite cooking album would play – The Lumineers’ Cleopatra. The album’s folksy, narrative style perfectly complements the quiet, introspective vibe of a weekend getaway. It’s a great blend of storytelling and easy listening, perfect for conversation. An equally good choice would be Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours for a timeless, soulful groove.
