Day one.

I am here, and the fire is crackling merrily as I drink tea and watch the sun rise over the lake. A lone pickup truck is inching from shore to the closest ice-house I can see, which is about half a mile out.

The trip out was a breeze: no snow, clear roads, minimal traffic, and little to no van trouble. The van doesn’t like, and never has liked, the trip through Denver, for some reason, and I had to stop on I-76 to check the temperature, which was getting into the red. But, from there out, I had no trouble whatsoever; I listened to roughly six hundred thousand episodes of This American Life across Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa and Minnesota. Around 2 AM, I arrived at my parents’ house in suburban Minneapolis, which was tomb-cold, since they’re currently wintering in Texas, and crawled directly into bed.

I woke up ridiculously early yesterday, like today, and gathered all the stuff I’d need from my parents’ house: a few warm jackets, some meat from their freezer, a bottle of scotch and some books. It was unusually warm in the Twin Cities yesterday, and, when I stopped for gas, I noticed a carful of women in hijab—a sign that the massive Somali immigration to Minnesota has reached even Lakeville. I wonder if their kids go to the same high school I did.

The trip from there to here was likewise easy, and I switched from This American Life to Radio Lab. Near Garrison, I was listening to an episode about discovery, about whether our understanding of the universe means they we’ve imposed an arbitrary system of order on things or whether, as their guest postulated, that in defining the rules of nature we’ve actually cracked the vaster system. While I was listening to this, I rounded a bend and saw Lake Mille Lacs, this endless tract of ice onto which people had plowed a complex, winding snowmobile course.

The roads were clear past Garrison and all the way to Bena, whose sordidness was underscored by, no shit, half a dozen dogs lying in the road, blocking my way. I had to honk and prowl right up to them before they trotted off.

Even the road to the cabin had been plowed, as Craig from McArdle’s had promised, and I had no trouble getting in, getting the electricity on or getting a fire started. I turned on the electric heaters, closed the doors to the bedrooms to conserve heat and unpacked everything. My parents recently did some renovation up here, so the dank carpet and crumbling fixtures I remembered are gone, replaced with hardwood, and new carpets a marble countertop, a new sink and brand-new cupboards. It’s nice, although apparently in fixing things up they excised what my sister and I referred to as “that cabin smell,” which was must and the ghosts of hundreds of fishing and hunting trips past. I kind of miss it.

I heated some water for a sink-pan and, after taking a little walk, chopped up some vegetables and browned some beef for stew, which I just tossed into the Crock Pot to cook overnight for my lunch and dinner today. I’m a little concerned about fresh water, since there hasn’t been snowfall up in here in a while and there’s a dearth of clean snow—and, between the dog and me, we’ve gone through about four gallons already. But we’re supposed to get snow this weekend and, if worse comes to worse, I get clean-ish snow from the lake, where debris from the trees hasn’t reached it yet.

The cabin is nice and warm, even with the electric heaters turned off. I’ve already made three trips to the woodpile, since the majority of the wood up here is really quick-burning pine. I’ll make a trip into the woods after the weekend to look for some deadfall to chop, but there’s plenty of wood so far.

Last night, I sat in front of the fire with a glass of bourbon and re-read something I’d found at my parents’ house: the fantasy novel I’d started when I was in eighth grade, which is constructed of passages like this:

For the second time that day, the message fell from shaken hands, where it wisped slowly to the ground. Grason gathered his robes from his bony, yet supple, ankles. He bolted out of the room and began to look for signs of his master.
Grason hurried past the countless rows of shelves, some containing books and tablets, the majority housing neatly bound, thick volumes bearing silver etchings along their midnight-blue spines. The page paced morosely upon his leather sandals, barely touching the cool granite floor. He approached his lord, stood tentatively several feet away, nervously eyeing Astricus, hunched at the desk with one of the many silver-inscribed tomes.
“Why does any form of life feel it has to destroy its own kind, Grason?”

Deep. I go on to discuss racism, the many kinds of swords and use words like “slaken” and “oblimininate.” A junior-higher with a thesaurus is a dangerous thing.

Annyong and I took a walk last night after sunset, about a quarter-mile out onto the lake, where I saw what looked like four sets of wolf tracks. I’d seen some near the cabin, too, and apparently the timber wolf reintroduction to this part of the state is doing fairly well. I imagine that if wolves can chase something out onto the lake, it’s an easier kill than in the woods. I’m sort of hoping to see them, but it also means I’ll need to keep a closer eye on the dog.

It’s about 10 degrees out right now, and I’ll take a little walk before breakfast, then get down to writing. I’ve got internet, which is good, and it’s also the perfect amount—just one to two bars, which means I can check my email and blog but not spend all day looking at lolcats. But it also means I'll have more difficulty uploading pictures. I'll sure you'll survive.

Another cup of tea, then a walk.