The Barrel

The prompt for last week's writing group meeting was to write about how you are feeling as the holidays roll in. We were not to say "I'm tired" or "I'm happy," but to write a piece that would show the feeling. Mine was effective. Everyone could understand where my head was. I hope you have a great holiday season.

“Do you have everything?” he asks as I slip into my snowshoes.

“I do,” I reply and flip through the front pocket of my bag. “Here, take this.” I hand him my phone. “I won’t need it. There’s no service here.”

“You won’t want to take pictures?”

“I have my camera.”

“And you’re sure the cabin’s fully stocked?”

“Yup. I emailed my grocery list last month.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re ready.”

“Thanks for holding down the fort while I’m gone.”

“We’ll be okay.”

He helps me into my thirty-pound backpack. Without the family, it’s all I’ll need to sustain me for a month. I pull my toque down to cover my forehead. He pulls me in for a hug. “I’ll see you in 2025,” he whispers. We kiss.

The first green flag flickers in the tree a couple hundred meters away. I release his hand to begin my adventure. At the flag, I turn and wave. The engine roars as I turn into the woods.

I follow the flags: pink to yellow to orange to turquoise. I pause to catch my breath. The path progressed to a steep climb between the turquoise and midnight blue flags. I open my coat, tug off my mitts, hat, and neck warmer, and stuff them into my deep pockets. Steam wisps up from my chest. My body is too used to the prairies. I’ll be more fit after this month of exploring.

I trudge up the last steep incline. The midnight blue flag curls as a gust of wind blows it and a clump of snow off a thick spruce bough. I flip-flop jog through the snow sparkles as exhilarated as a racer crossing the finish line. The forest opens to the barrel, my home for the month.

The south side is black and shiny from the sun-collecting panels. The rest of the curved roof is cedar, resembling a large bright sauna. The valley vista spreads out from south to north, uninterrupted by the barrel as it’s a glass tunnel.

Will it be frigid inside until I spark up the woodstove? No, it can’t be, otherwise the produce would freeze. It must be partially solar-heated.

I lean on the glass wall and pull each snowshoe off. I lean them against the corner of the curve and pat myself down for the skeleton key the hosts left in my mailbox. I twist it in the ornate lock and it clicks; warmth billows out the open door. I slip in and close myself in, although I don’t feel closed in. I’m still part of the forest. I’ve only closed off the chill gusts. I turn to the valley and its wall of trees; millions of spruce look tiny as they crawl up the hills across the gorge. Without diverting my eyes, I drop my bag and step out of my boots. My coat drops to the warm floor.

I float across the room like a ghost, pulled along by the view. Both hands find glass. There’s nothing but trees and sky. The sun hovers above the treetops. A soft lazy glow has replaced its summer harshness. One slanted wooden chair with thick striped blue cushions sits on the side of the narrow wooden deck. A matching hammock hangs between two tall spruce trees, and a skip, and a jump from the deck. A clay fire pit is built into the corner of the deck and round birch wood is stacked neatly beside.

I tear myself from the view and lean on the wall of windows to take in my home. Light maple bookshelves line the north side of the barrel and frame the queen-sized bed. I leap onto the soft gold cotton duvet and lay down. The mattress is firm but pillow-soft. Above me, the roof opens to a skylight as large as the bed. Feather-fine clouds sail past in the gusts. I turn onto my side and scan the shelves. Puzzles and books of all sorts are beautifully arranged on the entire wall. A small desk built into the edge of the bookshelf cuts a small wedge into the view.

An arched-back chaise nestles into the curved south wall against the valley window. A folded thick dusty rose faux fur blanket hangs over the foot of the chair. Low kitchen cupboards line the south wall under a raw-edge wooden countertop polished to a sheen. Next to the chaise is a low, wide fridge built into the curve. Hanging shelves float above a small gas stove and sink. There’s no clutter, only one dinner plate, one bowl, one side plate, one tall glass, one small glass, one wine glass, one teacup, and one flat bottom mug.

I hop up to inspect all that will sustain me this month. I shuffle over the soft cream-coloured rug in the centre of the space and pull open the fridge. Each shelf and basket is fresh and rainbow-coloured. The narrow glass drawer hosts dark chili chocolate, a variety of cheeses, nuts, seeds, olives, and sweet spreads. This will do just fine.

I slip my laptop onto the desk, add my books to the shelf, and toss my designing pad, ruler, and pencil case onto the oval dining table. I slip each folded clothing item into the drawers under the bed and hook my camera above the chaise. I slip out of my socks. The floor is cozy and warm—I no longer need them.

I plug the clawfoot tub in the northeast corner and turn on the water. It’s only cold. Hmm. Above the fireplace in the centre of the back forest window is a reservoir near the ceiling. It must be fire-heated. I crouch to build a small teepee in the woodstove on top of a curled piece of birch bark and light it up with a long wooden match. I close the door and wait.

The fire crackles and dances behind the glass. I lean back on my hands, burying them in the thick tufts of the rug, and hang my head back. The sun warms my head and the fire my chest. Soon, I’ll be chin-deep in a warm bath.

How will I survive this month?

I laugh.

How will I go back?