Fall, 2000

I think we are having the longest recorded period of Indian summer in northern Minnesota history.  There is no finer time of year, with the fall colors-- especially nice with the maple trees this year-- and the bugs-- mosquitoes and biting flies and knats-- gone for the season.

We've kept working in fits and spurts, adding railings to the split level deck and stairs.  I am using cedar log poles from our own trees-- these are trees that have died and either fallen or remained standing in the cedar swamp at the east end of the property. This is a project that moves slowly, as it takes time to strip the bark with my drawknife. Then, once the poles are stripped, and cut to length, we carry them to the treehouse, and Jerry drilled holes through the poles and stair stringers, allowing two carriage bolts per pole. We are using 3/8 inch carriage bolts for the poles and railings.

I continue to debate about what sort of structure I want on the platform.  I found a camoflauge hunting tent at L&M supply, and once given assurances that I could bring it back if I didn't like it, we brought it home, and set it up on the platform.  While it is photogenic, the view from inside is limited, and there is room for no more than two people who get along very well, or one person and a dog.

The tent went back to the store. I want a shelter of some sort, but this is not it. 

With the changing seasons and with a completed platform and stairs, the treehouse has become a celebrated meeting place for friends and family.


December, 2000

Snow!  The treehouse in winter is photogenic, but not very cozy. This time of year makes me more determined to add a roof for a gazebo-like, Swiss Family Robinson look.  That, of course, will have to wait until spring. 

The tree house has become a reference point for outings with the dogs, who know where we are going when we take the river trail north.  Chance flies through the snow, her paws, attached to long thin legs, touching the ground only briefly as she scatters the powdery flakes. She flushes a ruffed grouse, who flies uphill along the trail, so close to me, I duck reflexively to avoid it.  Night is falling, and I turn on my headlamp to see the trail.           

The river is frozen over now, and a pair of snowmobilers roar upriver. They falter at the bend in the river, startled to see my headlight on the bank, where they had expected only wilderness, and then they go on. After inspecting the tree house, we turn back.  It is harder to get up the steep slope of the trail towards the house in the snow, and I grab the collar of one of the dogs, whose momentum pulls me forward.

The snowy woods in winter make me think of Robert Frost and his poem, "The Road Less Traveled." Our lives here are metaphorically, as well as concretely, following a road less traveled, and I wonder if it does "make all the difference." 

It is the path we have chosen, and it is one I have never regretted.

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