For my summer break I was determined to get away from town and unplug deep in the country. Last week I managed to do just that, convincing my wife and dog to spend a week in a solitary one-room log cabin in the woods.
In all honesty the dog had no say in the matter, but I was surprised at how little my wife resisted the idea. After all, with no electricity, no plumbing and nothing more than the latest in outhouse technology, it was hardly something I could present as her dream vacation.
Then there was the added challenge of having free time with nothing to do, which is not easy for her. For me it’s as easy as falling off a log – or a horse (more on that in a moment).
Our home for the week was hidden away in a tree-lined hollow near the southern edge of Coshocton County.
“Wow,” said a friend of mine, after seeing a picture of the cabin. “It looks like the kind of place you’d stay in when you’re on the run from the law.”
I considered this a solid recommendation.
We found our way there the old-fashioned way, using a map, as the tiny township gravel roads seemed to confuse the GPS just as much as they did me.
“Very poor effort,” I kept telling it, adding “now let me show you how we’re going to do it” before driving round in a circle and ending up back at the same spot.
Thankfully, we managed to arrive before nightfall. With no electric light it would have been a challenge to get set up in the dark.
Later we found some oil lamps that we got working after a small struggle, but on the whole it seemed preferable to adapt to the sun’s rhythm. The darkening sky brought the day to a natural close, leaving us with nothing to do but sit on the porch and watch the stars.
The outhouse wasn’t fancy, but I’ve certainly used worse. Specifically, the public lavatory on Market Street in the English town of Dartford, Kent. This set a bar of foulness that in 30 years has never been beaten. Everything since has been a breeze by comparison.
Although the cabin wasn’t plumbed we had the use of two big barrels of water, which could be used to fill something called a solar shower. This is basically a bag of water that you lay out in the sun. Once it’s warm you spray it over yourself.
It’s surprisingly refreshing, and I made use of it at least once every three days.
I had my coffee each morning with water boiled on the propane stove. I’ve recently taught myself to drink coffee black, and a few weeks ago Mahoney at the coffee shop told me I now take it “cowboy style,” a phrase I’ve taken inordinate pleasure in ever since.
“Yep,” I said happily to myself as I sipped my coffee on the porch, “cowboy style!”
For the most part there were no other humans to interact with. Just a few words now and then with the owner of the small general store six miles down the road where we picked up ice, beer, beef jerky and other essentials.
And once or twice Jeff came by. Jeff was the owner of our cabin who, along with Paula, lived on the other side of the property through the woods.
“Hey, cigars!” he said on his first visit, spotting my stockpile. I offered him one.
“So where is it you said you’ve come from?” he asked. “Marion?”
“Mansfield,” I told him.
“Mansfield!” he replied. “Is that where the old prison is? Is it really haunted?”
“Well, a lot of people think so,” I told him. “But I haven’t witnessed it personally. I don’t seem to be receptive to ghosts.”
“Me neither,” Jeff said. “And I WANT to see something. I ASK for it. I sit out here at night sometimes for hours, right here on this porch. I sleep here with my Winchester in my lap, but I’ve never seen any ghosts.
“Still, I reckon I might have seen aliens,” he continued. “Nothing certain, just … lights in the sky that can’t be explained, you know? Course I’d probably shoot an alien if I did see one. It’d be just my luck to get in trouble for shooting someone from Alpha Centauri.
“Would that be illegal, do you think?”
I had no information on that. No doubt the rules differ from state to state.
Jeff told me that if I wanted to try riding a horse I should come up to the main house and Paula would show me what to do. I was curious, so I wandered over the next day to take them up on the offer.
The horse was an Appaloosa named Rocky. Paula showed me how to brush, saddle, and clean the horse’s hooves. I thought I was making a pretty decent job of it, holding Rocky’s leg up in a crook and digging out the mud and such from the hoof with the little metal claw gizmo.
Rocky did not agree and expressed a modicum of displeasure by stamping hard on my foot.
If you’ve never had a horse stamp on your foot, imagine how much you think it would hurt and double it, and you’re about there. I felt it was quite an achievement that I let out a mere half of the swear words I know rather than the full set.
Perhaps this should have given me a hint that myself and Rocky were not destined to be pals, but I gamely continued to follow instructions and led the horse around the property before mounting.
I was quite pleased with my technique, swinging a leg over in one (fairly) graceful movement. Must be all that cowboy coffee, I thought, and all seemed well as we moved off at an easy pace.
Unfortunately, Rocky suddenly got it into his head that having me on his back was not the ideal arrangement, and that it would be much better all round if I was on the ground in the dirt.
So he bucked – and off I flew. There was no warning, no struggle. One moment I was on his back and the next moment I was on the ground.
I’m not quite sure which part of me hit the ground first, but I do remember thinking that the first order of business was to get myself clear of his hooves. Since Rocky had already had such fun stomping on my foot a further blow to the head or a swift kick up the backside might prove irresistible, so I scrambled clear.
“You need to get right back on again!” said Paula. “That’s how it works.”
“No it isn’t,” I replied, using a few extra words, and explained my alternative plan of walking away in the opposite direction.
I limped back through the woods to the simple pleasure of a chair, a drink and a good book.
It occurred to me that I might have given up the chance of a golden future in horse riding. So be it, I thought bravely. I am prepared to take that risk.
