Old Man’s Cabin

By James Kunkel

Climbing down from the fire engine-red, King Cab dually ­ something you’ve wanted since the days of Zooming Hot Wheels cars across the linoleum floors of your childhood – you step back, looking at it in appreciation.

Retrieving an overstuffed backpack from the bed of the truck, you heft the heavy bastard over your shoulders, settling it into place. It’s a beautiful day up here: sunny; mid-seventies; the scent of pine mixed with the fresh mountain air. God’s Country, you think, looking over the lush green canopy that extends for miles.

Miles. That’s how far it is to the cabin Dad left you in the will. A place you haven’t visited since… How long’s it been? you wonder, fighting back the melancholy that’s been threatening this trip since Day One.

You really miss dear old Dad-no question. And you should’ve spent more time with him, you know, since the test results came back…

* * * * *

Dad and uncle Chuck built the place by hand, using rough­hewn logs from these very woods, and cheap plywood from Handy Andy’s-before the local economy took a dive and the DIY lumber company folded.

You’re not sure where all the windows came from; every one of them’s different, and most of ’em don’t open.

The cabin itself is just one big room-divided by a couple of throw rugs; an old, lumpy couch that folds into an old, lumpy bed; and a card table surrounded by three wobbly chairs.

There’s a massive cast iron stove on the far wall. It’s said to’ve been there before the place was ever built. Dad lit many a Kools from that big fella; and you burnt many a fingertip on it. And your foot – that one time you kicked the damn thing for burning your eggs. What a bitch it was to cook on!

Now that you think about it, how hard could it be to hook up a few solar panels? Maybe get a little fridge and a mini­microwave? How about a portable TV with a… forget it. For all that, you might just as well stay home.

* * * * *

The cabin’s most distinguishing feature is its location: Middle of Nowhere, USA. A man could live off the Grid in these parts, you assure yourself. If, that is, he were to give up his iPhone, live-streaming service, and ice-cold Budweisers. Who’re you trying to kid? A week up here and technology deprivation’ll have you racing into town to catch the scores, watch the highlights, and eat a fat, greasy cheeseburger. In that order.

You can always try your hand at hunting and fishing as a means to survive. Dad did. But you don’t know how to skin a deer. Or is it dress? you ask yourself. Whichever it is, you won’t be doing it. Besides, how are you gonna hunt wild game armed with nothing more than a Saturday night special, and a cheap knock-off of a Rambo knife?

Fishing you can do. Except there’s just that shallow stream down the way. A creek, really. The only way to fish it is either by grappling – a discipline you’re clearly not cut out for, or fly fishing – something you couldn’t be bothered to learn, thanks in part to that damn Game Boy you couldn’t put down for five minutes.

Then there was that aerobatic fish-hook demonstration you put on, when Uncle Chuck nearly lost an eye…

* * * * *

Hopefully the long, winding trail isn’t too overgrown. But you can’t expect a miracle: Dad was the one who kept it cleared; kept the wild shrubbery in check.

Remember the prickly little hitchhiker thingies? You threw out a ton of socks because of those damn things. Oh, no! What about poison ivy? Without Dad here to guide you, you’re bound to traipse right through it! Didja remember to pack the … hell’s that stuff called? That settles it: if you don’t know the name of it, you obviously didn’t pack it.

At least there aren’t any mosquitoes at this altitude, so all’s not lost. But then there’re those militant wasps who aggressively patrol the eaves around the cabin, harassing trespassers, like they owned the place. What was that home remedy Dad used to whip up for bee stings? you wonder. Would it even work on wasp bites?

Sigh. You’ve barely left the parking area and you’re already ruining what is supposed to be a relaxing week of seclusion.

* * * * *

Trudging along the old trail, you perform a mental inventory of what you’re (supposed to be) carrying on your back: Flashlight? Check. Extra batteries? Uh oh! Did you remember to pack the extra batteries? Were they the right ones? Dammit! Okay, okay. Calm down, you tell yourself. You’ll figure it out when you get there.

Let’s see … MRE’s? Check, check, and check. You don’t understand how Mr. Avery at the Army surplus store was able to talk you into buying a whole year’s worth of that crap. And that’s exactly what they tasted like! Then again, he did give you a really good deal on the backpack, Rambo knife, and the three gas cans that are still sitting in the bed of the truck. Empty.

Canned goods? Oh, yeah! Spaghetti O’s, Beef-A-Roni, and Cheeze Ravioli’s – three of the 5 basic food groups! (You would’ve brought along some bacon, but have no way to keep it fresh.)

There’s the issue of running water at the place. Or, more pointedly, the lack there of. Dad always tasked you with hauling up bucket after bucket from the stream. He had those water purification tablets that made the water taste like ass. You’ve got it covered though: 48 bottles of fresh, spring water! (This also helps explain why your back’s already sore.) I wonder why they haven’t come up with powdered water yet? you ask yourself. Moron.

Toilet paper? Nope – paper towels. Much more versatile. You can wipe everything from top to bottom with ’em. Literally. And, depending on what you last wiped with them, they make for great kindling!

Aaannnnd that brings you to the all-important question of firewood. What are the chances there’s a stack of it waiting for you? Would it still be good after all this time? Wait. Does firewood even go bad? How would you tell? What about Dad’s old ax? You’re old enough now to handle it properly. It was a bit rough on your awkward and uncoordinated eleven-year-old body. And how were you supposed to know that it didn’t double as a sledgehammer?!?

Before you realize it, a good six miles are behind you. Not a bad hike, all things considered. Your surroundings are about how you remember – only more grown in; more grown up. For every old tree that seems to be missing, three have taken its place. Mother Nature has been hard at work up here over the years, and it shows. So beautiful. So peaceful. So… Did you remember to lock the truck and set the alarm? Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! In a vain attempt to ease your conscience, you fumble the key fob from your pants pocket and stab at the buttons for good measure.

You could probably blame your ADHD – if you have it. Which you probably do, and just don’t know it. Come on, let’s not lose focus. We’re almost there!

* * * * *

To cheer yourself up, you think back on some of the memories you made here over the years: catching your first fish; seeing your first moose; stubbing your first toe. Dammit! You’re doing it again!

Stopping for a rest, you spot the tree you carved your initials in. They’re still at eye level. It’s as if the tree grew up with you. That’s a refreshing thought. Kinda makes you feel more a part of the place. That’s what’s been missing all along: You’ve fallen out of touch with nature, and it shows. Well, you’re back now, and here to stay! At least for the next week. Or until you run out of food. Whichever comes first.

After chugging a bottle of water, you carefully replace the cap before carelessly tossing it on the ground. At this point you notice… nothing. Not. A. Sound. That’s odd, you think. This time of day birds should be chirping. You don’t even hear the wind rustling through the trees. Talk about peaceful.

Then you hear it: CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER! Corning from somewhere off in the distance. Kinda sounds like an angry squirrel. It’s probably bitching at something for being too close to its nuts, you chuckle to yourself. Territorial little shi– CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER! That was definitely closer, but, what was it?

Before your mind has a chance to run away with the thought of a 50 pound Jurassic squirrel roaming the ancient forest ­ throwing fossilized acorns at the natives – you take a quick stroll around the area, looking for the source of the noise. Finding nothing, you shrug it off and continue your hike up the trail. 

* * * * *

A mile from your destination, you hear it again: CHITTER­CHITTER-CHITTER! Turning a slow 360°, you find no sign of… anything, really. Just trees, trees, and more trees. You walk on.

Reaching the clearing that signals you’re a quarter mile from the cabin, you finally see a sign of life: just off the trail is a doe. Her back to you, she appears to be munching on some berries from a thicket.

Reaching for your phone to document this chance encounter with nature – something in your backpack shifts, making a slight racket – startling her into flight.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, you aimlessly wander toward where she’d stood. That’s when you see it: a slaughtered rabbit. Entrails strewn about; ears chewed off; one of its lucky feet missing. Backing away in alarm, you lose your breakfast all over the tops of your new hiking boots.

You sprint the last 400 yards to the cabin.

* * * * *

During the last leg of the marathon, you recognize the old, familiar sight of the cabin looming in the distance. Closing the gap, you notice something’s out of place; there are some new features to the structure that weren’t evident the last time you were up here. Namely the missing door, the busted-out windows, and the huge hole in the roof.

Refusing to let its decrepit state take the wind out of your sails, you leap onto the porch, stumble through the wide­open doorway – and trip over what’s left of the old couch-bed, wrenching your knee in the process as you and the heavy backpack lose the battle with gravity.

Thrashing about like a turtle, you struggle to free yourself from the burdensome load -then dive into it, frantically searching for the .38.

Coming up with a granola bar, you wield it instead, as you turn and face the enemy.

When nothing appears after 20 long seconds, you let out the breath you were holding. (The noise from your wheezing was not only distracting, it could’ve given away your position. In the middle of the wide-open doorway.)

With no enemy in sight, you start evaluating the known facts of the case: something (a large squirrel?) is making that unnerving noise; something (that doe, perhaps?) disemboweled that bunny, creating a horrific scene; something (a gopher, maybe?) tore the cabin to shreds, leaving it strategically indefensible.

Okay, let’s reevaluate the situation, you tell yourself. First, squirrels don’t normally weigh over a pound; you’re letting your imagination run pretty wild if you believe there is a giant, prehistoric squirrel loose in these woods. Then again, you recall reading about giant squirrels in Asia. But, you’re nowhere near Asia, so scratch that.

Second, deer are not carnivorous. Are they? you second-guess yourself. The idea that there’s a bloodthirsty Bambi out there – while frightening – is awfully ridiculous. We will scratch that one as well.

And third – A gopher? Really? Your blood-sugar is low, your subconscious voice assures you, insisting you eat that granola bar, instead of trying to defend Castle Hoopty with it. A gopher. Sheesh!

Now that you’ve narrowed down the line-up of potential perps – and come up empty – it’s time to assess the other damages inflicted upon your humble abode. The furniture ­ what’s left of it – is beyond repair and, in some instances, beyond recognition; the throw rugs are missing altogether ­ probably pillaged by goats or something. (What? you ask yourself. It makes just as much sense as a gofer vandalizing the place! you argue.) Birds’ nests in the rafters; and – because no cabin in the woods is complete without it: the unmistakable stench of stale mouse piss.

The old man would be so disappointed if he saw the place in this condition. If your vacation wasn’t ruined 4 pages ago, it surely is now…

* * * * *

Munching on the granola bar, you start unloading some of your supplies. It’ll be dark soon; with no door, windows, and a huge hole in the roof, the word “shelter” no longer applies. You’ll need to make alternative sleeping arrangements. That, and there’s a can of sketti-o’s calling your name.

Surveying the room, you notice the only thing in the joint that looks untouched is the stove. It looks exactly as it did some twenty-five-odd-years ago when you first laid eyes on it. There may be some truth to the myth of its origins after all, you think distractedly as you sift through your backpack.

CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER! BANG! Not realizing your hand is clamped around the pistol’s grip, you murder a can of ravioli (and pee a little) when you flinch, instinctively squeezing the trigger. The bullet, making a comical PWRANG!as it ricochets off the potbellied stove, manages to take out the single remaining pane of glass in the place. Then all goes silent. Except for the sound of your pounding heart.

Unwilling to let go of the gun, you rummage around in the backpack with your left hand, searching for that flashlight. You almost freak-out when your hand plunges into something wet and squishy – then realize, sadly, that it’s the unfortunate remains of that poor can of ravioli.

By the time you locate the rogue flashlight, you’ve nearly forgotten why you so desperately needed it. (You really should get this ADHD issue looked at, before someone gets seriously hurt!)

Flicking the light on, you sweep the bright LED beam over the interior of the cabin, looking for anything out of place; anything out of the ordinary. Regrettably, those are both apt descriptions of the scene in themselves.

You see what looks like drops of blood on the floor, and follow the trail two whole feet. That’s when you discover it’s dripping from your shaking hand. Dropping the flashlight in panic, it rolls away from you, creating an eerie display of shadows that crawl across the cabin walls. (Forget the ADHD; you’re gonna need to see a cardiologist when this whole thing is over!)

Wait a second. What’s that smell? Is that … pasta sauce? It isn’t blood on your hand after all. You wipe the zesty sauce on your pants before remembering the umpteen rolls of paper towels you brought on this journey.

Your spare clothes are covered in tomato paste as well, but that’s the least of your worries at the moment.

Raising your hand to wipe the sweat from your brow, you clunk yourself in the noggin with the pistol you’ve had in a death-grip for the past fifteen minutes.

Rubbing now the sore spot on your head, you formulate a plan: repack the backpack (say that 5 times fast! your ADHD addled mind interjects) with any salvageable necessities, and make a run for the outhouse. You can set up camp in there for the night. Yeah, that’ll work, you convince yourself. It still has a door on it – you see that clearly through the broken windows. Plus, it has that crescent moon cut-out in it, so you don’t have to worry about glass busting in your face. You know, if it were to come down to more windows getting broken, that is.

It also has that slide-latch on the inside. You remember when, and why, Dad installed that particular feature. Ha! You’ll never forget that look on the old man’s face that night after you … CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER!

* * * * *

You’ve never been a big believer in magic – less so since reaching adulthood. However, you cannot explain how you materialized inside the outhouse – without ever setting foot outside the cabin.

Less amazing is the fact you accomplished this astonishing feat with only the gun in hand. No flashlight, ammo, food, paper tow– CHITTER-Clack! Scratch! CHITTER-Screetch! Crack! CHITTER! BANG! The gun discharges again – as does something else.

If ever there was a good time to have a roll of those paper towels handy. “What a mess!” you say to yourself, unnecessarily. “That scared the living shi … “CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER! BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG! Click. Click. Click. Click.

Silence. Except for the ringing in your ears. Wonderful. You can add being deaf to the list of infirmities you’ve recently acquired. Probably go great with the ADHD, weak heart, and defective sphincter.

That last thought forces from you a bout of hysterical laughter. Tears flow. You tremble from shock. PTSD is now in your future.

Adding to the days woes – as though you haven’t been tormented enough – you burn the tip of your nose with the hot gun barrel when you go to wipe away the dripping snot. “Ow! God dammit!” you think you shouted. (You can barely hear yourself think, what with your tinnitus running at optimum levels.)

You catch a glimpse of movement through one of the new ventilation holes you installed during your panic-induced tantrum. Like an idiot, you plant your face to the wall and peer through the nearest orifice. Like an idiot, you chuckle at the word orifice, when stealth is what you’ll need to get out of this alive.

Regardless, you keep your face plastered to the wall, and it pays off: you can’t make out much detail, but you see a four­legged creature – possibly the deer you’d spotted earlier ­ going around to the other side of the cabin, out of view.

You stay glued to the spot, waiting for something more to happen. Another attack? you think, psyching yourself out. You notice your hearing has returned when you hear hooves prancing across the wooden porch, then the creepy sound of… something being dragged along the dusty floor of the cabin. It has to be my backpack! you assure yourself – hoping you haven’t assured yourself out loud. Then everything goes quiet again.

* * * * *

After what feels like forever (and may very well have been, because, unbelievably, you drifted off to sleep – instead of vigilantly carrying out the night watch!), you’re startled awake by the clinking sound of an empty tin can hitting the floor.

“Nuh uh,” you whisper, then smack yourself in the mouth with the empty gun you still haven’t put down. (The spare ammo is in your backpack; the backpack you left waayyy over there, in the Cabin of Horrors!)

Gasping from the latest round of self-inflicted pain, you remember the secret vow of silence you swore last night, and try to shut up and hold still. That’s when the maggot-gagging stench of what squished around in your pants all night drifts into your face. You blow chunks on the wall where your spy­holes are located – putting an end to your covert operation.

As the dry-heaves subside, you hear what sounds like a large animal running by – then crashing through some nearby bushes. Taking a moment to compose yourself – and give thanks that your bowels were previously vacated – you notice by the crescent moon cut out in the door that the sky is faintly glowing. Dawn has come.

Having learned patience over the last twelve hours or so, you understand that a few more minutes in the shitter won’t hurt. This will allow the sun to rise higher, that creature to move further away, and an elaborate plan to take shape.

* * * * *

Hauling ass to your truck – this is the whole of your plan, in motion – you get winded two miles in and slow to a brisk jog.

Over your heavy breathing, you listen for any odd sounds coming from the surrounding forest. Hearing nothing but your clodhoppers pounding dirt, you maintain a smooth gait.

CHITTER-CHITTER-CHITTER! A fart squeaks through your clenched butt cheeks as you crank up the pace to never-before-reached levels, eating up the miles in record time.

Rounding the last curve in the trail, you see your shiny red truck, like a beacon in the distance. Catching a second-wind, you make a beeline straight towards her.

CHITTER–CHITTER-CHITTER! “Aaahh!” you actually scream. Chancing a look over your shoulder, you trip over your own feet and execute a graceless face-plant, three feet from your truck. You drop the useless gun – finally! – skin up your hands, and gouge your chin bloody on the stone parking lot.

Regaining your feet, you tug madly at the locked door han­dle, setting off the piercing alarm. It was locked after all, your subconscious sighs thankfully as you rifle through your pockets, rabidly searching for the keys.

Finding them, you smash the UNLOCK button with your thumb, earning you a “Gleek-Gleek” and the heavenly sound of the locks disengaging. Diving into the musty confines of your salvation, you slam the door shut behind you, and lay your weary head on the steering wheel.

Reaching with a shaky hand, you insert the key. Greeted by the friendly “Doong-Doong-Doong” chime of pre-ignition, you lift your head and look dazedly out the windshield. Stillness.

A flash of movement in the rearview mirror grabs your attention. Turning to get a better look…CHITTER-CHITTER-­CHITTER!

James Kunkel