This is where I have the great good fortune of working this week:
This is the same cabin I was able to use for nearly a week in January. It's a number of miles from the nearest paved road. In the entire week, no car that has not been coming specifically here (another writer friend; the cabin owners' daughter, who has a weekend job up here; the guy who plowed after the snow) has come along the road.
The neighbors live a quiet, simple life:
(If any creatures live there, they have either four feet or wings. That cabin has no roof. The cabin I'm in does have one—it's a lovely, comfortable space with a lot of light.)
There are a lot of gorgeous things to see on afternoon walks, although I need to remember to walk more slowly than usual, because there's significantly less oxygen here than even at home—which is still pretty high altitude.
Some of the cabin's regular inhabitants are here, keeping me company and assisting with the research, writing, and spinning.
Sometimes they help quite a lot—like when I improvised a lazy kate for plying some fine singles . . .
And it turned out I'd really made an irresistible toy. . . .
Even though it's cold outside, it's warm in here . . .
sometimes, because of the terrific Vermont Castings stove and the basic
solar gain of the cabin, it even gets too warm in the afternoons and I
need to open the back door for a while, giving the cats their access to the
outdoors, which they can only have on the deck because of the wildlife,
including the coyotes and owls.
I feel blessed to have been given the use of this space for the current work, which otherwise would be a whole lot more difficult to accomplish. The cabin brings it from "completely impossible" to "insane, but maybe. . . .
I have one more day here, and I'm going to start making use of it. . . .