An old iron stove embossed with the initials of the Brown Company stands unused against a wall. As I drifted off, I recalled how W.R. Brown himself, the son of the company president, and who later became a titan in the logging, river-driving, and lumber-producing world, had to find a job on his own upon graduating from Williams. His father had declared he didn’t want “kittens that couldn’t catch mice,” and made W.R. prove himself on his own before taking over the company.

The couch I lay on was exactly wide enough for my shoulders and no more; I tucked my sleeping bag under my right elbow to keep it from falling off the edge and out into the cold. Kiki lay in a tight coil between my knees on top of the fluffy down bag. We slipped into slumber to the soft hissing and occasional chunk of the maple and birch chunks in the stove.

There were four of us, our average age (81) rivaling that of the camp. But that didn’t deter Eric and Put, who arrived first and shoveled at least a couple of hundred yards, through foot-deep snow, from their car, across the swinging bridge, and finally an open field. Then they made more paths to the woodshed, the bunkhouse (the kids were coming that evening), and the privy. They, too, slept that night.

It’s deer season, but there wasn’t a single gun in camp. Each of us gave up the chase at different times, but probably for the same reason, over the past few years. We’ve all known each other for a long time, and have even shared a few adventures. But that was a while ago. Now our days are passed in conversation, reading, napping, and feeding the big box stove. The building was cold when the first two got here, and they built a fire right away; but it was more than a day till the log walls thawed and it was warm enough to sit and chat more than a few feet from the stove. A -10º temperature the first night didn’t help.

Kiki, of course, detected right away the tiny rustling of prey in every corner as the cabin warmed, and was all over the place. She discovered what was probably a mouse highway on the middle shelf of the sink cabinet, and spent some time patrolling it. It was startling, when working at the sink, to see her comical fuzzy face peering out into the kitchen. She and I took a break, the first day, and went for a walk the only place we could: across the bridge and down the road. Beautiful quiet afternoon, the only sound the soft chuckle of the river beside the road. The sun was sinking behind us, and right in front, about thirty degrees up, hung a faint ice bow, the first I’ve seen in over forty years. Weather was coming.

It arrived at 2:27 in the morning by my watch. First a roaring through the firs and spruces, then the banging of the screen door, and finally a crash and a blast of cold air and snow crystals as the front door blew open. Kiki jumped sky-high. I waited perhaps half a minute to see if Jack was on the case. He wasn’t, so I trudged over there with my headlight and snugged things down. Back to bed, reflecting on how many storms like that the old cabin had weathered over the years, a verse from Matthew scrolled through my fading consciousness: And the rains descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not, for it was founded upon a rock. I’m not sure concrete posts evoke the same romance as that rock, but the building hardly vibrated. Its recent reconstruction was beautifully done.

Getting to the river for dishwashing water was almost impossible, so Jack started bringing in buckets of packed snow to dump into the trash can on top of the stove. When after a while the eaves began to sprout icicles, he brought those in instead. The second day he lost his icicle mine when the whole west side of the metal roof avalanched with a great roar and whump!

Put cooked, as usual: eggs, bacon, and cornbread in the morning; baked beans, spaghetti with meat sauce, and Reuben casserole for suppers; leftovers for lunch. Evenings, after dishes, were peaceful – each of us wandering off in his own time. Age-related nocturia ensured the stove would be fed all night and we’d wake up to a warm cabin. The gray jays took all the rock-hard bagel bits we left on the porch. We talked about our next gathering, and I’m pretty certain I heard the word, “July.” By golly, we are getting old!