Day 12 Challenge

The cabin sat deep within the Adirondack Park and looked out at a small lake. Constructed using ash and pine timbered from the surrounding forest, the structure more resembled a small Rocky Mountain or Green Mountain lodge than a summer retreat. Two stories, three bedrooms, and a living area that would relax the most stressed 1920s General Electric executive, the cabin served to bring the original owner’s family together each summer.

The property had a private beach with black and gray, small-grained sand, seen more along the upper part of the Hudson River than on spring-fed lakes. Back in the halcyon days of the 1920s and 1930s, the beach would see children and young adults sitting on the sand after plunging into the cool, almost cold, water. The adults would sit on the porch and watch from the comfort of Adirondack chairs.
In the morning, people would sit on the porch and look at the lake. If they were lucky and it was still early, with the sun barely over the eastern mountain and dew was still on the ground, they could witness the cool air on their faces, the waterfowl on the lake awaking, and the lack of activity and isolation allowing them to hear the soft lapping as the water reaches the sand. With closed eyes and when they inhaled deeply, the aroma of the damp bark could bring them back to a time of innocence and awakening.

The plan was to have one road in and out, keeping nosy busybodies and unwanted guests from ruining the peaceful nature. It began off a paved county road a few miles north of Lake Luzerne Township, constructed of dirt and gravel, the entranced camouflaged behind low tree limbs and shrubs.

The family used it every summer, leaving Schenectady after the children ended classes in June, not returning to the city until late August. It was necessary: Their lives drew them apart.

Nevertheless, that was then. Hard times befell the retreat.

Once well-groomed lawns now were weed and wildflower fields. Ashes, pines, and maples intruded onto the cabin. The beach no longer could have swimmers: harsh winters and resulting melt runoff ruined it. Pine straw and decaying leaves were everywhere. Small woodland creatures found entrances into the structure and made it their winter home. The roof, once shingled with Vermont slate, now had holes large enough to give predatory birds entry into the second floor, perfect for nesting.

Without even casual use for the last 15 years, the wood began to show signs of water damage and rot. Holes appeared between the logs. The porch could no longer safely hold more than two: boards had rotted and fallen away.