Every little cabin tells a simple story, simple shacks in the sleepy forest, raised to make you feel a little more at home. Some get used for decades, and others, just a few years – but they're all a sign of someone who felt a little more belonging. Maybe the ones who raised these walls are long gone, from this part of the world, or from life itself. Wherever they are, I hope these love their nearest wilderness just the same. You can just about see the Valley from here, far below through scraggly trees, peering out of a window that's nearly fallen from its frame. What you see is what you get – isolation, or the company you brought along. There's a large chunk of the roof missing, and with it, all the intrusion of weather and scattered leaves from several autumns inside. Eventually, the edge beckons.
April 6, 2024
Brooklyn, Nova Scotia
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The smaller the structure, the more curious I am for the purpose. I've been passing this overgrown one-room cabin for a long time now, never seen a spark of life inside or around it. The brush grows steadily nearer and taller, swept by steady sea breezes that work away at a shingle or two. Porcupines live beneath, their gnawing teeth biting back wood at the base – a sure giveaway. Icy snow pelts my skin, my fingers abandon their warmth, and I find myself thinking about whoever kept the woodstove rattling inside these walls. Not much room to move; you better be content with close quarters. Do you ever get that cabin fever? Before I started exploring, I used to sense it even in my own backyard. But I've discovered a world close to home that's bigger and bigger – and things have expanded more than I ever dreamed.
March 21, 2024
Port Lorne, Nova Scotia
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I grew up in a land of recent relics, much as any ancient ones. Tiny cabins never meant to last, and views from high vantage that were blocked with young growth. I park up where the power poles end, by the vacant trailer home on Fraser Road. I pass the rusty Astro van, up the winding switchbacks to where the rainsoaked Valley lies below. On a drier day, I might hike the rest of the way to Wade Lake – today, this will do me fine. Inside is an old racing trophy from 1989, marked with no name, third place. Now this shack indeed is in its final position, still standing only out of habit. Some folks will try to tell you what it means to be, all that stuff about purpose and being part of a cause or a bigger picture. But I suppose you could call me a great individualist – I want to know who you'd be with no one to back you up. Take note that I say individual, and not independent. Because even me, when I'm standing in front of a crowd all alone, am still in great reliance to all souls listening. I owe all my aloneness to you.
March 3, 2024
Granville Centre, Nova Scotia
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I'm usually halfway through a real dark week before I start noticing the lack of sun. It doesn't bother me much to wake up in the grey, no more than ending the day in darkness. When you're walking through the tangled, scattered wilderness, a lack of sharp shadows gives the secrets away more easily. Something as simple as a thin skin of snow on a rooftop stands out at a distance. Geometric shapes, human-made construction of any kind, they're like a beacon in the presence of chaotic brush and branches. A shack like this is sort of a surface skeleton. Mostly just bones propped up against an inevitable downfall, a tired tale and sure enough. Shredded tarps mark the last attempt to keep water out, now holding hanging drops of ice like accidental Christmas lights. Blue, green, and grey – those muted colours carry plenty of cheer to me.
December 31, 2023
Litchfield, Nova Scotia
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