A Night Indoors

At the Urich Cabin (2355)
Paul was on the front porch making breakfast when I slipped out of the Urich Cabin to use the outhouse. “How’d you sleep sir?” I told him the truth and it made him laugh:
“I slept alright. The cabin makes a lot of strange noises, creeks and drips and whatnot,” and he laughed. I looked up at the roof where there was a constant spatter from fog condensing in the pines and falling to the roof. “You know. I’d have slept better on the porch.” I walked off to the outhouse. I sure do get sirred a lot.
The front of Urich Cabin faces out into Government Meadow and walking back I noticed how the thick the fog was, it was thicker than the evening before: now I couldn’t see the meadow’s far side. I searched for the motivation to hike into the 6:00 a.m. cold.
The rich and distinctive smell of burning white gas filled my nostrils from Paul’s unattended Whisperlite on the massive dry planks of the overbuilt cabin’s porch when I walked up. It brought me back to being a kid, Dad making pancakes or bacon and eggs on an old Coleman suitcase stove at a campsite on a big river, or Pikes Peak or Mt. Rushmore. Me widdling sticks, my sisters being ignored like usual.
The fog had grown to a palpable falling mist and I had slipped back inside and shut the door. I laid my sleeping bag back down, deciding that if two days of dreary whether was coming as Paul had said then I could afford to hang here in the ashy over-dryness of the Cabin, at least for a late start. All night I’d sniffled and sneezed. I checked the stove for still burning logs but all where cold. It’s as if so much fire has happened here that allergens just constantly, invisibly ooze from every fisher.

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