The forest is roaring. Trees bend and creak as the wind whips through them, howling over the lake. The sky is lost in a whiteout, as snow dances frenetically to an eerie, discordant wail. It seems improbable that the off-grid cabin we’re staying in is not swaying alongside the trees in all this wind. But the wooden structure stands strong. Inside, we’re warm and cozy in our double sleeping bag, drifting to sleep as the -20 C elements rage outside in the middle of the night.
When I next open my eyes, the winter storm has subsided. The light is bluish and peaceful. I glance at my partner Ben sleeping beside me, then prop myself up for a better view outside. There are no curtains — all the better to be completely surrounded by nature.
The moon, a waning gibbous, hangs in a pale morning sky, illuminating the trail we’d snowshoed on to get here. Snow has been blown into drifts around the cabin. Inside, our plates from last night’s dinner are neatly stacked on the rack, the table we’d eaten at folded away. A blue jug, our water supply, sits on the countertop above the sink, while our things are stowed on hooks or in storage compartments in the tiny cabin. It’s compact, but it has everything we could possibly need for a two-night stay.
The kettle sits temptingly on the gas stove. I slip on my soft moosehide moccasins and light the stove, the flame glimmering to life. A cup of tea in bed is the perfect way to start this cozy morning. Steam spirals from my mug as I curl up with my tea and look at the winterscape outside. The remaining leaves on the trees flutter in a storm-tired breeze.
We’re staying in Mica Cabin, an off-grid retreat offered by Cabinscape, an Ontario-owned company that provides low-impact, ecologically friendly tiny cabin rentals in nature. These intimate cabins are custom-designed, with composting toilets, and powered by solar panels and a backup generator as needed (we did need it in the snow and cold!). In the summer and fall, water is drawn from the lake, but in winter, two blue jugs provide our water supply.
We chose Mica Cabin for its “high remoteness” (each cabin is rated low, medium, or high), while still being within a reasonable drive from where we live in Ottawa. This wilderness escape is built on Rideau Valley Conservation land in Tay Valley, Ont., and sits on the shores of Mills Lake, not too far from the heritage town of Perth.
The day before, we’d loaded our things into a sled (provided by Cabinscape, along with two pairs of snowshoes) and hauled it about a kilometre through billowing snowflakes along a forest trail. Under my winter layers and 65-litre backpack, I’d broken out a sweat by the time we’d crested the first hill. I was so gassed that I didn’t notice Ben, who had snowshoed off the trail in search of interesting foreground for his photographs, lost his balance, and fallen slowly backwards into a gentle snowdrift.
Suddenly, we turned a corner and spotted the cabin beckoning from the top of a slope through the trees. I pumped my fist. We’d made it. Even in the short time it had taken us to get there, a thick layer of snow had formed over the sled.
Inside, it’s warm and welcoming — a veritable reprieve from the cold. We tidy away our things as the cloud-shrouded light fades from the sky. When we turn the lights on, the cabin casts a warm glow out into the swirling snow outside. I imagine what it must look like from down on the frozen lake. Light in the darkness. Calm in the storm. I wonder if we might see any wildlife during our weekend in the woods. But they’re probably all tucked up, just like us.
Steam swells from the French press while butter sizzles in a frying pan. I am caramelizing mushrooms and garlic to pile on top of crunchy seeded toast when I notice a shimmer on the cabin walls.
“Ben!” I exclaim. “It’s the sun!” Bathing us in warmth and light, the sun feels like a gift. We haven’t seen much of it this snowy winter, and we’ve both been working hard of late, so even when the sun is out, we haven’t been able to truly enjoy it. Its opaline glow cascades through the trees. I close my eyes and feel the rays on my face, my hands warmed by coffee. I realize this cabin escape is exactly what we needed. No demands on our time. No incessant doom scrolling. No emails to answer. It’s an invitation to slow down, to be mindful, to reconnect with nature, to be with each other. To seek our own inner stillness.
In our cozy cabin, there’s no rush to start the day. We sit on the loveseat, lazily sip our steaming coffees, and talk about our upcoming wedding this fall. Our profiles are cast in shadow on the opposite wall. I am grateful for this time.
The sun sparkles off the fresh snow. A lone crow wheels in an azure sky. When our toes start to lose feeling, we stomp back to our cabin refuge.
After a hearty lunch of grilled cheeses with tomato soup, I spend the afternoon reading Dungeon Crawler Carl, which had been recommended by a friend (it is excellent), while Ben alternates between napping and playing Pokémon Pocket. By the time night falls, we feel calm, content.
Jupiter is bright tonight, the first sparkle in the night sky before constellations start to pop into existence in the pitch darkness. The night is clear and there’s the slightest glow of Perth’s light pollution, about 10 kilometres away, from the lake’s northern shore.
Ben heads out to take some photos, while I sit in the cabin, lights turned off, my vision adjusting to the gloom. The moon hasn’t yet risen, making for incredible visibility as the universe unfolds above us. While the galactic centre won’t be visible until the early hours of the morning, the tail of the Milky Way swishes down behind our cabin.
It is still. We are still.
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