Homemaking in the Miner’s Cabin

Posted on March 21, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Uncategorized

It has been awhile since I last wrote about the Miner’s Cabin, and a lot has happened since we first started cleaning it out a year ago. Time for an update! Early this year, Dad got the electricity working again, and also got the stove cleaned out and in safe, operational order. Light and warmth are kind of important when it comes to being productive in the winter.

So, over the last couple of months, slowly and steadily, I got the bedroom closer to livable, and Sarah helped me get one of our bed frames set up. Mom and I brought a load of bookcases, a dresser, and my desk from our storage unit in Hermosa, which is helping with the organizing of books and boxes. Growing up, some of my favorite books were Gone-Away Lake and Return to Gone-Away, two treasures of children’s literature written by Elizabeth Enright. The stories got into my imagination, and I pored over them, again and again. The story was pure joy to read, and I think as I was reading I was the little girl who visits her cousin, Julian, and the two of them on their explorations end up discovering a mysterious, abandoned set of lake houses on the shore of a swamp. As they explore the old lake houses, and Portia’s family ends up buying an old boarded-up mansion in the woods nearby, they rummage through boxes filled with ancient “treasures,” things that spark their imaginations, things from a bygone era. I’ve felt some of that same excitement as we’ve worked on the Miner’s Cabin, cleaning up and putting back to use things that had been all but forgotten. It is exciting to put the life back into a dusty old cabin, to feel it start to breathe again, with windows open and sunlight streaming in, or with a blazing fire crackling in the stove. It is deeply satisfying to see the hominess emerge, as order and beauty return to the Miner’s Cabin. It is rewarding to see the forgotten things adorn the dusted shelves, Sarah’s and my artwork and photography mingled with ancient family photos, along with the drawing that Dad had done as a Christmas gift for Grandpa and Grandma years and years ago.

Old blue Mason jars we found in the cabin loft, sparkling olive oil bottles which I’ve collected, my great-grandmother’s old pincushion, precious shelf nick-knacks I brought from Illinois, old fox furs that have been in the Miner’s Cabin for a couple of decades, family crests, a framed family tree, a chamber pot, shelves and shelves of my books, and a whole encyclopedia that Grandma and Grandpa put in the log cabin – A pleasant mingling of old and new and just plain interesting.

A home should reflect something of the people living inside of it – How enjoyable, then, to be setting up house both with things that Sarah and I brought with us from Illinois, as well as with those things that are tied somehow to our heritage. Not only that, but the wood heat and lack of plumbing tickle my sense of adventure, to get a closer glimpse of the lives my great-great grandparents lived, as homesteaders in eastern South Dakota in the late 1800s. It will be a far cry from roughing it, but living in a 100-year-old cabin definitely has romance to it.

We enjoy repurposing and reusing, and on my agenda for this week is making brand-new curtains from some old white sheets I found while we were organizing and cleaning. Sarah and I have so many ideas for making this little place our home. Moving day can’t come soon enough! We can’t wait!

Blue Skies and Dirt Trails

Posted on March 19, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Writing

What a delight, when winter temperatures soar into the 60s and 70s under blue skies and warm sun! Waking up to 10 degree temperatures and gentle snowfall this morning, it is hard to believe that we enjoyed a summery hike last Saturday. Like many other residents of the Black Hills, Roy, Jessie and I spent the afternoon soaking up the springtime weather beneath Harney Peak. There was still ice on Sylvan Lake and snow in the shadowed places, but there wasn’t a hint of chill in the air.

All around Harney Peak, there is a web of trails wending through the Black Elk Wilderness and Custer State Park, beautiful scenic spurs with gorgeous, soaring vistas and haunting hollows. We have all hiked Harney Peak a number of times, but some of the spurs were new to us, or at least new to me. Trail #9 is the most common way to reach the Peak, but Trail #4 is a little more rugged, less up-kept, and affords lovely views of the towering Cathedral Spires, as well as a lively scramble to the top of Little Devil’s Tower.

For some of the little climb to Little Devil’s Tower, it was cumbersome having my camera bag slung over my shoulder, but worth it for the views at the top! The Harney Peak fire lookout looked doll-sized, and the dozens of people in and around the fire tower weren’t even visible. We could see Custer, like a map, spread out in the southwest, and we could see Rapid City to the northeast, sprawling and minuscule, with the Badlands barely visible in the distant haze. The hills dropped away, an alluring blue, fading and dimming as the distance grew.

On the Cathedral Spires trail, we could see mountain goats sunning on the tops of rocks, far enough away that it just about maxed out my zoom lens. Such awkward looking creatures, yet so graceful and sure-footed! The first time I hiked Trail #4, we saw some up-close goats. It would have been fun to see a few up-close on the trail, but there were enough hikers with their companionable canines, the goats probably were more comfortable high up and out of the way.

Such beautiful country to wander, and what clear, fresh air to breath deep of, to drink in, to soak up. Mica glittered dazzlingly in the trail dust, granite spires soared into the sky, pines grew precariously from any cleft of rock, and the aspens shimmered pale and silver in the warm sunshine, in a sea of golden grass.

Winter isn’t over in the Hills just yet. But almost. Spring is just around the corner.

Findings | Mule Deer Doe

Posted on March 18, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Wildlife

Now that the weather is beginning to feel the touch of springtime, I’m trying to fit in a walk before I head to work. Just a quick one, 20 minutes or so rambling about, and the light isn’t always great for photography. But this lovely little sight caught my eye a few mornings ago.

What a great way to start the day.

Pretty Kitty

Posted on March 6, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography

When I left for a walk yesterday morning, I looked back towards the corral and saw a little black speck over by the sheds. It was Kashka, watching the morning. I walked back – that cat just tugs at my heartstrings – and called her over to me. She came partway, but made me come the rest. For probably ten minutes, I just sat there and watched her, as she watched the morning go by, prowling for little critters in the long grass, stepping daintily, silently, and swiftly, occasionally asking for affection.

What a lovely little creature. God is so good to have given us such delights in something so simple yet precious.

Straying from the Beaten Trail

Posted on March 6, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Wildlife, Writing

One can cover a lot of beautiful ground by following a well-worn trail, a path countless feet have beaten down, smoothed and deepened. But there is sometimes something in my heart not quite satisfied with simply following a trail – being bound by miles or hours, not knowing what is over this hill, or what the view looks like from the ridge above. There is something to not following a trail, giving oneself permission to stray to the side, to discovered unseen vistas, or subtle deer trails. There is something delightful about taking the long way around, of creating detours and following one’s sense of curiosity, and allowing oneself to revel in the beauty of the outdoors.

Sometimes that giving in to curiosity and delight comes with simply changing one’s vantage point. Walking along a ravine floor is a completely different view than walking along the rim. The enchantment of rising granite steps, moss covered, and slanting shadows and cool, green lichen contrasts with the beauty of the open sky, the rolling hills, quivering rabbitbrush, and the treelines. A ravine followed from top to bottom, with 5-foot ledges to scramble, looks wholly different when followed from bottom to top. The 5-foot ledges become a different sort of obstacle, when scrambling up instead of down.

A trail taken in the morning, when the air is cool and warming, when frost and dew shimmer in the grass, when the trees are singing with early birds, when the air in the sheltered valleys is damp and cool and rich, yet warm and fragrant on the sunlit hillsides above – it is entirely other than walking the trail in the afternoon or evening, when the birds have quieted, when the dew of morning has been replaced by the frost of evening, when quiet and hush have settled.

In the morning hours, the chickadees and bluebirds were talking to themselves and flitting from branch to shrub to rock. The bluebirds were like little pieces of sky, so bright and blue. And the chickadees, feisty little masked things, were darting and diving in a ravine, drinking ice melt from a little green pool. I clambered up on the ledge and tried quietly to take out my camera. They watched me curiously or indignantly, I wasn’t entirely sure which, and let me take their pictures before disappearing, their little hoarse, laughing calls disappearing with them.

Taking the time to chase down sunbeams on birchbark. Chatting with a sassy squirrel. Watching migrating flocks of geese. Wondering at ancient trees, wizened and hunchbacked. Slipping and sliding down slopes covered in pine needles and loose rocks, crawling up ledges, ducking under deadfall, plunging into the shadow of the trees, where light filters through the deep green needles and glows and flickers on the bark, the earth, and snow white pieces of quartz – They say to take the path of least resistance. But sometimes the path of more resistance is a lot more rewarding. Giving in to the delight of curiosity, straying from the beaten trail, lingering to watch and listen and breathe deeply of the air. Halted by awe. Driven by a question: What’s next?

The Mystery of Old Trees

Posted on March 3, 2016 by Laura Lindblom under Photography, Scenic, Writing

“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanates from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.” ~Robert Louis Stevenson

Thunder purred contentedly in the distance from a sky lowering and dark. After a brief, pearly March shower, the damp, rain-washed world was a landscape changed and new and fragrant. The browns were richer, the greens were more alive, the grey of the sky was lowering above the horizon. Scattered tufts of lichen, usually dry and tough, were soft as ferns and green like gems. The rust-colored earth crumbled under our feet, soft and damp. Garnets in the creekbed were redder and glassier, the dust of the summer washed away.

There is a mystery in the trees, a story untold, a winding path still unexplored. There is beauty, yes, but it must be the sense of wild and untamed mystery that calls us back. There is the allure of constant change, as the shadows shift and deepen, as cool breeze dances with warm, as the voice of the woods quiets then sings then quiets again.

The woods are rich with the fragrance of damp earth and musky leaves, and are wealthy with the myriad hidden things, those subtle treasures hidden in the undergrowth, or tucked beneath a fallen limb, or nestled in the knee-high grasses. There is the misty pink of birch bark, or the rainbow hidden in the heart of a snowy crystal. There are the brightly glowing hulls of autumn berries, still clinging to their trees, opened gaily like flowers in the dead of winter.

Another brief rainshower blustered up while we were walking Battle Creek, a wall of red rock, pocketed with hollowed-out places, towering beside us. The rain came down like beads of glass, and the sun broke through the clouds, making the rocks glow. I don’t think I’d weary of these trails if I hiked the same ones for 100 years. There is always something I never saw before, air I never breathed before, perfumes I never smelt before. And each time there is a renewing. The sort of renewing that comes from peering closely at little things of beauty. The sort of renewing that comes from listening to the silence. The sort of renewing that comes from welcoming the dirt and the mud. The sort of renewing that comes from taking the time to wonder. The sort of renewing that comes from breathing deep of the clean, moist air.