Come On Up To The Cabin

Photo by Josh S. Rose. Park City, UT. 2018.

It’s a small hike from where the bus drops you. Not hard to find, it’s the first place east of the road. When you get here, it could be cold. Colder than you’re used to. I’ll have coffee, we can look out over the frozen river and catch up. How does that sound?

Remember when we used to talk on into the night on your visits? We’d philosophize, we’d argue, we’d laugh, we’d do anything but worry. Oh, and the wine.

It’s come to my attention that you may be having a hard time these days. I wonder if the cabin could be what you need. See, when I took this place, I grabbed the first available lot I could find at the foot of the hill, before the trail gets hard. Nobody wanted to be here in the flats. They all think there’s more to be had further on up. I suppose they can see through to the next mountain top from up there. But, hey, we can watch the river flow underneath the ice. And there’s nothing up the road but more road. We’ll see how you like it when you arrive. I can’t wait to see you.

Don’t bring anything. Seriously, I’ll have whatever you need. We can wear the blankets I’ve collected and whatever gets dirty, we can clean in a tin of snow water and heart-shaped rocks I’ve collected. Just walk on up and come on in. The gate on the side isn’t locked, there’s a stove and I have cereal to last all winter. There’s a big tin of popcorn, wine, a record player and albums from the 60’s and 70’s. It might take you a little time to thaw, to realize you’re going to be okay, without contact, without connection. But you’ll be fine. Better than fine. And we’ll be together.

If you’re traveling here and thinking about the past, everything that’s happened, consider this: in the cabin, there’s a fireplace. You can hear the wood logs crack and bark snap. And it’s not lonely. There’s fifty snow birds and morning doves that will come every morning to check on you. You can hear the wind on the roof, the water lap at the reeds and there’s a shy mule deer that will peek in at you through the window from the ridge every afternoon before the sun sets— I swear, within a week, you’ll wish it would quiet down. And everything bad that’s been sitting inside you just travels on west by river.

I see it’s snowing outside now. If you’re traveling here by bus and looking out the window and feeling the weight of a heavy journey, I hope you can close your eyes and imagine this place. Have you made some mistakes? Did you take some wrong turns? Does it feel like you haven’t been appreciated? Been forgotten? We’ll, I assure you, you have not been forgotten.

I heard your momma died. I’m sorry. Do you talk to her as if she were around sometimes? Do you ever imagine that she isn’t actually gone, but just out somewhere you haven’t been, yet — in a place that feels the same as how you felt together in the 60’s and 70’s?

I heard she loved to come out here, to Park City, to the film festival every year. Her little getaway to feel “fabulous” and energized among the movies and electricity.

Do you remember when you’d visit her, after you grew up? I bet she loved the time you caught up together. Do you remember that feeling, of catching up and time disappearing and feeling… what was the feeling? Loved? Listened to? Felt? Appreciated? Do you miss that feeling?

Well, come on up to the cabin.




Josh S. Rose is a filmmaker, photographer, artist and writer. Writing about creator life and observations on culture.

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Josh Rose

Josh Rose

Josh S. Rose is a filmmaker, photographer, artist and writer. Writing about creator life and observations on culture.

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