10 - Requiem for a Cabin
Some things are made to last. Others, not so much.
By now, the Yukon’s climate has limped into what we locals hope will be a classic summer. For Yukoners with long memories, that means just hot and dry enough to prove there’s actually a season between spring and fall, but not so hot and dry that forest fires shroud the Midnight Sun in smoke for three months. What we want, in other words, is the kind of summer where those of us who own cabins can spend more time enjoying them than protecting them from the whims of nature.
Since the late 1980s, my family has had a cabin at Marsh Lake, just 50 kilometers down the Alaska Highway from Whitehorse. The property is located on idyllic McClintock Bay, named—I’m not sure why—for the British sailor who finally determined the fate of the Franklin expedition. From the end of our dock, you can see the point where the vast Southern Lakes system finally squeezes into the Yukon River. A die-hard water skier knows that our dock is also an ideal launching pad for a final lap when the wind drops and the bay’s glassy surface captures a dying sunset.
After all these years with our cabin—and the experiences it implies—I’m not sure how a Yukon summer would feel without it.
But I’m about to learn.
Last July and August, Marsh Lake faced the kind of flood that only happens once every two centuries—or so say the optimists. What we do know, without a doubt, is that the rising lake surpassed the previous record high water level set in 1981. But this unprecedented flood didn’t destroy our cabin; that job was done, more or less, by the heavy snow pack that eventually brought the lake up. Long before the flooding became inevitable, the roof had already started to collapse.
Knowing the cabin’s days were numbered, we spent one last summer weekend with the dilapidated structure, if only to gut it and say good-bye.
To the best of my knowledge, our pink plywood shack began life more than 50 years ago as an army barrack in Whitehorse. So, upon arrival at McClintock Bay, it certainly had roots—if not a proper foundation. The resulting frost action beneath the building made for an interesting spring ritual: the tedious removal and planing of the doors so they’d fit their frames.
Routine carpentry aside, my family didn’t make a lot of changes when we acquired the cabin. The kitchen’s burnt lino, the dated wallpaper, the sandy carpeting, the parlour-room draperies, the single-pane windows, the listless sofas and chairs, the Van Gogh reproduction—they all endured our occupancy. Many of these furnishings were probably salvaged from different structures, other eras. This appears to be the case, most notably, with a set of green lanterns that once plied the Yukon River aboard the S.S. Klondike. Naturally, we added our own treasured junk to the mix, much of it recycled from a previous cabin on a nearby lake.
But by the time we found ourselves sifting through the cabin’s cumulative contents, the rising lake lapping ominously at the decking on our dock, no one was concerned by the details of provenance. Everything except for our memories now belonged to the cabin itself.
Happily, some of the more valuable contents have been given second—or third or fourth—lives with friends and family in various Yukon locations. Other artifacts sit patiently in our shed, waiting for the day when we decide to rebuild.
Meanwhile, the most important raw materials for any future cabin—and the experiences it promises—can always be observed from the sturdy dock on McClintock Bay. The scenery, if nothing else, was made to last.
First published in the July/August 2008 issue of above&beyond magazine. Photo by Jesse Devost.
