The Little Cabin in the Woods

“My God, this place is at the end of the world,” worried the wife.  It did seem like a long ride up the mountain from the main highway.  It was unpaved and pocked with ruts and holes but it wasn’t horrible.  Hell, highway 880 in Oakland has worse stretches and deeper holes with the added hazards of drivers texting, putting on makeup and fussing about the morning coffee that just sloshed onto the console.  The rain was a bit worrisome.  How bad would this thing be if this light shower turned into a gully washer? 

We were headed to our rental cabin north of Gardiner, Montana, the northern gateway town into Yellowstone National Park.  It was my idea as part of our road trip to both experience some solitude of the Montana country and, since the place would have a fully equipped kitchen, to save  some money on meals.  I shopped the Vacation Rental By Owner (VRBO) website, pared the choices down to 5 cabins and asked the wife to narrow it down to 3.  From there we chose this place, advertised as a secluded cabin by a creek, where you might see wildlife out your front door and be serenaded by howling wolves at night.  There would also be no phone, no TV and according to the reviews, very little if any internet service.  For me that sealed the deal.  I double checked with the wife, who has become attached to being connected.  She was okay with it; kind of sort of - I guess.   

My navigator, the wife, has this annoying habit of reading the instructions sort of like a high school kid recites an oral report; in one big fast mouthful.  The result is that she gets us to the destination before I’ve reached the first turn in the directions.  “Huh? Can you give me the instructions one at a time?”  And so she starts over and I get the first turn down and then she’s three turns ahead again. “Damn it woman; stop.  Can we go back to the second turn?”

“Follow the creek.”  What creek?  I don’t see a creek.”  We pressed on, sort of creeping up the unfamiliar, narrow and now muddy road.  Around a turn and there it was; a creek.  “We’re good.”  I saw a mailbox with a number; 406. 

“What’s the number of our place?” I asked.

“501.”

We were instructed to look for the first property on the left and our cabin would be the next property up.  There was the first property on the left and there just beyond was a mailbox - 501.  My God, didn’t I see this place in Deliverance?  I suddenly heard a banjo strumming in my head.  There was a little parking spot for two cars just like the instructions said.  Beyond the parking spot was a little shack by the creek.  There were a couple of Adirondack chairs on the porch, just like in the picture.  Beyond that it looked nothing like the ad.  I would compare it to Jed (Beverly Hillbillies) Clampett’s ramshackle hovel before he struck oil and moved to Beverleee (Hills that is.) but that would be insulting to Jed.  Not even JD Clampett in his simple days would step into that dump.  I gulped.  Wow, it looks like I had managed to trump the no reservations at Jackson Hole debacle.  She didn’t actually say it but everything that came out of the wife’s mouth dripped with, “What the fuck is this?” 

“Maybe it’s really nice on the inside.  That’s what counts,” I offered, not believing a damn word. 

I had pictured the two of us enjoying the twilight hours sitting on the porch in the Adirondack chairs.  I suppose that we could have done that but we would have had to talk over the junk; buckets, rusted tools, old wood and assorted construction crap piled between the two chairs.

The instructions said that either someone would be there to meet us or the door would be unlocked and there would be a key and a welcome note. There was no vehicle so I got out and tip toed on the slippery stone path to a porch that looked like it would give way any moment.  Open the ratty screen, tug the door; locked.  Well, it was during the appointed time window so we waited.  The wife tried to call the owner to see what was up.  No service.  Well that part of the ad was right.  After sitting a bit we decided to drive back until we got service.  We headed back and got almost down to the main highway and there was still no service.

“Screw it.  I’m not going to drive all the way back down to Gardiner.  Let’s go back. Maybe one of those cars we passed on the way down was the owner.” 

And so we drove back up the road debating what we do if the owner wasn’t there and how we would get our money back for being flimflammed about the state of the shack.  We got to the big property on the left and got to 501.  Nothing.  No vehicle and nobody.  I got out and pulled on the door again.  Locked.  I looked around the side this time.  There was the porch overlooking the creek.  Problem was it looked like it was about to fall into the creek.  I got into the car.  “We sit and wait.” 

We sat in the car, forlorn, listening to the depressing patter of raindrops on the car.  I looked over at the property down the hill and noticed a fellow in a blue ball cap and plaid jacket walking up the hill towards us.  Maybe the owner was hanging out with the neighbors waiting for us.  I got out of the car.

“If you’re looking for the rental cabin it’s the next one up on the left.”  Sighs of relief.

“Thank you so much.”

We drove about 50 yards up the road and there on the left was the cabin in the ad.  Four Adirondack chairs sitting on a nice porch in front of an immaculate cabin overlooking the gurgling creek.  I’d been vindicated and saved from a lifetime of never living down renting a property on Tobacco Road.   

The owner wasn’t here but just as advertised the door was unlocked and a key and instructions were on the table in a nice neat, well-furnished little cabin.  And the nice guy in the ball cap and plaid coat? He was probably having a good laugh with his family about the two old fools from California.