Among sacred places

Last weekend I spent with my old friends in Decorah, Iowa, at Fish's cabin. My behavior was not exemplary, examplary behavior is not required, really.

It was late Autumn in Decorah and most of the leaves were off the trees, but warm weather left things green where green was possible. I wandered around, fueled by my first martini, and took photos, trying to capture what I love about this place.

We come here to relax, to kayak, to fish, to give each other fine rations of grief, along themes developed over years and years. Fish invited us free of charge for years, but now we pay our way, given that we can, and it contributes to upkeep.

Clear sky and warm sun filtered through the leafless wood surrounding the cabin as I walked around, feeling lucky to be playing hookey from work. In spring, this wood pops with morels, up and down the south facing slope. Now the water is high and springs trickle down the hillside and feed the hidden falls that make this property particularly pleasant.

Fish and his dad, Mel, moved the cabin onto the property, rebuilding it on a concrete foundation, chinking the logs with concrete mortar. Mel used to come out and putter around, having a beer with us and hosting us a little. Mel has passed on, but we think about him fondly and appreciate his foresight, putting this place together so thoughtfully. Mel's spirit watches our antics tolerantly, knowing that aging men need pretend to be young and dumb, even into middle age.

Above the falls, are grassy tent pads, mowed and ready for occupants. You can fall asleep in your tent, listening to the running water. Of course, in the middle of the night when Nature calls, the running water adds to the sense of urgency.

Fish keeps a bar of soap up in the rocks and if it's a hot day you can shower in the falling water. In winter, the falls freeze and create a beautiful ice wall from top to bottom. Crazed visitors used to try to climb it in younger days. These days, not so much. Fish has dug a graded path so that we no longer have to rappel down the hill to the bottom of the falls. This is a relief to the less-than-lithe.

As night fell, folks began to gather, sitting around the fire in the gathering dusk and talking about our lives, our plans for tomorrow (kayak the Upper Iowa River). Soon we had a quorum, a critical mass. The sun set in the valley and I, personally, should have eaten supper rather than push on into the evening, which ended early and with less dignity than perhaps I should have displayed. It's hard not to feel bullet-proof surrounded by old friends, peaceful woods, and good spirits. We'll meet again this spring, or maybe sneak away when the snow falls. We always come back.