Skiing to the Hut

In February, my husband and I cross-country skied six miles through the forest to a backcountry hut in the mountains. We'd never done anything like it. We packed sleeping bags, food and a thermos of soup on our backs.

The trail climbed slowly through tall, snow-heavy pines. The only sounds were our skis swishing and a woodpecker somewhere far away. Twice, we stopped just to listen to the silence.

It took us five hours. The hut was a small log cabin with a woodstove, bunk beds and a big window looking out at a frozen lake. There was no electricity, no phone signal and a logbook on the table where every visitor for twenty years had written something.

We lit the stove, ate our soup and played cards by candlelight. After dark we stepped out onto the porch and found the sky crowded with light, like frost on a window. We wrote in the logbook before we left: "Best night of our marriage. Thank you, little hut."