Log cabin-building two miles high.....

Like the fabric and threads of this old mattress cover, God has been stitching together time, experiences, relationships, events, thoughts, feelings, and a plethora of components out of which he has, and is weaving, a life. Which, the Psalmist says is like a “fleeting vapor” that moves over blades of grass. The mattress cover is because every night there is a 15-degree caliber sleeping bag on top of an old mattress and mattress cover. Basically it’s like camping, except for you can’t see the stars as you sleep…instead you see spiders on the wooden ceiling.

And here the grass is everywhere. Greenery abounds, nearly as expansive as the sprawling sky. Trees are ubiquitous…there is the majesty of a mountain range perpetually present. You awake [no alarm needed here] with the sun and walk out on the wooden porch to view the continental divide as a backdrop for pine trees towering like soldiers in an expansive array. Spanning the entire view of such a grand panaroma, it reminds me of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ scenes with soliders as far as the eye can grasp.

These soldiers keep the peace. And quiet. It is as if there is no one else. Solitude. And so God has chosen, it seems, this setting, this work, and these people to illustrate how much like this mattress cover I am. How—benevolent. God is good.

And yet if I am injured, or anyone, death is probable. The nearest hospital or care is one hour at least. God—made mountains. He made us. The risk…a risk. The real question—what is with these rewards?! The moment I parked my car and got in Clint’s 4x4 truck I was home. [It takes 20-30 minutes on a 4x4 or 4-wheeler to access the construction site]. We began winding through the rock-filled path covered by trees and I just knew. This is—paramount.

Literally on the way here I picked up all the clothing I would need. $18.95 at Goodwill pretty much covered it. I borrowed Danny’s hat and winter coat and 3 pairs of Brandon’s work gloves at the last minute because Clint neglected to mention that it was, o….26 degrees in the morning hours. I sleep in my sleeping bag, wearing sweats and a sweatshirt as well, in the [warmest part of the cabin] loft of Clint’s father’s cabin.

Doug [Clint’s father] is a distinguished and extremely consistent mathematics professor who lived in a tent for 9 weeks in 1975 to build the cabin we all rest in now, while constructing Clint’s cabin. His new best friend is Gumbie, a member of the 19th place Iditarod team and 9th place Yukon Quest mushers last year. He yawns at me. It’s warm here for him, very warm…he’s best when its between zero and negative ten. Everytime we cook dinner he jumps up on the porch’s side chair and we see Alaskan Huskie face peering at us through the front cabin window.
Ah yes—dinner. Or lunch. Is—masculine. Primal, really. Breakfast is oatmeal, straight coffee, and for me—a banana. Gumbie sniffs. Lunch the past well, every day actually, has been a tortilla with peanut butter smeared on it, and chips, and a few cookies. Why, you ask?

Because this entire endeavor is entirely about masculinity and how it is bestowed.

Joel—the master builder who arrives tomorrow—worked Clint and his friend for many summers and lunch was a tortilla and PB&J. End of discussion.
Tomorrow we’re having leftover tacos. You might say I’m the straw the stirs the drink. Clint tells me that anyway…has for ten years. There are no schedules here, no daytimers. No one wears a watch. [Which is ironic for me]. Perhaps that is why God’s voice thunders in the silence here…?

We have begun each morning with the arduous task of giving 300-500 lb. logs a haircut using a device consisting of a lawnmower blade curved and attached to handles which Clint prefers not to use. I, on the other hand, do use them. My lat’s hate me. All ours do, except perhaps Clint’s. But he’s not human and may have synthetic or metallic lat’s, I’m not sure yet. It’s probably equivalent to a few thousand reps on some weight machine. I drink my protein shake out of a red plastic cup and stirred with a plastic utensil….which is the one item from a grocery store I bought: 99 cent assorted pack of plastic silverware from Safeway.

We get one radio station. There is one outhouse. There is one bathtub [circa 1975]. You can get a hot bath on occasion. I’ve had 2 in 5 days. I have yet to shave. But I immediately switch to my regular eyeglasses out of my work ones every night. To me that is where the decompression begins and my muscles cease their screaming.

This is the first night I have written or read anything. Somehow that feels so....right. I have simply been….absorbing. Getting acquainted with just how massive and expansive God is and how miniscule I really am.

And how healthy nature truly is. And how Gumbie looks when he’s inquisitive, or hungry, or detecting [he misses nothing]. And how to properly rip ¼ inch to ½ inch of bark rapidly from something older than my grandparents and which could crush me without feeling it.
In short, I have been living life. In the raw.

Gumbie’s gone, and I missed him the moment he left. Which now strikes me as odd, considering he is a bit of a snob, but only because he has yet to be socialized to more than the one human, who, all his life, has fed him meat on the trail. But God has taught me that its ok to not please people, and partially through this incredible athlete of an Alaskan Huskie, too. He’s very skittish, and as predictable as a Swiss watch. Sometimes Doug [his owner now] is slightly mean and whispers “hike,” which is the equivalent of a racecar driver turning the ignition.

Poor Gumbie starts up and is ready to mush, and alertly looks around, somewhat confused. He is very alert—never misses anything. I think he should be a detective in his new life. New life—ah yes, indeed, this is the place to find it—or perhaps death. I’ve never lived as great a proportion of my day at risk of serious injury or even death. There is a giant log-moving machine and a fork-lift/skid loader buzzing around, often swinging logs that, if the clasp slips, could crush you. It takes four of us, straining, to move them a few measly feet once on the cabin floor. There’s 3-4 chainsaws always going at once, and I had one close call when it hit a knot and jumped back at me. At my face. And I got my hand mashed between two logs early on, but thankful it was during a manmade move, had it been the forklift I might have a mangled paw.

Speaking of that…did you hear the one about the dog who walked into a bar with his guns drawn? He simply said “I’m looking for the man who shot my pa(w).” But I assure you, this corny joke is much better than most of the crude ones told up here.

My buddy Clint is the owner/project manager/engineer of this cabin. He is a Christian, and lives like it. Everyone else is quite crude most of the time. The thing is, he grew up in the land of beer, lewd jokes, ‘roughing it,’ and other activities derived primarily to prove the level of ones’ testosterone glands. Then, freshman year at college, he and I met in the most difficult course at the university, according to many. We started discussing God, the Bible, and most often—great authors we had both read. After enough C.S. Lewis, Dostoyevsky, etc. he finally said—‘o.k. Matt, come with me to the bookstore. I want a Bible with nothing but God’s words in it—no crap in there.’ We went, he read. [His best buddy is an Army Ranger who read the entire bible and then merely shrugged it off.] But not Clint. He was baptized a few weeks later. A few years later Clint’s parents professed Christ as Lord and Savior. Their story makes me understand a little bit better those parts in Scripture when it says ‘…and his/her entire household believed,” as if that is to be expected….

Today was largely what I came up here for; after a hard day of work, we knocked off a bit early, Clint of course peeled two logs on his own, and I went to town for an hour of phone calls, and to drop a few postcards in the mail. Then, after hot dogs and green beans/baked beans combined for dinner, it was authentic and meaningful conversation about God, life, family, truth, and other things that last, had over a half-fifth of Johnny Walker and Monte Cristo cigars.

Clint and I shared some things we never knew about each other—about our families, our manhood, our fathers. And before I forget, I must remind myself—I need to read M. Scott Peck’s “the Road Less Traveled” about love, and a poem by Andrew Marvell [concerning a certain lady in my life, I’m told]. Tonight was interesting—when we came in it was 10:10, also the label left in Clint’s empty cigar tube was ‘discovery.’ That has certainly summed it up for me…this has been a ‘10’ experience, and I’ve had thoughts of a ’10,’ as well. I have discovered much about life, about love, and about doing 60 mph on the road in a 4-wheeler and 30 mph on the trail….