WRITTEN BY SARAH WALKER CARON
When I started making plans to rent a rustic cabin on a lake, I simply needed a getaway. It was March of my son’s senior year of high school and the start of his final outdoor track season, the second year of my two-year grad program, my daughter was in production for two dance shows, I worked full time, taught on the side, both kids had school obligations, a loved one was in the hospital with a long uncertain recovery and … I just needed a pause.
Visions of a serene lake where I could just stop thinking twirled in my head.
I won part of the stay at Wheeler’s Camps in an auction at the Bangor Symphony Orchestra Soiree. After talking to the owners, I paid to extend it to nearly a week, booking a green-trimmed cabin with sweeping porches, no internet, and a lake practically at the doorstep.
It was my vision brought to life.
Growing up in New York, this wasn’t the kind of vacation my family took. We’d usually fly somewhere for sun, skiing, or sightseeing. But after nine years in Maine and hearing countless stories of going upta camp, I wanted my kids and I to try it — to vacation in a place without clocks and to-do lists, floating on the water, paddling canoes, eating when we felt like it.
It was months before we’d leave. In the meantime, we kept going, constantly busy. But I could feel the burn out at the edges of my psyche. It was like the edges of a photo turning to char when heated with a lighter.
The upcoming stay at the cabin was a beacon — a promise of relaxation to come.
As the time drew near, I collected linens and food, planned meals loosely, and bought drinks for a week. The cat sitter was lined up. I tried to be casual about it, but it was a lot of work. Preparing to relax and unwind was another item on my to-do list.
But finally, we drove down the highway, through populous areas to a tiny town just outside Waterville with a lake. The cabin looked just like the picture. Stepping out of the car, we could hear the rustle of leaves, the chirp and song of birds, and the gentle movement of the water. It was serene.
“We can just go right in,” I told my kids, who were 15 and 17. “Let’s look around before we bring everything in.”
Inside, dark wood and brick formed the living room, dining area, and kitchen. A small bathroom awaited just beyond the rustic stove used for decoration only. Another porch, screened in and overlooking the water, awaited with rocking chairs and a table. On the second floor, two bedrooms were divided by walls that didn’t reach the peaked ceiling.
Back downstairs, we unloaded coolers and bags, bedding and games. I’d brought two tote bags full of books for myself. My son had brought a fishing rod with all the accoutrements. My daughter had a massive puzzle. The owners dropped by to say hello and let me know how to reach them if we needed anything.
Then we were alone. We blew up rafts. My son got his fishing rod ready. My daughter contemplated swimming.
While the cabin had electricity and water, it was ultimately a week without the pressures and distractions of the internet, streaming services, to-do lists, and more. And what we found was a certain peacefulness — rising when our bodies wanted to, talking or not, laughing but also enjoying the silence together. We were living in the moment, unfettered by the lists and responsibilities of our life back home.
We spent hours floating on the lake on our rafts. We swam. My son caught a sunfish.
With each passing moment, I felt the stress melt away. My mind quieted. We all slept more deeply in the quiet upstairs rooms without the interruption of alarms or the blue of screens.
As we floated on the lake on our last day, soaking up every moment of the vacation we could, we talked about the stay. There were parts we loved — the game playing, the water fun, the quiet ease of the week. But the rusticness of the cabins was a one-time thing for us. And that’s okay — we got what we needed from our week away.