I retired and bought a cabin in the woods so I could finally be alone with nature. No noise, no people, just the wind and the treetops. Then my son-in-law called and said, my parents are moving in with you. If you don’t like it, come back to the city. I didn’t say anything, but I left a surprise that would turn their lives upside down.
The keys felt heavier than they should have. I stood in Rebecca Marsh’s real estate office in Cody, holding them while she stapled documents I’d already forgotten. Outside the window, March wind pushed tumbleweeds across the parking lot.
Congratulations, Mr. Nelson. Rebecca smiled like she’d handed me the world. Maybe she had.
You’re officially a property owner in Park County. The cashier’s check, $185,000, had left my account that morning. Forty years of overtime shifts, skipped vacations, packed lunches.
Four decades compressed into six figures, now converted into 800 square feet of timber and solitude, 12 miles from civilization. Thank you. I pocketed the keys and shook her hand.
My fingers were steadier than I expected. The drive from her office took me west on Highway 14, then north onto roads that grew narrower with each turn. Pavement became gravel.
Gravel became dirt. Cell service dropped from four bars to two, then one. I stopped at a general store and bought coffee, bread, eggs, butter.
The clerk asked if I was visiting. Living, I said. She nodded like I’d said something wise.
The final two miles climbed through pine forests so thick the afternoon sun barely penetrated. When the cabin appeared in its clearing, I pulled over and cut the engine. Elk, four of them, grazed 50 yards beyond the porch.
They raised their heads, studied my truck, then resumed eating. One flicked an ear at a fly. I sat there for five minutes, watching them.
No honking. No sirens. No voices bleeding through apartment walls.
The cabin was exactly as the photos promised. Weathered cedar logs, green metal roof, stone chimney. Small, yes, but mine.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air smelled like pine sap and old wood smoke. One main room with a kitchenette.
A bedroom barely large enough for a double bed. A bathroom with a shower stall I’d have to enter sideways. Perfect.
I unloaded the truck slowly, methodically. Tools on the pegboard above the workbench. Hammer, wrenches, handsaw, each in its designated spot.
Books stacked on the shelf by subject. History. Engineering manuals.
Three novels I’d been meaning to read for a decade. Coffee maker positioned on the counter where morning light would hit it first. Every item placed with intention, creating order from the moving boxes.
By the time I finished, the sun was lowering. I made coffee, too late in the day, but I didn’t care, and carried it to the porch. The rocking chair I’d bought specifically for this moment creaked under my weight.
The elk had moved deeper into the clearing. A hawk circled overhead, riding thermals. I called Beulah.
Dad! Her voice came through bright and immediate. Are you there? Did you get it? Signed the papers this morning, I said. I’m sitting on the porch right now, watching elk.
I’m so proud of you. The warmth in her tone made my chest tighten. You earned this.
Forty years. I sipped coffee. Forty years I dreamed about mornings where I’d drink coffee and watch wildlife instead of highway traffic.
You deserve every moment of peace, she paused. Cornelius has been so stressed with work lately, sometimes I forget what peaceful even looks like. Something in the way she said it made me pause.
Everything okay? Oh, fine. You know how it is. Middle management pressures, she laughed, but it sounded thin.
When can I visit? Anytime, honey. You know that. We talked for another ten minutes.
Her students, her garden plans. Safe topics. When we hung up, I sat watching the sun paint the mountains orange and purple.
The coffee had gone cold, but I drank it anyway. The phone rang an hour later. My parents lost their house.
Cornelius didn’t bother with hello. His voice had the flat tone he used for conference calls. They’re moving in with you for a couple months until they find a place.
My hand tightened on the armrest. Wait, what? Cornelius, I just bought this place. It’s barely—for a couple months, until they find something.
I bought this place to be alone. I spent my entire retirement on— Then you should have stayed in Denver. Friday morning.
I’ll text you their arrival time. The line went dead. I sat there holding the phone, staring at the clearing where the elk had been.
They’d moved on. Smart animals. My knuckles had gone white on the armrest.
I forced myself to release it. Flexed my fingers. Breathe.
Inside, I poured another coffee I didn’t want and sat at the kitchen table. From my jacket pocket, I pulled a small notepad and a The kind of engineering pad I’d carried for forty years. Grid paper for sketches and calculations.
I started writing. Not emotional venting. Questions.
Timeline estimates. Resource assessments. The cabin keys sat on the table beside my notepad.
An hour ago, they’d meant freedom. Now, they meant something else entirely. I picked them up.
Felt their weight. Set them down with deliberate care. Forty years I’d been the reasonable one.
The peacemaker. The man who swallowed inconvenience to keep family peace. Not anymore.
Dawn came through the kitchen windows and found me still at the table. Empty coffee cups formed a semicircle around my notepad, which had grown dense with lists. Diagrams.
Questions written and rewritten. I hadn’t slept. Didn’t need to.
My mind felt sharp in a way it hadn’t for years. Focused. Crystalline.
Operating on something cleaner than rest. I made fresh coffee and studied my notes. Then I cleaned up, loaded my truck, and drove back to Cody.
The Yellowstone National Park Ranger Station sat twenty minutes west. A modern building designed to blend with the landscape. Inside, educational displays showed wolf packs.
Bear territories. Elk migration patterns. A ranger, maybe forty, with the weathered face of someone who spent more time outdoors than in, looked up from his desk.
Help you? I just moved up from Denver, I said. Bought a place off County Road 14. Beautiful area, he smiled.
You’ll want to be careful with food storage. Lots of bear activity come spring. What about wolves? I’ve heard they’re back in the region.
Reintroduction’s been successful. He stood and moved to a wall map, pointing to areas marked with colored pins. They’re usually shy, but they’ve got incredible sense of smell.
Can detect prey or food from miles away. You hunting? No, just curious. I want to be prepared.
Smart? He handed me a pamphlet. Keep your property clean. Don’t leave attractants out unless you want visitors.
