Category:

Until that point, I had seen an odd structure here and there, a few cabins, nothing out of the ordinary. Here, though, deeper in the community, a different type of neighborhood began to emerge. There were piles of rusted car components being overtaken by thick clumps of blackberry vines and muddy driveways packed with vehicles that clearly hadn't run in decades. Around one corner, I came across a large cleared lot with the charred remains of several RVs. Police tape still clung to some of the tree branches. It was hard to imagine any explanation other than a thriving meth business that had met an explosive end.

The only things that seemed bright and new were the ample orange-and-red NO TRESPASSING signs affixed to random trees, fence posts, and scattered bits of junk. I wasn't sure what was more frightening: the dangers that lurked behind the signs or the type of people who would desire to find out.

I would later learn that the Mount Index Riversites consisted of a few hundred lots, most under half an acre. It may have once been a pristine settlement of vacation properties in a gorgeous mountain environment, but at some point, Uncle Methadone moved in and really kicked some shit around. Whatever it might have been in the past, there now seemed to be two kinds of places in the Riversites: junk-strewn drug dens and everybody else. From the looks of the quirky lawn ornaments, everybody else was mostly grandparents, retirees, and the odd ski bum. I drove to the end of the road, where it finished with a big loop that had me soon heading back out. I'd passed by several road signs, but none that were close to sounding like Wit's End. I checked my phone, which hadn't had service since pulling off the highway, and checked the directions again. There were no additional hints to help me out. Without reception and with no desire to knock on the door of one of the many nightmares that surrounded me, I decided to turn back and head home, asking Tony for better directions or simply abandoning the prospect altogether.

As I made my way out, the glint of a green road sign caught my eye where I hadn't noticed one before. It wasn't on a post but rather rammed into a large maple. It read 'S END PL. The rest of it was buried deep in the tree's bark, grown over after being placed there, likely decades before. It wouldn't be long before the apostrophe would be consumed and the tree would continue its gradual process of renaming the road. Hoping it was indeed Wit's End Place and not Lunatic's End Place, I unnecessarily flicked on my turn signal and hung a left, creeping up the gravel drive and looking for the fourth cabin on the left, not knowing whether to count the spray-painted school bus, overgrown with weeds, that sat at the corner.

Wit's End rose up a steep hill. Although the streak of abandoned structures continued here, there was a subtle difference. These were tiny cabins. Most were simple, the sorts of things more likely cobbled together by weekend warriors rather than full-blown construction companies. They resembled the kind of sheds that you'd see falling apart in the parking lots of Home Depot or Costco. Granted, there was far more character to these simple getaways. Little chimneys poked up from cedar shake roofs, ornamental stained glass windows provided pockets of vibrant color, and well-worn decks offered views toward the river and mountains. Though the overgrown driveways and weed-filled gutters indicated they weren't regularly occupied, they still felt tidy. They did not feel like the hideouts of a ne'er-do-well. They felt like forest refuges, clearly well loved at one time or another even if now they seemed forgotten.

My station wagon came over the top of a hill, and I counted the third cabin. Just beyond, over a steep drop to the left, the corrugated metal roof of a tiny structure sat cloaked in dried bits of moss and a red-brown blanket of fallen maple leaves. I parked in the middle of the road near the closest thing the cabin had to a driveway, a slightly cleared mud pit with a few patches of salmonberry bushes. Turning the car off, I hopped out and took in the scene.

Anticipation is an underrated feeling. It is that moment when all the possibilities of what could be pile up, and you can't help but wonder if there's a chance that what's to come might just be the best thing that's ever happened. Often, I felt like the anticipation before a grand adventure or a first date could feel as big or bigger than the experience itself. I stood there for a moment, savoring the anticipation of weekends spent with friends, crisp fall days burning leaves, long summer nights by the river, cozy winters huddled up inside, big snow, deer, bears, drinks, smoke, fire, wood, axes, sweat, tears, laughter. The structure was already a lifetime of memories and I hadn't even taken a step toward it. I checked my phone and saw that it had put itself into emergency mode on account of the lack of reception. While the lower road felt like the sort of place one might have the need to call 911, I felt safe up here, so I tucked it into my jeans and crossed the few broken planks of wood strategically arranged for safe passage across the swampy ground that led from the road to the cabin.

In person, it felt bigger. The steeply pitched roof was rusty, but seemed solid. Neatly arranged cedar shakes covered some of the exterior. The rest was some kind of cheap exterior paneling, with little grooves cut out to mimic the aesthetic normally provided by actual boards. Though the windows looked almost brand-new, the remainder of the cabin appeared to be cobbled together from miscellaneous spare parts. In front, the skeleton of a deck waited to have its top filled in. A few pieces of rotten plywood served as a substitute in the meantime. On the small ledge above the cabin's only door, my fingers pushed through a curtain of cobwebs to find a key. Curiously, there was no knob; two dead bolts held the heavy door in place. The key turned easily in each lock, and the door swung open, though not all the way.