Little wreck in the big woods

I blame Laura Ingalls Wilder for my life choices

In the late Seventies and early Eighties, midlife crises belonged to men. Nick Callan skinny-dipping with his much younger girlfriend in the Four Seasons. The nebbishy neighbor going full Steve McQueen in a Porsche and Persols.

“Crisis” carried an unmistakable whiff of envy, coming as it did with implicit permission to step back and ask, What the hell was all that about? And do I have to keep doing it?

In my small midwestern town, women just got older through some unmentionable process that began with cat-eye glasses and shape-wear and ended in slippers and house dresses. You could make an extended stop at bedazzled sweatshirts, but ultimately you were expected to embrace this fate with oven mitts and selfless good cheer.

So, I just resolved not to do it. Mousse, gel, and tight jeans forever. Yes to the cleavage, no to the menopause. Especially the part that was finally being discussed, but only as a sexless purgatory — the weight gain, the mood swings, the brain fog. Certainly not as cool as a midlife crisis.

But Mother Nature will catch you, one way or the other. What, I ask you, is buying a rundown cabin at 10,000 feet if not a hot flash?

That was in 2018. Here’s what it looks like now:

Not shown: The vintage quilt ravaged by a party of mice.

So cozy. So cute. #cabinporn for days.

Like well-behaved Bernedoodles and European pieds-à-terre, my little mountain dream appears on Instagram from time to time, spreading falsehoods and inspiring mischief. In case you, too, are taken hostage by a midlife crisis hot flash*, I think it’s only fair to reveal the rocky path that led to this curated image of bliss.

It was love at first sight, of course.

I discovered our cabin in 2016 at the end of a long morning of hiking. And by hiking, I mean creeping along a pockmarked “road,” scanning every gap in the trees for a trail that apparently existed only on the map. The 4-Runner was crammed full of adults and kids whose spirits were too crushed to protest when I pulled over at yet another spot that was definitely not the trailhead.

Does this not say, Drop. Every. Thing?

A “for sale” sign was posted next to the chained driveway. A green roof sagged behind overgrown aspen, and the scruffy outhouses (two!) pretty much guaranteed no indoor plumbing. But I could hear the rush and tumble of a creek. The surrounding peaks glowed in the midday sun. The perfect second act materialized in front of me. Kids camping in the yard, friends barbecuing on the deck (as soon as the railing was reattached). This was it, this was my dream. I snapped a pic of the realtor’s number and climbed back in the car.

Just as we were about to give up on our hike and head back to town, my brother spied a trail. Not the one we had set out to find, but a little slice of heaven nonetheless. It felt like fate.

This is how they get you.

But there was no way. A few years before I’d blown up my media career to pursue another dream, starting an independent news site. My husband Michael had done the same, trading in a reliable insurance partnership for risky restaurants, right before the 2008 crash. We had no retirement account, and three of our four kids were still in school. Maybe this was my real dream, finally, but it would have to go on the shelf. Maybe forever.

I thought about that cabin often as I broiled through another endless Texas summer. I would open my phone and stare at the photos — prophetically, they were mostly of the outhouses. I knew the cabin would be gone before we returned.

Next week: Cutting the impossible deal

*If you are thinking of buying a cabin in Colorado, DM me and we can talk about the best places, etc.