After another two miles, I take a sharp left marked with a red flag and a battered wooden sign: NO ACCESS. The earthen lane shrinks as it winds down a steep hill for three-tenths of a mile. Then I see the driveway and the silhouette of the cedar cottage winking through a stand of dense, towering pines. It looks like somewhere a hermit might live, like an island in the trees, a cave to disappear in. It’s perfect.

—

Kirk stands waiting for me on the porch. He appears to be in his midsixties, with stiff shoulders and short-bristled gray hair in a military cut. His face is angular and his eyes flinty looking even as he smiles and gives me a small wave, keys in hand. “Trouble finding the place?”

“Not too bad.” I notice the porch is neat, with cordwood stacked nearly to the window ledge on one side. “Was this a trapping cabin?”

“Once, I guess. Belonged to my wife’s family. Now I rent it when I can.” I feel him studying me, wondering about my story. “Most folks want a whole lot more, a romantic getaway. That sort of thing.”

I only nod and stamp in after him. The main room is murky, full of dark paneling and smelling of mice, a slightly sweet and rotten odor, almost feral. A round-bellied woodstove sits angled in one corner, blackened from use. Rose-colored chintz curtains frame the windows in the tiny kitchen, where there’s a dollhouse-sized sink and washboard counter, and a refrigerator better suited for a dorm room. A single threadbare dish towel hangs from a metal hook.

“You can see you have everything you need here,” Kirk said.

If he only knew how little I do need. How much.

Off the living room, the dim bathroom has a closet-sized shower with a cheap frosted-glass door. The single bedroom seems to be an addition. When I step inside, the threshold gives like a sponge, but the room itself feels solid enough, with a metal-framed double bed and a simple bureau with a lamp. A picture window on the south-facing wall looks out onto thick forest etched against the fading light. The gloaming, Eden always called this time of day, a strange term that meant “to glow,” even as it referred to the dark.

“It can get pretty cold at night,” Kirk says. “I’d keep a fire going when you’re here. You can use as much wood as you like as long as you chop more. That heater hogs propane.” He shrugs at the standing unit against the wall. “Anything you use, you refill from town.”

“That’s fine,” I assure him, only wanting to be alone now.

But there’s more. The shower has tricky taps, with the hot and cold knobs reversed. The flue on the woodstove needs coaxing now and again. He shows me how to use the generator if the power cuts out, which it will sometimes, he warns.