The Cabin

When I first moved to the village I was quiet fortunate and was able to procure a small log cabin on the edge of town located right on the bank of the Yukon River. It had no plumbing, but was in a great location. I lived there more than ten years and grew to love the place. It was totally the best time of my life.


It was one room with a small woodstove in the middle of the room. And there was a small partition in one corner that was used as a bathroom. To the immediate left, along the wall, was a small table with a basin for washing and a towel hanging on a hook. A mirror and a bed was on the far wall. And there was yet another bigger table by the window facing the river. There, I could have coffee in the morning and dinner in the evening while watching the geese fly by and the beavers swimming up the banks as the salmon jump in the channel. I once watched a muskoxen walk across the frozen river one winter and right through the yard.

It did have power; as in two light bulbs and two wall sockets. So I was not totally in the dark. It was quite a luxury as far as bush living goes. I was able to have a freezer and small compartment under the floor boards acted as my fridge. It would keep most anything cool even in summer. I had a radio and could listen to KNOM in Nome.


The cabin was old, built in the 40s, and the logs were getting rotten. Voles ran through the hallow walls most nights while I lay awake listening to them. The ones that came in the house got trapped. And in that way, I could keep the numbers down and my sanity intact.

I made my living at the time running a tender boat up and down the Yukon buying fish for various fish companies during the summer. I also supported my major existence by trapping the winters.



Once, during the spring, around April I was getting caught up on my beaver skinning. I had a large beaver laid out on a bench in the middle of the room. The door was propped open. It was such a nice day, with the long spring daylight hours things were warming up nicely.

I started skinning the beaver by first removing the paws and tail and tossed them on the wood pile that I kept by the door. When I had the beaver about half skinned, I looked up, and to my surprise here comes a white long tailed weasel (ermine) hopping through the open door.


I put down my knife and watched as he slowly hopped through the cabin, checking under the table, then the bed, and back out again. He was on his way out the door, and then he stopped dead in his tracks. He appeared to be stretched out and stiff. And with careful steps he started creeping closer to the beaver feet in the woodpile by the door. I chuckled to myself realizing the little white mouser, was about to be fooled into thinking that a small front beaver paw with a bit of fur still on it looked like a live vole. He was in the process of putting the stalk on it (much like a cat would) and after a few moments and a few steps closer, he made a mad dash in and pounced on the small fur ball. And, to my surprise, I could hear an audible squeal and could not believe my eyes as he lifted his head and held in his jaws a limp small shrew that was apparently munching on one of the beaver paws totally unnoticed by me.

The weasel pranced out the door with his prize, seemed not to even notice me watching, and left me feeling as if I just witnessed a lion kill a wildebeest.