Once upon a brief winter's night 50 years ago

It’s been years. Fifty, in fact, this New Year’s Eve.

I’ll start in the present and work back. Last Sunday four of us on two ATVs decided to explore Hughes Ridge north of Priest Lake. We climbed our way to ecstatic views of mountains and valleys. An extravaganza of wildflowers accompanied us the whole trip.

Luxurious nature. Right there waiting. Exuding a quiet confidence. Not needing an audience, but happy to share its beauty with anyone seeking it.

On our descent we took the lower trail into Hughes Meadows — open now following the Hughes Aquatic Restoration Project. Towering cedars served as both sentinels and greeters. The meadow so green it was almost too rich for the eyes. Fish jumped in the tranquil Hughes Fork waters.

And the old smokejumper cabin was still there. Solid as the timbers that built it. A cabin that sheltered four stranded teenagers on a deep December night — as the clock wound down on that tradition-busting decade of the ‘60s.

This is the story.

My then boyfriend-now husband Terry and I, along with Terry’s best friend and his girlfriend, had ridden two snowmobiles up Hughes Ridge. His friend’s snowmobile broke down before we reached the top. We all piled on the one still running and reached the unoccupied cabin just at dark.

Terry decided to ride out for help. His machine was not in prime shape, either. Several times along the solitary seventeen mile stretch to where the truck was parked his spark plugs fouled. He had to stop and clean them in order to keep going. But he made it.

When he finally showed up with our rescuers we three teens had a fire roaring in the woodstove. And were no worse off for our misadventure. We arrived amid civilization in time to run along a Priest Lake beach shouting “Happy New Year!” to a new decade — the 1970s.

That night seemed a long ago echo as Terry and I stood in the doorway of the sturdy cabin Sunday afternoon. It has weathered the years as have we. Neither the cabin nor the two of us can begin to tell the ancient tales of those old growth cedars sheltering the clearing. But it is enough that for one brief winter night our stories touched.