Playing Forts As An Adult
If we are true friends, we'll end up playing forts.
I was a closeted tomboy. Passing meant a stylish Dorthy Hamel bob I rocked for decades (excluding the one perm year). I wore girlie clothes but never dresses. If Mom put me in a dress, I'd just take it off and pull it around in my wagon. I'll wear the occasional dress now and keep it on - mostly because I no longer have a wagon. I played Barbies until far too late in life as evidenced by the hours of awkward missionary sex Barbie and Ken had in the Dream House bedroom. But if you were a true friend, we'd end up playing forts.
It started small. Mom pulled out a white top sheet and we were allowed to take out the couch cushions if we promised to put them back. My brother and I erected elaborate mazes with secret meeting rooms. No adults were allowed in. That worked beautifully for my parents who were just glad to get us out of their hair. One can only yell, "Go run around the block" so many times before CPS gets called.
We moved around a lot and when you put them together, discarded wardrobe boxes make great forts. The best part was if we had a basement, we could leave them up. One winter, a blizzard left us with feet of snow outside. We built what felt like miles of tunnels in the backyard and sealed the entrance with more cardboard. My parents approved because, freezing our little butts off, we'd respond without complaint to the call for dinner.
I lived in rural New Jersey for a time as a kid. Two glorious acres with a stream-fed pond that iced over enough in the winter to skate. The field next door was owned by the woman across the street. My dad got permission to mow a maze in it for us with the riding lawn mower. The real fun was playing in stream at the back of the property. I dammed it up, capturing craydids and little fish and occupied my mind for hours.
Then there was the garage. Dad cleared out the crawl space over the rafters and set up a ladder. I easily climbed up but was scared to come down. A tragedy, really, because it was perfect - a private place to read and when called to dinner, you could pretend you didn't hear. The one time I got all the way up there and couldn't get back down, Dad made it into life lesson about getting over one's fear of heights and left me there. Though I'd still climb up and poke my head in from time to time, I never returned to fully remodel the space.
Those early forts were the gateway to trespassing and theft. The pond and stream were too exposed as Mom could watch us from the kitchen window. I needed more privacy. Tall pines delineated the line between our property and the neighbor's field. Through my adventures, I'd discovered a small clearing in the back of the field. Away from prying eyes and parental requests, it was the perfect spot to build a permanent structure. The fort needed furniture so I sourced some cinder blocks from the garage and hauled them out one by one. The purloining discovered, I was forced to return them. Drats.
Fast forward to adulthood. I still love forts. While I no longer build them from couches or cinder block, I still make something in every house in which I lived. My last house, it was in the garage. Behind yard tools and old boxes, I'd carved out a nook for writing and installed a folding table and camping chair. In winter, I'd wake up earlier than the kids and cuddle up in a heated blanket and a Mr. Buddy propane heater for warmth.
My current house, a rental, houses a fort in the tiny back yard. I think of it as my nature reserve. One overgrown pine dominates a dormant tangle of grape vines over a decrepit veranda. I've set up my swinging chair and retreat there with a pair of prescription sunglasses and a book. It's not perfect but I love it. It's private enough that my partner texts me when dinner is ready.
I needed more, fort-wise. I've moved back to Colorado and fallen in love with the mountains. From Denver, you can disappear into full on nature in 30 minutes. When I was single, I'd drive out to a trail on a weekday and sit by a stream for hours. Well, I did that once....on mushrooms. But still, nature beckoned me. I needed to play forts again but I was stymied by dumb rules about building on public lands. No fort there could truly be my own.
Camping scratched the itch for a while. My partner is BIG on camping. She does it raw dog style, pitching a four season tent at dispersed sites in the snow. If you're like me, you don't know what dispersed is - basically it's a designated camp site without resources. Dry camping - no water or electricity and you dig a "cathole" to poop in. Initially, I wasn't excited to leave my feces in the woods but my partner and I play nicely together so I was game.
When first dating, I told her I hated camping. My ex-wife had dragged me out to overcrowded and popular sites, surrounded by other peoples' campfires and popup trailers. The worst feeling is needing to pee first thing in the morning when it's cold and drizzly outside, and the bathroom is trek. No thank you. My partner assured me she'd make it comfortable for me. We'd have privacy, warmth, and a bathroom nearby. Secretly, she was hoping to slow boil me into winter camping with her. It worked.
We camped all last summer, finding a new secret spot in the mountains each weekend. We'd lug the dogs and five gallons of water, cook hotdogs to split and burnt over the fire and adorn them with ketchup packets from fast food restaurants. Estes Park, Buena Vista, or Idaho Springs - the views were glorious. But since we stuck to official camping spots, there were always neighbors.
The breaking point was camping next to an ATV trail. The site we'd planned on was full by the time we arrived and we had to settle for a less optimal spot. We're not ATV people but we don't throw shade. This site would have been perfect if we had a side-by-side or little 4-wheeler. But we're camping folk and it was loud until dark, the peaceful vista disturbed by the whir of distant engines.
Then there was the visitor. A young man on a dirt bike decided our campsite was a good turn around area. Spotting two good-looking women, he stopped. He slowly removed his helmet and just stared at us. Fiona (our big dog) immediately went on alert. As two women camping, we had to be safe and this was alarming. We asked him if he needed something. Over the low idling rumble, he shouted that there was a stream nearby and he could show us. Uh, no thank you. We politely declined. He nodded, put on his helmet and zoomed off. After that, we brought bear spray to defend the fort.
My partner owns some bare land in mountains in Southern Colorado. We'd camped there a few times and even spent a week once. The views are gorgeous and better still, there are no people. The land around her five acres is technically owned by someone but without a well or septic, few venture out that far. We were completely alone. Over time, we opted to camp there more and more.
It's still chilly up there on summer nights and the idea came to us over a propane fire pit. Cozied up in down blankets in front of the flames, it started with convincing ourselves to stay an extra day. Hauling more supplies - first, a hot tent (a tent with wood stove inside), and later, a tv and fancy cot mattresses - we were now staying four days out of the week. We'd go up early Friday and come back Monday evening. Somewhere along the line, I'd turned into a winter camper, complete with wool-lined pants and a Carhartt canvas coat. I'd become an expert fire builder. Back at home, we went through two cords of wood (that's a lot) each winter, trying to recapture the serenity of camp.
Then, there was the carport idea. The 16' octagonal hot tent we'd permanently erected was starting to feel cramped. The fancy mattresses weren't cutting it and we wanted to sleep in the same bed. A carport was the answer - 200 square feet of divine luxury. We bought a small trailer and brought up an old Ikea bed frame along with the lumber. In one weekend, we built a platform and set it up. A half wall separated the bedroom from a kitchen area. Just a few tweaks and it would be perfect. We were living it up.
Burning a hole in the canvas ceiling with the stove pipe put the indoor wood stove on hold. A diesel heater and the trusty old Mr. Buddy heater mostly kept the frost off. Then the winds kicked up, gusting to 40 miles per hour. Under layers of down blankets in bed, we'd run through ideas on how to seal the drafty seams that stole our warmth. Mylar reflective sheets on the walls and moving blankets in the corners worked okay. We woke up warm enough but waited until the last second to get out of bed and pee in the cold circulating air. No bueno.
These hardships naturally led to the idea of a cabin. The seed had been there all along. My partner used to own a construction and remodeling business so she had all the know-how and more importantly, all the tools. Professional lesbian. If she had her way, our little family would move permanently into the mountains, far from civilization, and live in a cabin we built ourselves from wood she'd milled off the land. Pfffft. No, I needed an address for my Amazon deliveries.
My partner is tenacious and her diabolical plans were already in motion. She'd slowly weaned me off my hatred of camping. First, she tempted me with the views. Then she got a camp shower. Next, internet and copious positive reinforcements for my fire building skills. I blinked and found I'd become a full-on nature girl. Building a cabin in the middle of nowhere didn't feel like such a stretch. In fact, it felt familiar, like playing forts all over again. I gave it the green light.
This past weekend, we rented a really long trailer, bought a used door and windows, all the lumber, and roofing supplies. Secured with multiple tie downs, we hauled our bounty up to the tippy top of the mountain and started to build. The first 12 foot wall, the windowed door perfectly framing Mount Blanca, awed us. It was going to be fantastic - but the thought of climbing a ladder to install a roof that high left me wondering if I'd ever get back down. I'd think about that later. In one long weekend, we were able to make a level platform and frame four walls. We convinced ourselves not to stay one more day. Our middle aged bodies needed a break. But we'll be out there next weekend to, fingers crossed, finish it up.
My girlhood dream of playing forts has become an adult reality. I require more comfort than cinder block furniture these days but now, I'm employed and can afford it. At camp, I stay within yelling distance but if I hear a human voice, I know it's my partner and not some creepy dude. We're upgrading the bear spray to a small shotgun but not for people; there's rumors about a recent mountain lion attack. I'm more worried about Penny (our small dog) being eaten by one or worse, scooped up by a hawk. A covered dog run is in the plans.
I've put out a bird feeder in hopes of luring new species and capturing their tweeting with the Merlin Bird ID app. Can't put the feeder too close or we'll get critters in the cabin. We've moved piles of clothes, some furniture, and the rest of the tools. We'll turn the carport into storage at some point. A full solar setup and internet means I can work up there. Somehow, we've obtained three chainsaw in the past few months and cut wood for the fire like badasses. My partner has plans to mill cedar from the land for cabin accents and smooth them out with the planer I got her for our anniversary. Things are coming together.
I guess we really don't stray far from who we are as kids. There's something about creating my own private space by hand, away from the world, that endures within me. I'm not running away; I'm giving myself space. I imagine myself finishing my novel on our future deck with tricked out shower, with on-demand hot water, in the background. We'll build a clean outhouse and install an outdoor kitchen. We probably won't stay all winter but I can see myself wishing we could. I've just got figure out how to get my king sized bed up there.
Great read Laura. Playing fort is still the best.
Stunning photo 😊