I saw hundreds of little yellow butterflies on the drive in, just in the last few miles. It felt like an omen, though I wasn't sure yet of what kind.
The roads leading up to the property weren't great. The roads on the property were worse — suited for 4-wheel drive, though my Lincoln made it work. I got lost trying to find the cabin, ended up all the way at the back of the property before a woman named Amy took pity on me and pointed the way. When I finally found it, a box truck was blocking the road down to the cabin itself, so I parked at the top of the hill and carried my bags down by hand, not daring to bring the heavy ice chest until I could get the car closer. It was the dog days of summer, and I spent an hour or so hoping the ice wouldn't melt before I could sort it out. (It's a Yeti. It held up fine.)
My first honest impression: the place is a bit of a mess. Lovely for what it is, but with the unmistakable air of someone trying to build something bigger than their resources currently allow. Rural. Ramshackle, if I'm being generous with myself for using that word. My cabin sat close to the main house — close enough that a chicken coop and the unfinished house were the view out my window all weekend, with that same box truck parked in the middle of it for the first hour. At least I'd know the moment it moved.
The cabin itself, once I settled in, was better than the first impression suggested. Two double beds, one of which became storage for my bags. All natural wood inside — kitchen, dining nook, and bedroom all living comfortably in one room. The AC, a small window unit, hadn't been switched on ahead of my arrival, so it was hot going in, but I trusted it would catch up, and it did. The bathroom had a real tub and shower, and a composting toilet: essentially a bench with a seat over a five-gallon bucket, sawdust provided for covering your business afterward. The kitchen had the essentials — fridge, microwave, a two-burner cooktop, basic dishware. It really is all you need, if you don't ask for much beyond that.
I'll be honest about a few things, because that's the point of writing this down. The cabin had the feel of a place that hadn't hosted anyone in a while — nothing dramatic, just enough to make me a little more careful about what I touched. Cell service was spotty from the start, enough to get a text out here and there and not much more. I'd downloaded music and a movie ahead of time, which turned out to be one of the smarter things I did all weekend.
Friday
Night
The place had a community feel even before I met anyone — a few figures milling around in the distance, structures scattered along the property. It was clear early on that if I wanted real solitude, I'd be finding it on my own porch, not wandering the grounds. On the walk down the hill after the box truck finally moved, I met the owner's wife. Warm, easy to talk to. She mentioned the community shares dinner together most nights, a loose invitation I think, though I told her these trips are about solitude for me, and that I might come say hello over the weekend. Pleasant exchange. No pressure either way.
With my gear finally unloaded, I made myself a rye whiskey drink as a reward for the day's effort, then settled into a quiet evening — yoga, meditation, and dinner: boudin sliders with pepper jack, pepper jelly, and arugula. The cooking setup handled it fine. Afterward I put on the movie I'd downloaded, made it maybe thirty minutes in before falling asleep. The window unit kept the room a faithful 68 degrees all night, a little cold with just the small blanket I'd grabbed, a problem I'd fix the next night once I found the ample bedding provided. I slept eight hours, undisturbed except for the occasional rustle of chickens outside — guardians of my solace, it turned out, whether they meant to be or not. Sleep score: 86.
Saturday
Dawn came with the crows of roosters, an alarm clock no light sleeper should trust themselves to sleep through. I made a pour-over coffee — my own setup, thank god, since the kettle in the kitchen had water in it of indeterminate age — and put on a downloaded acoustic playlist for the porch. The property has a genuine community feel to it once you look past the rough edges, and that morning I met both Alex, who's here on a work-trade program in exchange for lodging and food, and Jordan, the host himself. The mission of the place, as they described it, centers on protecting the local gopher tortoise habitat. Both were warm and easy company. I learned from Alex that a dinner invitation here is something of a rare reward, not handed out lightly.
I tried the composting toilet for the first time that morning. Better than expected. I'll spare the details, but it wasn't the ordeal I'd braced for.
Then the Lichen Loop Trail. Alex had waved me off the Saturday market in town — can't be much of a market, he said, pointing me toward Poplarville instead for anything more substantial — and I'm glad I took the hike over the errand. It's only 1.1 miles, mostly well-marked, sandy underfoot, and the back half opens into a stretch of forest floor completely carpeted in lichen. Quiet, beautiful, and I didn't run into another soul the whole way.
Back at the cabin, lunch was a simple chicken salad sandwich, and I opened Thomas Merton's The Seven Storey Mountain before a nap took me by surprise. The whole point of this trip being solitude, I made a deliberate choice not to leave the property again that day. I had what I needed, and I wanted to spend the afternoon reading and doing yoga and breathwork instead. I did wonder, quietly, if the dinner invitation would come.
Somewhere in that stretch of quiet, my mind drifted to the last twelve years — the house in Mandeville we still live in, the weight of carrying it financially for so long, and the fact that I no longer have to carry that alone. My wife starts a new job Monday, two days from now, and I found myself genuinely proud and a little emotional about it on that porch. Good job on the great job, babe.
The dinner invite never came. I made my peace with it. I'd been clear about wanting solitude, and I think the community respected that more literally than I expected. A small, honest disappointment, but not one I could really argue with, since it was what I'd asked for.
Showering that evening, I discovered there were no towels or washcloths provided — glad I'd packed my own. There was soap in the cabinet, but I'd brought my own too, which turned out to matter: the property has a strict policy that only biodegradable, detergent-free soap can touch the water here. Dr. Bronner's castile soap fits the bill and doubles for dishes. Though, a note from my sister-in-law, it's not for your hair.
The afternoon went to The Tao of Inner Peace by Diane Dreher, a thrift-store find from last year that I'd recommend to anyone trying to apply old philosophy to a modern, over-scheduled life. I also spent real time with my handpan on the porch — enough that I've decided it's coming on every one of these trips from now on.
Dinner was bacon and a grass-fed ribeye in the cast iron they provide, cut up with tomato, arugula, and lettuce into what's becoming a small tradition for these Saturday nights: steak salad. The utensil situation, though, is genuinely thin. No spatula — a slotted spoon filled in. No tongs. And, alarmingly, no fork, until a second pass through the drawers turned up one lonely plastic one. Anyone staying here should pack their own cutlery; the kitchen covers two people at most, and just barely. There's a paid community kitchen with presumably better stock, but I wanted to stay self-sufficient in the cabin.
After dinner, a cocktail — almond cherry syrup, rye, bitters, oranges and cherries I'd brought along — and the rest of Facing El Chapo. Decent movie, predictable even without knowing the real history. I noticed, and admitted to myself, a small disappointment that the hosts hadn't shown much curiosity about the guest in the cabin closest to their own home. Not that they were unkind, just quiet. I chalked it up to respect for my privacy and went to bed early again.
Sunday
Six-thirty, courtesy of the property's complimentary alarm system. My watch charger was working again, if not reliably, so no sleep score to report — likely a battery-saving setting I'd left on the night before. Coffee first, always. I packed up slowly, sipping and watching the same view I'd had all weekend: the chicken coop, the unfinished main house, and a live oak just outside my window that I'd genuinely grown fond of by the end. The owner's wife came by again to tend the chickens, same as the day before, paying me no more mind than she had the first time — which by now felt less like distance and more like the rhythm of the place.
I skipped breakfast, fasted on coffee and water, feeling the effects of maybe one too many rye whiskeys the night before. Round two with the composting toilet was, again, no problem at all. I've come around on the whole concept. Then I packed the car for Hattiesburg, where lunch and a thrift store called the Lucky Rabbit were waiting.