Years ago I was at Ellison Bay’s folk school, “The Clearing,” for a weeklong class called “Touch the Earth; Love the Earth” when the director mentioned that we could sign up to spend the night in the Cliffhouse. Back in 1935, the founder of The Clearing, Jens Jensen, used the Cliffhouse as his private hideaway and would spend hours there writing and reflecting. The director warned that the rustic shelter had no running water or bathroom and only a fireplace to guard against the September chill. He also cautioned us that it would not be for anyone afraid of heights since it was at the edge of a cliff. 

Not all that keen on heights, I gulped. Then, realizing this was a chance in a lifetime, I signed up.

After supper, I carried my sleeping bag, pillow, and writing materials through the woods.  I felt like Hansel and Gretel, not sure of what I would find. Unlike the gingerbread and candy house of the fairytale, the one-room structure is built into the cliff and constructed with natural stone and wood. It’s situated on the Niagara Escarpment that rises out of Lake Michigan’s Green Bay. I set my supplies on the ground and cautiously walked past the house to take in the view before dark. I sat on a chair placed within yards of the edge of the cliff and enjoyed the evening breeze. Cricket chirps and the gentle lapping of the water relaxed me. I could understand why Jens Jensen treasured this hideaway.

Dark clouds soon rolled in and the air cooled down quickly. I was ready to see my accommodations. I creaked open the Cliffhouse’s door to reveal a simple bed, stone fireplace, writing desk, and candles. As I settled in, I heard an “eek, eek.” The squeaks sounded like they were coming from underneath the bed. A mouse? I decided not to look.

I opened the window to hear the waves and the hammering of a pileated woodpecker who must be finding insects in a nearby tree. When it became chilly, I lit a fire, sprinkled it with a few cedar boughs so I could smell their fragrance, and sat at the writing desk to work on a story set in the 1840s. It was the perfect ambiance. 

The mood changed quickly, though, with the crack of thunder. Within minutes, the wind gusted, the sky lit up with lightning bolts, and rain poured down. The Cliffhouse was set back from the edge, but I didn’t know how secure it was. Could a driving rainstorm and wind gusts cause it to sweep over the edge? I contemplated scurrying back through the woods to sleep in the warm, safe dorm room.

“Eek, eek!” My squeaky mouse companion sounded like it was trying to scare me off too. I felt like quoting Jens Jensen who said, “Everyone is entitled to a home where the sun, the stars, open fields, giant trees, and smiling flowers are free to teach an undisturbed lesson of life.” That includes me, too, Squeaky.

If Squeaky knew how much respect I have for mice, she might feel more relaxed. I had pet albino mice for a time and witnessed how a female gnawed through a washcloth to make a nest for her young and how another pulled fur from her body to ensure her young were toasty warm. They fearlessly stood their ground against our cat and tried to intimidate it by squeaking. 

A crack of thunder rattled the log walls and sent shivers down my back, but I told myself to channel the brave mouse. I walked close to the window and watched the lightning spotlight the giant trees swaying with the wind. I would not think of what could happen if the wind or a flood of water washed the cliff house over the edge. Instead, I’d adjust my attitude and feel grateful since this was an opportunity of a lifetime.

When the rainstorm ended, I snuggled into the bed. Serenaded by the crackling fire, lapping waves, and the squeaks of my companion, I was perfectly content.

In the morning, I straightened up, restocked the wood and cedar branches, and gathered my things. As I walked out the door, I heard a final “Eek, eek.” 

Taking it as a thank you for leaving her in peace, I nodded.  After all, everyone is entitled to a home where they’re free to teach undisturbed lessons of life.