Treasure Among the Pines

Some places find you.

Mine had been standing quietly since 1939—tucked into the trees, perched above a lake in northern Michigan, weathered and wise, waiting. I hadn’t planned to find a cabin that summer, but then again, the best stories rarely begin with a plan.

It was the mantle that did it. Hand-carved names—faint but still legible—etched into the thick beam above the fireplace. Initials and hearts, a date or two, all lovingly left behind like a guestbook in wood. I remember running my fingers across them and whispering this is it. The walls didn’t just hold heat—they held history.

That’s when the dream began to come alive.

I didn’t want to modernize it. I wanted to honor it—layering in pieces that felt as though they had always belonged. So I started curating the cabin the same way I approach vintage—slowly, with reverence and story in mind.

A pair of vintage oars now flank the shed, nodding to summers past. Old artillery boxes have been repurposed into porch tables—the kind that start conversations. On the covered patio, vintage log furniture rests beneath soft string lights, inviting slow mornings with coffee and long twilight chats.

Inside, red wool blankets with black stripes are draped over the kids loft railing. Native American folk art anchors the space with spirit and soul. Above the sofa hang mature pencil sketches—quiet, detailed renderings of nature that echo the world just outside. My grandmother’s vases, in muted, earthy tones, catch golden light in the windowsills. A collection of antique canes leans gracefully in the corner—each one worn smooth from years of use, each with a walk already behind it. On the shelves: hand-thrown pottery, holding blooms, pinecones, or nothing at all—because some things don’t need a purpose to be beautiful.

It’s not curated.

It’s collected—with care, with instinct, with the kind of patience you learn when you let old things speak.

Now, the cabin is filled with quiet joys: open windows, the crackle of a fire, the rhythm of lake water lapping at the shore. My son sits on the steps and watches a baby fawn do slow, clumsy circles in the tall grass. I sip my coffee and listen to the trees. Time softens here.

And when I sit by the fire, hand resting on the carved mantle, I know I’ve stepped into a chapter I was always meant to write.

This isn’t just a cabin.

It’s a storybook built of logs and time and treasure. And now, I get to help it tell its next tale.