Four Women and a Wobbly Treehouse

This past weekend was spent in a treehouse in the woods with three truly wonderful women.

One — Grande — is my frequent travel, camping, and adventure companion. At this point, we plan trips with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. The other, Dr. DD, is an incredible woman I met while volunteering with the Nakkertok Ski Club a few years ago. The third, Arc, adventured with Grande to Everest Base Camp last year and joined our Canadian winter escapade all the way from New York.

There is something magical about four women spending a weekend together.

Intergenerational friendships form (though only one of us was born in the 2000s), and roles somehow organize themselves without discussion. No meetings. No spreadsheets. No “who’s bringing the snacks?”

Meals were pre-planned, yes — we are civilized — but once we arrived, everything just flowed. No pressure. No stress. No complications. Just four capable women doing what needed to be done. It’s almost suspiciously seamless.

Let’s discuss the accommodations.

“Treehouse” sounds whimsical and Pinterest-worthy. In reality, this was a glorified, rudimentary cabin in the woods. No running water. No electricity. No indoor plumbing. Heat courtesy of a wood stove. Meals via camp stove.

And yes — it wobbled.

The first few movements had us all pausing mid-step like startled deer. But eventually we adjusted. For adventure-seekers like us, this wasn’t exactly new territory.

When Diane at the pavilion gave us our orientation, we sensed we were a rare breed — experienced, capable, and not remotely panicked by phrases like “outhouse” and “haul your own water.” She also seemed mildly surprised when we checked out at 10:30 a.m. despite the 11:00 checkout time. Apparently, many guests drift closer to noon.

The temperature hovered around 0°C during the day but dipped much lower at night. Our American friend Arc layered herself in wool and down like a stylish marshmallow just to stay warm. We assured her it was “not that cold.” Canadian blood is clearly thicker.

We gave her the full experience:

• First time in a treehouse

• First time towing a sled full of gear

• First time snowshoeing

Growing up in this region, I’m fairly certain I learned to snowshoe around the same time I learned to walk. It was a lunchtime activity and part of winter phys ed in elementary school. We had a massive shed filled with traditional wooden snowshoes strung with animal gut and leather. We tore around the playground in our raquettes with wild abadon.

Now, of course, they’re sleek alloy and plastic. Lighter. More efficient. Slightly less romantic.

This adventure was NOT playground snowshoeing.

We covered 10 kilometres of mostly ungroomed trail. While well-marked, the paths clearly weren’t used often. The snow was deep and unpredictable.

Here’s where my height became an advantage. Grande is a full foot taller than me, and the others aren’t far behind. I often trailed at the back — partly because I take two steps for every one of Grande’s — but that gave me the benefit of studying their footsteps and choosing firmer snow.

Strategic short-personing.

That said, I was not immune to disaster.

At one point, I experienced what can only be described as a snow-based quicksand incident. One snowshoe plunged hip-deep. I placed my hand down to push myself up — and my arm sank to shoulder level. I flailed there briefly, resembling a cat in booties attempting to walk on ice.

It was not graceful.

Cries of “WOMAN DOWN!” echoed through the trees, followed by entirely supportive pointing and laughter. Cultural bonding at its finest.

One of the unexpected gifts of being the shortest — and therefore slightly slower — is solitude.

It used to bother me. Being the one at the back. The “little one.” The last picked in schoolyard games.

Now? I cherish it.

When I’m not questioning my cardiovascular fitness and life choices, I pause. I take intentional breaths. I look around. The sun peeked through the trees that day, and the warmth on my face felt like a blessing. Come on, Vitamin D!

Alone in the woods, the quiet becomes meditative. Precious. Soul-filling.

I live with three young adults. I adore them. But alone time in nature? That’s a different kind of healing.

Despite having no running water in our treehouse, we discovered the main pavilion had hot showers — with excellent water pressure.

After trekking 10 kilometres through snow, sleeping in my own filth felt optional — and I chose not to. Off to the showers I went.

I had not packed a towel (because, remember, no running water), but Dr. DD lent me her washandje.

Dr. DD is Dutch and explained that as children, this small terry cloth mitt was used when a full bath or shower wasn’t possible.

Google describes a washandje:

• A small, bag-shaped piece of terry cloth for washing face or body

• Common in the Netherlands for showering or bathing children

• Literally translates to “little wash hand”

Naturally, we rebranded it. The wash-behind-ya. And several other highly mature interpretations.

It quickly became the word we inserted into conversation at every opportunity, earning us both laughter and an unexpected Dutch cultural education.

When I look back at the photos — and the ones etched in memory — I feel nothing but gratitude.

Time in nature. Shared food. Deep laughter. Independent moments balanced with community. Women who lift one another up instead of competing for space.

It is a gift.

So here’s your reminder:

Get outside.Look up at the sun.Take a breath.And smile.

The woods are waiting.