A long weekend in the mountains with the kids

The view from the cabin porch — Saturday morning, frost still on the rail.

We had been talking about this weekend since September, which in retrospect was the problem. Mark and I both have a tendency to plan a family trip into something it cannot possibly be — the perfect spring break, the unforgettable summer, the long weekend we will all remember forever. So on the drive up, as both kids asked me approximately sixty-eight times whether we were almost there, I tried to lower my own expectations. The goal, I kept telling myself, was simply: three nights in the mountains, together, without anything scheduled. That is all.

Reader: it was wonderful. Not because it was perfect, but because the bar was already on the ground.

Where we went, and how we picked it

We rented a little cabin about three hours north of us, in a corner of the Pisgah National Forest that a friend of Mark's had recommended. It wasn't fancy. It had two bedrooms, a wood stove, a screened porch, one very good skillet, and no dishwasher. The wifi was, to put it kindly, aspirational. We paid about what we'd pay for two nights at a mid-range hotel, for four nights in a house all our own.

Our criteria for picking it were pretty basic, and I'll share them because I get this question a lot:

• Three to four hours driving, max. With Sam at nearly four, anything longer is a test of endurance I'm not interested in failing.
• A washing machine. Non-negotiable with two kids and one dog.
• Somewhere the kids could run. A yard, or at least a porch, or trails you can walk right out the door to. We don't want to drive again once we're there.
• A kitchen. We cook nearly every meal on trips now. It's cheaper and, honestly, calmer.
• Something walking distance. A little general store, a trailhead, a library, anything. I like to have somewhere to walk to in the afternoon.

This cabin met all five. It also had a hammock chair on the porch, which Ellie claimed in the first ten minutes and did not relinquish.

What we packed (and what we didn't need)

I used to overpack for trips like these until I realized I was essentially moving the house to the mountains for four days. This time I brought:

• Rain boots and regular sneakers for all of us
• Two puzzles (one for the adults, one for the kids) and a deck of cards
• A stack of picture books and my current paperback
• Groceries for three dinners and three breakfasts — the rest we'd figure out
• One good skillet (in case the cabin's was a lie — it wasn't)
• Sam's dinosaur. The specific one.
• A small bag of "boredom tools": sketchbook, a box of crayons, a little bag of Legos

I did not bring: my laptop, a single piece of work, the iPad, or more than one pair of jeans. I considered bringing my yoga mat. I did not bring my yoga mat. I do not regret this.

The loose itinerary (mostly ignored)

Friday

Arrived around 4, unpacked in a slow, cheerful way, and walked to the creek behind the cabin while the light was still good. Sam threw rocks; Ellie found a piece of moss she named "my friend Moss." We made pasta for dinner — the easy one, just olive oil and garlic and a lot of parmesan — and the kids fell asleep on the couch by 8. Mark and I sat on the porch in an almost-spooky quiet and listened to the wood stove tick.

Saturday

Up early, because children. Pancakes in the skillet, two rounds, Sam wore most of his. We drove fifteen minutes to a short hike a friend had recommended — about a mile and a half, gentle, along a creek, no real elevation. It took us almost three hours because of the rocks, the moss, the ongoing crisis of Sam's boots, and one very important discussion about whether or not we could bring home a stick. (We could.)

Afternoon at the cabin, quiet. Ellie read. Sam napped (!). I drank a cup of coffee on the porch without anyone asking me a question. This was one of my favorite hours of the year.

Dinner was sheet-pan sausages and peppers, because I'd done the prep at home. We played Go Fish by the wood stove. Bed by nine.

Sunday

A slow morning — toast, eggs, second coffee. We walked to the little general store a quarter-mile down the road and let the kids pick out one sweet each (Ellie: a Butterfinger; Sam: three gummy worms). We came back and spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing. I read a hundred pages of my book in a single sitting, which hasn't happened to me since before Ellie was born.

This was also the day Mark's phone fell in the creek. More on that in a minute.

Monday

Packed slowly. Ate the last of the eggs. Drove home with two sleeping children and a car that smelled faintly of wood smoke, which I would bottle if I could.

About the phone

On Sunday afternoon, we walked back down to the creek for one last rock-throw. Mark was helping Sam onto a big flat stone and reached out to steady him, which is when his phone slid from his back pocket into the water — slowly, almost ceremonially, like it had decided. We watched it happen. We watched it disappear. We watched, ten seconds later, Sam look up with enormous eyes and say, "Daddy — was that important?"

It was not, as it turned out. Mark's phone is insured. His photos are backed up. The rest of the weekend continued without his phone in exactly the way the rest of the weekend was already going — slow, attentive, with everyone looking up a little more. It has since become a family joke. "Was that important?" is now what we say when someone drops anything: a fork, a book, a mood.

What I'd do again

• The no-itinerary approach. We had two soft plans: one hike, one trip to the store. Everything else unfolded on its own.
• Cooking in. We ate well, spent almost nothing, and never had to manage a restaurant with two tired kids.
• Bringing books. All of us read more that weekend than we had in a month at home.
• Walking distance to somewhere, anywhere. It gave the kids a little adventure every day.

What I'd skip

• Bringing too many "activities." The puzzles went untouched. The Legos got twenty minutes. The woods were the activity.
• Overplanning dinners. I had three nights of meals fully prepped and ended up winging the third (pasta again, with whatever was in the fridge).
• Packing for the weather the forecast promised. Pack for the weather it might be. The mountains are always colder than you think.

We've already started talking about going back in the fall. Ellie has informed me she will be bringing Moss.