A few years ago, in search of fresh powder during the California draught, my husband convinced us to spend winter break at a small resort in the Canadian Rockies. He made all the arrangements, including booking us in a tiny A frame hut at the base of Red Mountain.  He was very excited; I was highly skeptical.

 

We arrived at the mountain late at night and drove past base camp, past the bars and restaurants, past the cushy condos in the lodge.  At the very edge of the resort map, nestled into the side of the mountain and surrounded by snow-covered tress was our very own hobbit hut.

 

I must admit, I did not have a very good attitude about this. I wanted one of those fancy cabins with a hot tub, not an isosceles triangle where you had to tilt your head to keep from bumping your noggin on the ceiling. It didn’t help that the weather was freezing that week, even by Canadian standards.  The snow was so cold it squeaked.

 

But you know what? I was wrong.  I looked at the negative instead of the positive.  The hut was cozy, warm and charming.  We had our very own secret trail run right to our doorstop.  The boys loved living under the eves and swinging down the ladder like monkeys. The upper balcony had the perfect vantage point for snowball fights. It was just the right size for what we needed, which turns out is not that much.

 

That tiny house will be good preparation for living on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with my in-laws. Or traveling in an RV where the kitchen table turns into our double bed as our children literally sleep right on top of us.

 

I’m looking forward to more hobbit hut experiences this summer. I don’t need that much space. I’ve got all I need with my family right here.