Cynthia S. Vander Ark’s The Cabin is a poignant and nostalgic picture book of a childhood summer spent on Hog’s Back Mountain, intertwined with unexpected friendships, innocent adventures, and a quiet reckoning with loss. Through lyrical prose and wonderful watercolor illustrations by Alex Bigatti, Vander Ark tells the story of two kids, Keith and Cynthia, who fall into the magical rhythm of life with a group of gentle “hippies” building a cabin in the woods. What starts as a carefree exploration of summer days culminates in the heartbreaking yet tender image of ashes where the cabin once stood. The narrative moves seamlessly between joy and sadness, making readers feel as though they, too, are meandering through blackberry bushes and ravines.

The writing is intimate. Vander Ark’s descriptions paint the farm and its surrounding woods in colors both vibrant and melancholy. Lines like “The hippies became a part of our landscape… the warp and weave and rhythm of our daily lives” give life to the fleeting beauty of human connection. I especially loved how the text shifts from playful moments, like learning to whistle through joined thumbs, to contemplative reflections on impermanence. There’s a rhythm to the prose that echoes the seasons of the mountain itself: growing, burning, grieving, and renewing.

What really struck me was how Vander Ark handled the theme of loss. When the children return to find the cabin reduced to “ashes, laid out in a rectangle,” the watercolor scene is deeply affecting. You can feel the heavy stillness as Keith and Cynthia stand “frozen” with “lumps like rocks” tumbling in their stomachs. It’s an honest portrayal of grief. How it surprises you, settles in your heart, and becomes part of your world. I loved the watercolor scene on this page. Vander Ark doesn’t shy away from this complexity, even in a story accessible to younger readers.

The book’s simplicity is also its greatest strength. It doesn’t try too hard to impart a lesson or wrap up emotions with a tidy bow. Instead, it trusts the reader to sit with the feelings. The cabin’s fate is tragic but not hopeless. Nature persists, as do Keith and Cynthia, exploring ravines and picking wildflowers. “When we looked closely through the light and shadows,” the author writes, “we would always find flowers that had just enough sunlight to grow.” That small detail—finding flowers in the shadows—left me with goosebumps. It’s a perfect metaphor for resilience and hope, all wrapped in childhood wonder.

The Cabin is a quiet treasure of a children’s book, brimming with warmth, wistfulness, and the wisdom of letting go. It’s perfect for readers who enjoy reflective storytelling and beautifully simple prose. Parents could read this with their children to gently explore loss and resilience. Adults, too, will find echoes of their own summers and moments of grief in its pages.