You know, a little log cabin kind of affair, with a fireplace, lots of pines around, an easy trek to the grocery store, yet away from civilization, but not too far away. One where one was in touch with nature, but still had certain amenities ... you know, like a hot shower.

Well, believe it or not, it happened. But it wasn't quite a dream come true.

Some 34 years ago we bought a place among the lodgepole pines a stone's throw—a pretty long stone's throw—from Donner Lake.

But that's only the beginning of the story.

First, we had to find it. After a couple of years searching up and down the mountains we discovered our dream second home. It wasn't exactly a log cabin, though it sort of looked like one. It was an ugly red, had a steep corrugated aluminum roof, a fireplace, front and back porches (we called them decks), electricity, a bathroom the size of a broom closet and a kitchen not much bigger than that.

It was owned by the man who had built it over a span of 20 years of summer vacations and weekends. It was not far from what was then the hamlet of Truckee, just off Interstate 80, and it was for sale for what at the time seemed like a ridiculously low price.

(Since then the price has stayed low, at least by most California real estate standards, but its net worth now seems a ridiculously large amount of money.)

It was, of course, in a rural subdivision. There were other cabins on either side of it and most of them weren't much larger than ours. But it was close to the lake. If one got out on the far corner of the back porch (or rather deck) and leaned to one side, it was possible to see the lake surface a couple of blocks away.

And there are lots of trees. They continually shed their needles and cones on the roof, the decks and the ground, but that sort of added to the charm. Now and then, too, a tree would fall. Fortunately, none has hit the cabin so far, but there have been a couple of near misses.

To acquire it, we worked out a deal with the builder-owner to make a modest down payment and to pay him the balance in installments with a "balloon" payment in about 10 years.

As luck would have it, although we negotiated the sale through the summer and fall, it wasn't until November that we were finally able to move in. By then the first snow had fallen and shortly afterward we discovered that if you don't properly drain the water pipes in the Sierra Nevada, they freeze.

And then you have leaks.

The frozen water pipes, in fact, were a part of every winter for the first half-dozen years we owned it.

So the first summer of our occupancy I redid the plumbing system. That helped—some. But I still spent a lot of time flat on my back in puddles under the cabin replacing frozen pipes.

To this day visiting the cabin in the winter remains a challenge. Since it is illegal to park on the street (it impedes the snowplows), the driveway has to be plowed after every snow. Invariably, just as one gets the driveway cleared the snowplow comes by and throws a berm of snow in the driveway entrance.

We also discovered that the roof was so built that all its accumulated snow falls in front of the back and front doors. Getting in and out of the cabin in the winter often requires a tunneling job and makes winter occupancy something like living in an Eskimo igloo.

One other factor has evolved over the years: urbanization.

Truckee is no longer a hamlet. It's now an incorporated city. It's got all the benefits of a city bureaucracy—and a good many of its disadvantages.

The pioneering days are over. Civilization comes closer with each passing year. Sewers, water mains, hydrants, electric lines, even TV cables have found their way down the street. Last year the gas company dug up the street in front of our wilderness hideaway and laid down gas mains.

One can be as comfortable as in the lowlands now. More's the pity.

We no longer brave tire chain requirements, carry snow shovels, ask for snow plows or any of the other extras of living in a cold climate. All winter long the little cabin sits in lonely splendor up to its ears in snow and we dream about when it's going to be summer again and we can go back for a visit.

It's not that we don't honor the pioneers who breached the mountains. It's just that our pioneering days are over.