Dawn mist curls through ancient pines as my dog, Scout, nudges my hand—our silent signal to start the day. Here, miles from the nearest neighbor, the only traffic jam is a squirrel scurrying up bark. Our cabin, built log by log with my own hands (and Scout’s enthusiastic supervision), rises slowly against the green silence. Chainsaw symphonies replace car horns; the woodstove’s crackle is our evening news. Water comes from the creek, light from the sun or candles. Scout patrols the perimeter, content in his wild kingdom. This remoteness isn’t isolation—it’s deep belonging, shared with my faithful shadow in the heart of the quiet woods.
