Frost nips bare knuckles as each log is hauled from the silent woods. Axe bites deep into seasoned pine, the rhythmic thwack echoing through snow-laden firs. No power tools hum here—just muscle, wedge, and sledgehammer driving notches tight. Cedar bark peels under calloused hands, scent sharp in the crisp air. Logs, heavy and honest, are stacked course by painstaking course, chinked with moss and mud against the coming deep freeze. Sweat steams on brows despite the cold; breath plumes like ghostly signals. This is pure forest work: elemental, demanding, and utterly absorbing. The cabin rises, wall by wall, a testament to quiet resilience hidden deep within winter’s white embrace.
