Nestled beneath a colossal fallen log, my moss-roofed shelter exhales quiet resilience. Raindrops patter softly on the thick, emerald carpet overhead, sealing me in a damp, earthy cathedral. Below, dry duff cradles my sleeping pad—the log’s immense bulk shielding me from wind and prying eyes. At its base, the heart of camp glows: a Swedish torch, its split-log core burning steadily inward. Perched atop, a small pot simmers—a simple stew of foraged greens, dried venison, and wild onions, its aroma weaving with woodsmoke. Utterly alone, yet profoundly held by the forest, I sip broth, warmed by fire and self-reliance.
