Beneath ancient, snow-laden pines, exposed roots form a natural arch. I clear the deep snow within, packing walls for insulation. My small ice fishing hole stays open nearby, steam rising in the frigid air. Inside the root cave, a compact emergency blanket reflects body heat, and a single candle flickers on a flat stone, casting dancing shadows. The thick earth overhead muffles the wind’s howl, creating surprising warmth. Wrapped in my parka, thermos of hot broth in hand, I watch my tip-up while sheltered by nature’s own architecture—a perfect, hidden respite between pulls on the line.
