unlight dapples through ancient pines as I stand alone, ax in hand. The forest air hums with quiet purpose. Selecting straight, seasoned logs, I notch each end with careful precision—saddle notches biting deep, locking together like clasped hands. Muscles burn, sweat stings, but the rhythm is meditative. Peeling bark reveals smooth, fragrant wood. Stone by stone, I raise the chimney; moss chinks the gaps against the wind. No power tools, only sweat, patience, and the forest’s bounty. Each log laid is a defiance of isolation, crafting not just shelter, but sanctuary—one honest cut at a time. The cabin rises, silent testament to solitude and self-reliance.
