Alone in the silent wilderness, I carve my shelter from the earth itself. With blistered hands and aching muscles, I wrestle granite boulders from the cold soil, stacking them with gritty mortar made from clay and ash. Each stone is a victory, each layer a defiance against the wind and rain. The shallow pit I’ve clawed from the ground becomes walls, then a low, sturdy roof of timber and more stone. It’s slow, brutal work—days melting into weeks—but the growing structure is my anchor. Here, amidst raw nature, this stone dugout isn’t just shelter; it’s proof I can shape solitude into sanctuary, one heavy rock at a time.
