Nestled beneath the colossal, earth-caked roots of a lightning-struck giant, my sanctuary thrives. This natural canopy forms the roof of my bushcraft dugout—a compact log cabin skillfully woven and chinked beneath the inverted root ball. Rainwater channels down ancient bark grooves, collected in carved wooden troughs. Just beyond the mossy threshold, a simple fish trap yields tonight’s supper: a plump trout, cleaned swiftly, skewered on green wood, and sizzled over coals in the stone-ringed firepit. The scent of woodsmoke and cooking fish mingles with damp earth. Here, sheltered and self-reliant, I’ve mastered the quiet art of catch-and-cook survival, warm and content under the forest’s upturned embrace.
