Perched eight feet high, my shelter hugs the spruce’s trunk—a cocoon of woven boughs and packed moss sealed against -45°C fury. Below, snow swallows the world in silence. Inside, body heat and a tiny candle lantern fight the cold. Frost feathers the entrance flap; I breathe through wool, conserving warmth. Each movement is deliberate—melt snow slowly, sip warm water, rotate sleeping pads. Wind screams through branches, but the tree absorbs the assault. Dawn reveals ice-glazed limbs glittering like crystal. Survival here isn’t conquest—it’s harmony: listening to the forest’s rhythm, respecting its power, and trusting hands skilled enough to carve sanctuary from wilderness.
