Sunlight dappled through the pines as I stacked river stones for my hearth. My dog, Scout, watched intently, tail thumping the mossy earth, his nose twitching at the scent of damp wood and wild herbs. Together, we gathered smooth stones for the fire ring and flat slabs for a crude countertop. He’d nudge a fallen branch towards me with his nose, then flop down nearby, ever the vigilant supervisor. The simple act of building this open-air kitchen—just a fire pit, a hanging pot hook, and a log seat—felt sacred. In the quiet wilderness, sharing this task with my loyal companion, we weren’t just making a place to cook; we were crafting a home.
