Alone against the encroaching frost, I clawed my sanctuary from the frozen earth. First, the brutal excavation: shovel biting into reluctant soil, muscles screaming, sweat freezing on my brow. Then, the heavy logs – dragged, notched, and stacked high for walls thick enough to defy the coming gales. I layered birch bark like armor over the roof frame, sealing every seam with sticky pine pitch. Inside, a stone hearth rose, its promise of warmth my only comfort. Finally, packed earth floor, a crude door of hides, and a final prayer to the indifferent sky. Done. My dugout stands ready. Winter, bring your worst.
