North. Further north than most venture in a lifetime. Where the sun doesn’t rise in the winter nor set in the summer. 

Raw. Untamed and untouched. Where rivers skip with salmon and forests stretch endlessly. 

His. At least an acre. After months of double shifts at the gas station and hiding money from his alcoholic brother in the back of his sock drawer. 

No road access. No utilities. 40 miles to Cantwell. Denali towering in the distance. 

Jason’s cabin was just that. His cabin. 

***

Life in the wild overgrown places of the world can be oppressively isolating. Unless of course you’re running from fast-food restaurants, aging parents, and sound pollution.  

Peace and quiet. Tranquility and serenity. Alone but not lonely. Alive and not just breathing. 

***

Spruce beetles killed another one. Its needles brown and frail. 

Chainsaw, cables, ATV with a sled. Hauling timber back to camp. 

Swing, crash, split. Swing, crash, split. A monotonous routine that freed up his mind to chase his thoughts whichever which way. Even when they turned to her.

A year’s worth of firewood. Just in time. The short autumn wouldn’t last long. 

He’d learned a different way to live since building his cabin. He’d quit smoking. Didn’t own a Play Station anymore. And he left his phone in his truck’s glove compartment. 

***

Bitter cold, howling winds, but his hearth was warm. He rocked in his chair, reading Owls and Other Fantasies. The only light illuminating the inside of his cabin came from his furnace. He leaned forward and added another log. 

His mind went to Vanessa, as it so often did. What could have been had he simply grown up a little sooner.

She’d been tender, soft, and kinder than anyone he’d ever known. Her almond-shaped eyes. Light brown with specks of hazel. A few freckles rested high on her cheeks. And then her smile. 

Jason felt the familiar clenching in his stomach. A feeling of loss and hurt mixed with hope and attraction. He looked over to the small writing desk in his cabin’s corner. Even though it had been hidden away in the top drawer for two years, the letter he had written for her, he hadn’t forgotten about it. 

Just as he hadn’t forgotten about his first love.  

***

When he awoke in the morning there were no sounds. He dressed in silence, pulling on faded olive overalls and tugging an old sweater over his matted tangle of black hair. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. 

His mornings had once been hazy. Throbbing headaches, dry mouth, late to work. But he’d left all of that behind. 

Now, he drank his coffee quietly from a wooden chair next to the one window in his cabin. A light snow was falling. The trees encircling his camp were brushed silver in moonlight and frost. Jason hadn’t seen the sun in months, and yet his life had grown so much brighter. 

***

At first, his neighbors were beavers and bears. Then one day a passing hiker called out a hearty hello, a strange sound to hear near his cabin. 

One day he spotted tire tracks in the mud. A few months later, two men were at his fishing spot. 

Before he knew it, a bulldozer cleared away acres of forest. A gravel road was added. Driveways were paved to small cabins owned by big business. City-dwellers ready to rediscover themselves and write the next great American novel suddenly encircled Jason’s sanctuary. 

A gas station was built. Then a diner. Two girls with 3 million subscribers each vacationed less than a fifteen-minute walk from his cabin. Now Jason saw more people than animals in any given day. 

***

All said and done, he broke even. He’d built the cabin, and the maintenance costs were low. Still, he’d refused to sell to big business, pivoting instead towards an offer from a young couple looking for a northern getaway. 

It was difficult for him to say goodbye. He lingered in his truck for a few extra minutes, taking a final look at his cabin. 

He drove into Cantwell. Pulled into a parking space on the main street. He looked up at Denali. The mountain watched over the tiny town. 

Jason walked along the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. He approached the mailbox and dropped in a letter before returning to his truck.