a part of something rather than just a visitor, to feel as if there are clues to life written into the way the humped granite forages between fingers of rich dark water, the way the forest floor (the endless-seeming forest!) gives under your boot. I have not been here at night to see the sky spread out all bejewelled, the doubling of it on the water’s top between viewer and beaver dam; I’m really not sure my system could take it. There is a charming three-year-old board and batten cabin with a loft bedroom like something out of a dream. It has a 590W solar array controlled at a repurposed shipping container for light (there is also hydro right at the road) and a woodstove for heat, and a fancy, high-tech rainwater collection system to keep you clean and hydrated. The pine interior and open stairs make it feel as if you rest somehow inside a beehive. Only that hum, you’ll soon realize, comes from inside you, is the sound of your own blood racing, your heart coming suddenly alive, like a pheasant bursting up from old leaves. I struggle with the beauty here. It’s easy to point you to the photographs, but that feels an abdication of responsibility, as if I really do need to take a stab at description, even if it means coming up woefully short. Let me admit this much: If you go, and you really should, you will realise just how badly I have failed at my job. (id:62650)