The cabin wasn’t much—just weathered wood, a stone fireplace, and a roof that had seen too many storms. It sat deep in the Smoky Mountains, tucked between towering pines, a place meant for solitude and survival.
I arrived after a long day of hiking, rain soaking through my gear, the cold settling into my bones. The door creaked open, revealing a space worn by time—scratches on the floor from past visitors, a chair with a missing leg, a fireplace that had fought off countless winters. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.
That night, as the wind howled outside and the fire flickered, I realized something: a cabin isn’t just wood and nails. It’s a refuge. A reminder that sometimes, all we need is a roof over our heads, a warm fire, and the quiet understanding that we are safe—at least for tonight.
Have you ever found an unexpected refuge in the wild?