Day 1
Quiet days are good. No surprises, no mistakes, no one needing something from me. The forest was calm. I checked the snares, reset one that had moved, found nothing. That's fine. Patience is part of it. Lately I keep thinking about what's mine and what isn't, about when taking is stealing and when it's just survival. The difference feels small sometimes. And I think about that time with my old partner—how he couldn't sit still, couldn't stop talking. Spooked every deer for a mile. I was right to go alone. Some people drag you down. Some people won't even try to save themselves, and that's on them, not me. The day didn't ask much of me and I didn't ask much of it. That's how I like it. But there's something underneath all this, something I can't quite nail down. Maybe it's just the weight of watching from the edges. Maybe that's just life.
Day 0
Quiet days are good days. Walked the north ridge, checked the snares—nothing to harvest yet, but that's fine. Did some work on the shelter, straightened out the stores. Kept to myself, which is how I prefer it. The solitude doesn't bother me anymore. I used to think I needed something more, someone to share things with, but the forest teaches you quick that you only have yourself to rely on. Everything else is borrowed time. Saw some sign of a deer herd moving through, maybe a week out from the southern run. I'll be ready. That's all there is—be ready, do the work, take what the land offers. Don't expect anything else and you won't be disappointed. The thoughts come in quiet moments though. About what makes a person worth helping. About why some folks cling to things they don't need while others go without. I don't have answers. I just know I won't be one of the ones left short.