The late afternoon sun dipped behind the jagged silhouette of the western mountains, spilling long streams of molten gold across the valley floor. The air was turning sharp and crisp as evening approached, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from our small campfire, damp river earth, and fresh cedar shingles.
Overhead, the roof of the homestead was nearly enclosed. Row upon row of hand-split cedar shingles overlapped in precise, dark-grained bands across the oak rafters, forming a tight, protective shell over the central hall. Every beam, every mortise joint, and every course of granite below stood as a testament to physical precision and quiet, deliberate purpose.
I stood on the upper staging platform beneath the eaves, securing the final row of shingles along the southern ridge line. My ha
