A winter cabin sat at the foot of a mountain valley. The mountains had snowy caps, and at night the winds would roll down and cover the cabin and evergreens with a thin layer of ice. A small stream ran near the cabin that would freeze over each morning. There was a deep quiet surrounding the cabin, broken only by a bird or a wolf in the distance, and nothing moved in the landscape but the snow falling down.
The small cabin was built years ago, but still held the snow piled on its roof without showing any signs of strain. It was a single room cabin made of oak from the surrounding woods, with a single door facing the east and a window facing the north so one could look out at the mountains and stars as they went to sleep. A stream of white smoke poured from the stove-pipe and an orange glow from the fire inside would shine through the window at night.
Inside the cabin, a crackling fire would always be going, releasing a smoky and piney scent. The warmth of the fire filled the cabin and shadows cast by the firelight danced throughout the room. The old wooden floor creaked under snow-covered boots and on the walls hung old pictures and rusty equipment. And pot of stew hung over the fire, filled with meats and vegetables from hunts and harvests in earlier seasons.