There was wood needing to be chopped. There was always wood that needed chopping. That was one of the first real hard lessons Rupert had learned. If there wasn’t enough chopped wood when the winter came, then there wouldn’t be enough fires to cook and keep warm. He’d lost three toes and a couple fingers that winter. That was years ago now, decades, but the lessons he’d learned were still sharp in his mind. The cold bit deeper every year as though he needed the extra reminding and motivation.

His ax was a relatively new one, gifted to him by some hikers who’d stumbled across him last Summer. They saw him wielding his old ax, one he’d had for many years, and after hearing his story had given him theirs in exchange for his. This new ax split the wood with ease and reminded him what it was like when he was younger and he could cleave logs with even the dullest of axes.

The memory of the hikers brought a smile to his face. They’d been a nice couple. Husband and wife on a honeymoon trip through the wilderness. He had laughed quietly to himself when they spoke of the adventure, of roughing it in the wilds, and the amazed looks of disbelief when they learned just how long he’d been living out there on his own.

“You’re welcome any time,” he had told them as they left and he meant it. He said that to everyone who found him, although no one had yet to make a return trip. He wasn’t offended. Even if they had wanted to come back, it would be a feat to retrace their steps. These hills and valleys were a natural maze that even he had struggled to navigate for his first couple of years.

Another log split and he stacked the pieces along the side of his cabin. The firewood not only served as fuel throughout the long winters, but also added additional layers of insulation to his cabin walls by stacking them several feet high and deep on every side. The air was full of the scent of fresh split wood and he breathed it in. Some smells never got old, never lost their crisp freshness, and this was one of them.

Rupert bent down to pick up the next log and his back twinged. He grunted and braced himself with the ax to keep from falling over. It took a couple of tense breaths to get the pain to ebb before he was able to right himself and set the log up to be split. He didn’t swing the ax right away, though. Gingerly, with the careful, practiced motions he’d learned through trial and error over the last couple years, he stretched his back until he felt the muscles fully relax.

“Should’a never climbed that tree,” he half teased himself. “The fall didn’t kill me then, but it sure is still trying its best. Ooooh.”

There was a meaty sort of pop and his back finally felt right once more. He resumed chopping wood, occasionally shaking his head and laughing his whistly sort of laugh while he worked.

“Yes,” he muttered more than once. “Learned me a good lesson that day. Too old for climbin’ trees. Too old for sight seein’.”

He sighed and for once a hint of regret crossed his face. He wiped the sweat from his brow with an old cloth and then used it to blow his nose. Not far away was the tree he’d fallen from and he glanced a guilty look up into its boughs while he rested. It was a stately tree, several feet across at the base and at least fifty feet tall. There were no leaves on its branches now but in the Spring and Summer it was full of broad, soft leaves. Naked as it was, he could easily see the small bench he’d built into the trunk all those years ago. It had to be a good twenty feet up the tree and even now he wondered how he’d ever got the idea to build such a thing. Still, he had to admit that the view from up there was amazing.

For years, as the Sun would begin to set, he’d pause whatever work he’d been doing and climb the tree so he could watch the golden light in the valley turn to shadows. He’d always meant to build a ladder or something to help him up but somehow never got around to it. Eventually, the nightly climb up the tree was as natural as walking down to the lake. Then, two years ago, he’d lost his grip just before he reached the bench. He must have hit nearly every branch on his way down. On the one hand, he was luck since the branches broke his fall and kept him from ever getting up enough speed to really do himself harm. On the other hand, his back had never been the same since.

It was then that he realized the sun had already set. He’d worked right through it. Missing the sunset wasn’t so uncommon for him these days. Without his treetop view he’d somehow been unable to hold onto the tradition.

The view just wasn’t the same.

“Hmph,” he grumbled and returned to his wood pile. He had work to do and getting misty eyed over another missed sunset wouldn’t keep him warm in the coming months.

By the time he was done chopping wood it was twilight out. There was very little moon in the sky that night so it seemed even darker than usual. His eyes were also not as good at piercing the night as they once were. A lot of things weren’t as good as they had been in years past, but that was all part of life. Experience made up for most of his physical shortcomings. After so many years, he knew the best ways of doing things and so didn’t need to waste energy or time doing them the countless harder ways he’d tried before.

Back inside the cabin his dinner was simmering over the coals. He used a cloth, the same one he’d wiped his brow and blown his nose with, the grab hold of the pot handle and carry it over to the table. Most everything inside the cabin was made by him, with a few exceptions like the pot and some other tools and trinkets people had given or traded him for. It was a palace, finely appointed, compared to what he had those first few years. Of course, back then he was sleeping in a tent.

Rupert didn’t bother transferring the meal from the pot to a plate or bowl. There wasn’t any point. He cook only for himself and only what he would eat in one sitting. Instead, he set the pot onto the table, plucked a fist sized stone from his water bucket, and placed it into the middle of the stew. The edges around the cool stone spit and bubbled for a while as the stone sucked away the excess heat. While the stew cooled, Rupert dipped a wooden cup he’d carved into the water bucket and drank. He dipped the cup again and this time used the water to wash his face, neck, hands, and finally his bit of cloth.

Refreshed, he could finally sit down to his meal. Like his cup, his utensils were all made from carved wood. Widdling was one of the few skills he’d brought with him into the wilderness all those years ago, but not one he employed much these days. His hands were stiffer now and his eyes had trouble focusing on such work.

In silence he ate his stew of fish and wild roots, seasoned with the natural herbs around his cabin. He had stores, dried and packed away for the winter, but for now his meals were still fresh and he relished it all the more, knowing winter was close at hand. Any day now he expected to see the first snows capping the peaks. Then it would be a few weeks before his valley would also be covered in snow.

Winter wasn’t all bad, of course. The quiet, the stillness, was really what had convinced him to stay. It was never his plan never to go back, but somehow, as every new day passed, it was just easier to stay. And then when winter came, and he saw the beauty, felt the peace, well, he knew he couldn’t give that up. That’s what made him persevere through it all. Why the frostbite, the sicknesses, the injuries, the loneliness, was never worse than the thought of losing the joy he felt in this place.

Sometimes he caught himself wondering about the people he left behind, what they thought had happened to him. It was only this past Spring that he realized his parents were probably passed on by now. He spent that whole day crying even though he wasn’t exactly sure why. They’d been fine, as far as parents, but he hadn’t seen them in decades, and knew he wouldn’t see them again whether they were alive or not. Why should he cry over them now? After that, he wondered about his sister. She was older than he was but only by a couple years. Perhaps she was still alive. Maybe she had children. Maybe even grandchildren. He couldn’t remember now whether she’d been married or not when last he’d seen her.

When he was feeling especially nostalgic, he brought out his memories of his school days. Childhood was such a strange and carefree time, and yet he felt a certain kinship to it in his life now. He did what he wanted to do, no one ordering him about, no need to worry about money or schedules. Sure he had his daily chores, things he needed to do, but it was nothing compared to when he had to set his alarm, had to be to work, had to do whatever his boss told him to do, and then get home only so he could go to bed and wake up to do it all again.

Often, the hikers whom he met out here commented on his seclusion, away from other people, but Rupert always grinned.

“You may see plenty of people back there,” he always asked them, “but how many do you really meet?”

That night he nestled in deep beneath his blankets, woven out of bark but so soft and warm that he wouldn’t trade them for anything. He was tired and sore from the day’s labor but he liked that feeling. He’d made good progress and was ready for winter. The last few years he’d been a bit slower at getting everything ready and he had begun to worry about what he’d do when he couldn’t keep up with the seasons.

“No one’s born to live forever,” he murmured to himself and that was enough to quiet his mind and fears.

With that, he settled his head into his pillow of dried mosses and goose feathers. He never dreamed, or never remembered dreaming, and those hours were always a welcome and sacred time where everything was calm, calm as winter, and in that peace and contentment he slept.