The fire crackles as some of the smaller pieces of wood ignite. The refuge is cold, but warmer than outside. The wind still howls, and the small window shake with each gust. The night is dark and full of terrors, or so your mind says, but inside, light and soon warmth.
The stove comes alive, fire slowly consuming the wood, warmth and light are here. Sitting close to the stove, eyes wide open, absorbing every bit of all. The wind, suddenly, stops. Quiet reigns, a chance to settle down and let the mind escape.
The night is quiet. The fire is warm. Tea softens the sore throat, a side effect of exertion. Crackle noises and a fluffy sleeping bag. Waiting for first light.
As day comes, night terrors dissipate. A majestic view opens up as the last vestiges of fire die out. The iron wood stove still providing warmth, and the ability to make coffee. Black hot liquid igniting the soul in tandem with the sun, gloomy at first, but once out, in full force.
Still quiet. A smooth wind. The chance to go down. To try again.
Never out of the fight, the quiet of the shelter brings strength. Solitude heals, empowers.