That evening Lin Yu'an cleaned the spruce grouse with care. He marinated the meat in the small stash of spices and a pinch of salt he had hidden away, then steamed half the bird and skewered the other half for roasting. The smell of cooking meat filled the tiny stone shelter. Night settled quickly, and somewhere beyond the trees a wolf howled, but the sound only underscored how warm and secure his little house felt.
He tore off a piece of roasted leg and tasted it with impatient delight. The meat was well seasoned and free of any gamy edge, the soup clear and rich from the roasted bones and the Jerusalem artichokes he had added. He grinned at the camera, then at the food. "This is better than anything I've had in restaurants," he said and meant it. He ate his fill and packed the remainder into the container space, planning to film the breakfast segment the next morning.
The dark arrived early in the wilderness, and with it a simple routine: go to bed early and rise with daylight. He slept deeply that night, wrapped in warmth and a steadier sense of confidence than he had felt since arriving.
Morning came bright and sharp. He switched on the camera, face clear and energized. "Good morning. After that roast grouse I feel full of energy. Today we'll raise the walls a bit more and start the roof frame."
Two days of steady work had already produced the back wall and the lower portions of the gables. Today he intended to close the four sides and reserve structural openings for a door and a small window. Stone building is more than stacking rocks, he explained to the camera while checking his line of stones. Fit and density matter most. He set each stone so flat faces met and used a simple mortar of wet soil mixed with wood ash to pack the joints. The ash improves cohesion and helps the wall resist wind and moisture.
He worked with the care of someone familiar with both engineering and manual labor. Stones were chosen for flat faces or workable shapes; larger flats became the foundation courses and more irregular pieces filled interior voids. He tamped each course with a wooden mallet and teased small wedges of clay into gaps. To protect openings he placed longer, flatter stones and short beams as lintels, keeping the geometry square so a simple wooden door could later be fitted.
By evening the four walls had closed. The silhouette of a tiny fortress sat in the clearing, its small window cut low to the south and a rough doorway framed and reinforced. Fatigue pulled at his back, but pride lit his face. "That's the main structure done," he told the camera. "Tomorrow we begin the roof frame."
The days that followed settled into a steady rhythm. Mornings were for cutting and hauling wood, afternoons for fitting beams and shaping rafters. He selected each fir log for straightness and strength, hewed ends flat with his axe, and carved simple mortise‑and‑tenon joints so beams locked into the stone work. Without a saw every cut took time and brute force. He complained to the camera about the lack of a proper saw, noting that a good saw conserves energy in the long run. Still, he accepted the work as part of the trial.
Fishing and snares filled the gaps between building tasks. His traps were unreliable at times, but the stream yielded fish often enough to avoid raiding the container space for supplies. Fifteen days in the wild had become a measure of steady progress. He did not cheat the challenge for convenience. Each small success, whether it be an afternoon catch or a repaired trap- kept morale high.
The roof frame proved the most time‑consuming task. He raised parallel main beams across the stone walls, then lashed and notched a dense lattice of smaller rafters. The structure had to carry weight, shed snow, and remain weatherproof. For the roof covering he layered materials for redundancy. First he stretched a tarpaulin to form a primary waterproof membrane. Over that he laid broad sheets of birch bark, overlapped like shingles to direct water away. A thick layer of dry moss and compacted pine needles followed for insulation, and finally he added a layer of soil and transplanted moss to create a living, insulating top that blended with the hillside.
Laying that living roof was painstaking. Each piece of birch bark had to be overlapped so seams shed water across the rafters. The moss and soil provided insulating mass and thermal buffering. He tamped the turf carefully and smoothed edges with mud mixed with small stones. When the final turf snapped into place he straightened, bleeding and muddy but smiling widely.
"It's done," he told the camera, spreading his arms. "The roof is sealed. We have a real home."
Inside the shelter the thick stone and well layered roof produced a quiet, dry cavity about ten square meters in area. Sunlight came through the small window and the air no longer smelled of damp. He could block the window with stones for added privacy or security. The space was compact but secure, and the psychological shift was immediate: this was not just a camp, but a managed dwelling.
Even with the shelter completed he knew the hardest work was not finished. He still needed a reliable source of protein to sustain the labor of winter preparation. Traps alone would not suffice. He had been watching the flow into Chilko Lake and had identified calmer bends and rock pockets where fish gathered. "Tomorrow we try the best spots," he told the camera, already planning.
He sat by the fire that night and reflected on the last fortnight. The work had been relentless and draining, but each task had also been a proof of capability. With shelter secured and food strategies mapped, he felt steadier. The wilderness would still test him, but now he had a real base from which to meet those tests.