Muted World by Walls

The wind whips, throwing the tattered flags that mark the fuel line back and fourth, creating its own kind of symphony and harmony. The pap pap pap and whistling sounds like a line of school aged children are in a line simultaneously blowing air into empty bottles and whipping a parachute in gym class.  A helicopter sits in the middle of the front yard, standing steady as its rotors get pushed up and down as a stubborn defiance to the wind. To the west, a golden halo stands tall at the top of the Wilson-Piedmont Glacier, both enticing and daunting. The halo draws me in like a fly to a light. It glows like a promise, its beauty deceptive, always retreating to the next horizon

And yet, just a few steps away, the world feels entirely different.

Inside the small shack, the wind’s ferocity becomes muffled, a distant roar against the thin corrugated walls. The long, stretched out structure acts as our living room, kitchen, and bedroom all in one. This artifact filled structure radiates warmth and a sense of refuge. The smell of freshly baked cookies fills the air, mingling with the sweetness of maple lattes we’ve crafted from the precious syrup my dad sent down. The pilots, electricians, the camp manager, and I sit crowded around a scarred wooden table, sharing stories and laughter.

The atmosphere inside is soft, sleepy,  almost fragile. Cheeks flush with warmth after our brief stints outside, hands cradle mugs of steaming drinks, and the hum of quiet conversation replaces the chaos beyond the walls. Hosting is instinctual here. We offer what little we have—fresh baked goods, carefully rationed treats, and the best of our hospitality—knowing how rare these visits are. There’s an unspoken understanding that this small room must act as both sanctuary and celebration, a tiny oasis in the midst of this untamed wilderness.

I glance out the rectangular window, blinded by the snow’s intensity. Every flake catches the pale light and hurls it back with startling ferocity. The wind shrieks over the roof, shaking the walls as if demanding entry, but inside, we remain untouched. The boundaries are thin—just a few inches of metal and insulation separate us from the inhospitable wild—but the difference feels absolute.

When I step outside to recieve a new load of groceries, the contrast hits me like a wall. The cold yips at at my cheeks, already tender and windburned from earlier. My hands fumble carrying the box back because the gloves I chose for the short walk were nowhere near warm enough. Stiff and uncooperative in the biting air. Snow lashes at my face and body. It feels as if the wind is alive, testing me, pushing me, daring me to linger. 

Inside, I thaw back into the warmth, the sting of the wind replaced by the comfort of shared space. The walls of the shack aren’t just shelter; they’re a reminder of the fragile line between survival and indulgence. We drink lattes as if we’re in a café and eat cookies with sea salt as if we’re anywhere but here, shoved between an ice shelf and a mountain range. 

This duality is striking. Outside, the wind rages, wild and ferocious, a force that humbles and inspires all at once. Inside, the world is small, intimate, and safe. The space buzzes with hospitality—a kind of rebellion against the storm. We strive carve out joy here, we need to. A stark contrast to the relentless and stubborn power behind our thin walls.

And perhaps that’s why the ferocity outside doesn’t feel like “bad weather” to me. Bad weather implies inconvenience, discomfort. But this—this is pure, untamed power. It awakens something wild and restless inside me, something that feels deeply alive. The storm sharpens everything—forces, feelings, instincts. The battle to prepare, to brace against it, makes every simple act feel earned.

And then, just as suddenly, it’s over. By morning, the wind has stilled. The snow lies quiet. The shack sits in silence, its walls unshaken, as if the storm was never here. Yet, even in the calm, the wildness lingers—outside in the ice and inside my chest.