An axe rests motionless on a weathered stump, its silhouette sharp against the burning hush of northern light. The trees stand like sentinels beneath a thousand stars, and the last swing of the blade lingers in the cold night air.

This image was made along an old logging trail that once fed the hunger of sawmills—still etched into the wilderness beside Clearwater Historic Lodge. Now silent, the path remains, holding the weight of history in its frozen soil and the faint echo of boots, hooves, and iron wheels long gone.