Living in the city lends to a frame of mind. Angular bodies of concrete and steel, street grids, cars and people, I have a dichotic sense of immutability and impermanence.
The context of city prepares you to see certain things. Out in the wilderness, where any “road” has long been eroded and reclaimed by vegetation, discovering anything manmade can be a shocking treat, and one steeped in (hi)story.
This is the front door of a small rickety cabin in the White Mountains. It’s origin likely has something to do with mining. There is a sad little mineshaft in the mountainside above the dwelling that’s no more than 20 feet deep. The roof has collapsed. It’s slowly sinking back into the earth. The old cast iron stove remains. As does the mark of some of its inhabitants.