Just a modest cabin from yesteryear, so I thought, until I got to the door with the American flag sticker on it looking slightly weathered, I knocked, no response. I ventured on foot further up the road, stopping at the next house, questioning who to ask for permission to photograph the cabin. I was told, the man that lived there. I said he was not home as I had knocked. The middle aged lady just grumbled, "At your own risk I guess." I thanked her and left as she was shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. Welp, that certainly set my determination in motion. I walked back to this cabin, to my surprise; there was an older man in his late 60's standing with the door mostly opened. He questioned who I was, I introduced myself, he invited me in, and I told him my purpose for being there. We talked drinking sweetened hot green tea with a bit of cream. Was much better than it sounded. I learned he was a writer, lived a life of tragedy, thus writing was his sanity. We talked and chuckled, talked, got teary eyed, then ended our visit with a few burst of laughter. We parted, I journeyed back to my Jeep only to discover two people had opened the back end and were just 'chillin' waiting on me. They filled in more of the writer's story, 30 years prior; he had lost his wife, 2 daughters', and 1 son in an accident of sorts. No one in the 'community' has ever seen him, every thing he needs is left outside his door by delivery, and they think he must leave the money in the creak under the door to pay. I felt blessed, as he had invited me into his home.