That's what I called it. The Nest. I lovingly wove the walls from thin, whippy mytle beech saplings. I asked every singe one if it wanted to be part of my home. Yup, hippy woo woo voodoo bush magic business. I'm not sorry. It's how I lived out there. It's how I live still.
You can see part of the beehive rock stove that kept me toasty warm at night. Also, check out the brown tar on the inside of the tarp roof, from the fires. The back and front walls are made of stacked moss, and moss plugs the air holes in the weave to keep the icy nights at bay.
That bed was sooo uncomfortable. Nights were 14 hours long. I'd get no more than 30 minutes of sleep at a time. Then awake for an hour. Then another snatch of sleep.
I'd wriggle into the possum coat from the far end, with my feet in the hood. My beautiful possum sleeping bag. It still smells like firesmoke and wild Gina. I can't wait for the weather to be cold enough to sleep in it again. I think I need to go bush soon and sleep in it around a fire and remember who I am under my skin.
I wanted to post this because there is bugger all footage of the inside of the whole shelter, and it makes my heart happy seeing my little nest, that kept me warm and dry and safe for such a long time.
It was such a joyous experience waking up every morning in the best cubby house ever, one I had made myself, sleeping (sort of) on a bed I'd made myself, in a huge possum coat I'd sewn myself, completely self-reliant. Self reliance is addictive.
I miss my lutruwita nest. I'm so sad it isn't waiting for me out there, but also glad it was returned to the bush. It will always live in my heart as the home of my soul.