Lige Gibbons' cabin is a ways down the fenceline. That is, without a doubt, a lot of cutting and splitting. And it is some of the most elegant fence I've ever seen. Inside the three-room cabin, the puncheon floorboards are 20 inches wide, scarred by the chopping ax. Bits of newspapers, used for insulation, still hang on the walls.
Mist floats through the open door and through the loosely chinked walls.
In front of the wide stone hearth is the root cellar, which only the most observant visitor will notice. A hand-forged iron ring serves as handle to the hinged floorboards, covering a rectangular hole where apples and potatoes were stored through the winter. I climb into the attic. Celled wasp nests cling to the crazily angled rafters. Here is where the smoked and salted meat hung, and the strings of dried pole beans.