I rebuild old cabins. It turns out they rebuilt me too.

I'm Wade. For nineteen years I had a desk, a mortgage in the suburbs, and a marriage. When the marriage ended, I had none of those things and no idea what came next. So I did something that made no sense on paper: I bought a falling-down 1970s A-frame in the Blue Ridge Mountains for almost nothing, moved in with a sleeping bag and a circular saw, and taught myself how to bring it back.

That was a few cabins ago. Now this is what I do for a living — I find tired log cabins and A-frames that nobody wants, fix them honestly, rent a couple, sell a couple, and live in one. This blog is the log of all of it: the renovations, the rooms, the off-grid headaches, and the thing I got embarrassingly wrong for years before I figured it out — that a cabin lives or dies on its lighting.

No drone shots, no sponsorships I don't believe in. Just what the work actually looks like, what it costs, and what it gives back.