I live in the rural buffer of Orange County, NC, a swath of woodland in between Chapel Hill and Hillsborough. I love the wild seclusion of the forest, but everything has its limits. I deeply appreciate having a home to return to after a long hike.

Six years ago, I became a father. I was burnt out on my 9-5, and my wife had just earned her nursing degree, so we decided that I would stay home with the kiddo. Nearly every day, I’d strap my infant daughter onto my chest, and we’d head out for an adventure in the woods.

Within a few months, we’d walked every trail on the map, so we began exploring the liminal spaces in between the blazes. It wasn’t long before I saw the first lean-to. People were living out there.

I wondered if they were the same folks I’d seen hanging around the gas station where I’d go to buy beer while my family slept. The ones who built the shanty town by the off-ramp that got torn down shortly after we moved in. I once saw a guy with a genuine bindle-stiff cross the overpass and disappear into the trees.

Two of the many reasons that people become unhoused are drug addiction and mental illness, and I couldn’t imagine a better place to ride out a high or an episode than these wooded foothills. Venture deep enough and you’ll find home-sites, caves, abandoned mills, old spring houses, and the occasional graveyard. It’s a primeval land outside of time. A reclaimed peninsula of green.

As I imagined and projected, I became aware of my own loneliness. I was immensely grateful for the days, months, and years of focused fatherhood ahead, but I craved company beyond the sleeping child swaddled against my sweaty chest. I missed workplace camaraderie. I wanted someone to discuss art and culture with, a fellow creative with a goofy sense of humor. Then one melancholy day I heard myself say, “I could use a friend”.