November 1876, southwestern Montana territory. Sarah Brennan stood in the doorway of the cabin that wasn’t hers anymore, watching her late husband’s business partner nail the foreclosure notice to the frame. The first snow was already falling on the Bitterroot Valley, and she had exactly $11 to her name, a wagon with a cracked axle, and her husband’s toolbox.

 The nearest town with available land was 43 mi north. She had 3 weeks before the hard freeze would make building impossible. Her 15-year-old son, Thomas, had developed a persistent cough that rattled in his chest every morning. She was 42 years old, and she’d never built anything larger than a chicken coupe. What she did over the next 19 days would become the most efficient heating design anyone in Montana territory had seen.

 And it started with a decision that made absolutely no sense to anyone watching. While other settlers were rushing to stack logs for traditional cabins, Sarah Brennan was digging straight down into a hillside with a shovel she’d traded for her wedding ring. Thomas leaned against the wagon, trying not to cough. Ma Jensen’s got timber already cut.

 Said we could buy logs on credit. Sarah didn’t look up from the rocky soil. Credits what got your father killed. Working himself into the ground to pay it back. She drove the shovel deeper. This cabin won’t cost more than what’s in that toolbox and what I can barter for. And it’ll keep you warm all winter without cutting a single tree.

 The skeptics arrived before she’d finished the first day’s digging. Marcus Vickery had homesteaded in the valley for 8 years. He’d survived three Montana winters and lost two neighbors who hadn’t. He watched Sarah work for 10 minutes before speaking. Mrs. Brennan, I don’t mean to overstep, but you’re digging a grave, not building a shelter.

 He gestured toward the pines covering the nearby slopes. Timbers free. A proper cabin takes 60 to 80 logs 14 ft long. Two men can raise it in a week. Sarah straightened, catching her breath. The October wind was already carrying ice. Mr. Vickery, how much firewood did you burn last winter? Four cords, maybe five.

 He said it like everyone knew this. Cut it in summer, stack it in fall, burn it come January. That’s how it works. And if I told you I’d heat this winter on less than half accord. Vickery smiled, not unkindly. Ma’am, I’d say the altitudes affecting your thinking. You can’t change the laws of heat. Montana winter runs 20 below for weeks at a time.

 Some nights hit 40 below. You burn what you need to burn or you freeze. Johanna Linquist joined the conversation from her wagon. She’d immigrated from Sweden two years prior, and her cabin was considered one of the warmest in the valley. Mrs. Brennan, even with good chinking and a tight door, my husband cuts six cords minimum.

We burn through one log every 4 hours when it’s truly cold. There’s no way around it. By the third day, Sarah had excavated a space 12 ft deep into the south-facing hillside, creating a semic-ircular chamber 16 ft across. The local minister, Reverend Elias Cobb, stopped by with his wife and a basket of bread.

 Sister Brennan, he began carefully. The congregations taken up a collection. Enough for timber and a week’s labor from the Miller boys. You don’t need to live in a cave. Sarah was hauling rocks from a collapsed stone fence 300 yd away, loading them into a makeshift sled she’d rigged behind Thomas’s horse. Reverend, I appreciate the Christian charity truly, but these rocks and that hillside are going to do something your timber cabin never could.

She stacked another stone. They’re going to remember summer heat and give it back to us all winter long. The reverend exchanged a glance with his wife. The earth doesn’t remember heat, Mrs. Brennan. It’s dirt and rock. Then why is your root seller stay 55° year round while your cabin swings from 0 to 70? She didn’t wait for an answer.

 Earth 4 ft down barely knows what season it is. Stays about 48° in Montana, winter or summer. Now you put your living space surrounded by that earth, and you’re not fighting the cold anymore. You’re borrowing from the ground’s warmth. Vilhelm Ryder watched from his freight wagon. He’d been hauling supplies through the territory for 12 years.

 Had seen every kind of shelter desperate people threw together. Earth sheltered structures work in the southwest where it’s dry, he called out. This is Montana. You’re going to have water running through that hillside come spring melt. Whole thing will turn to mud. Sarah had been expecting this. Mr. Ryder, notice how I’m digging into the south face. Sun hits it direct all day.

Come spring, snow melt runs down the hill, not into it. And see that drainage trench? She pointed to a carefully angled channel she dug around the uphill perimeter. Water goes around, not through. The fourth skeptic was Joseph Kowalsski, a stonemason who’d learned his trade in Poland before homesteading in 74.

 He studied her rock pile with professional interest. You planning to mortar those? Don’t have money for lime or cement? Then they’ll shift. Whole wall could collapse, especially once frost gets in the gaps. Sarah wiped sweat from her forehead despite the cold. Mr. Kowalsski, you ever see how the ancient people’s built-in cliff faces down in New Mexico territory.

Anastasi structure still standing after hundreds of years. No mortar at all. Careful fitting, angled for drainage, packed with clay. Rock itself stays stable because the earth behind it prevents any shifting. Kowalsski grunted. Those weren’t supporting a roof in Montana snow loads. You’re right, Sarah. agreed.

 Which is why my roof’s going to have 2 ft of earth on top of log beams. Snow will pile up to 6 ft or more, but the earth beneath it insulates better than anything you can buy. And the weight distributed across the entire hillside, not just the walls. If you’re starting to see how frontier knowledge worked differently than today’s building codes, and you want to preserve these traditional techniques before they’re completely forgotten, consider subscribing.

 We’re documenting survival wisdom that kept families alive when there were no hardware stores, no building inspectors, just people, tools, and the land. This channel exists to keep that knowledge alive. By day seven, Sarah had the basic shelter excavated and was beginning the stone face wall. She worked from first light until dark with Thomas helping when his coughing allowed.

 The boy was getting worse, and everyone in the valley knew it. The nearest doctor was in Missoula, 68 mi northeast. Going there meant abandoning the cabin project, which meant no shelter, which meant they’d both freeze before Christmas. Marcus Vickery brought elk meat on the eighth day. Mrs. Brennan Thomas needs rest and warmth, not rockalling.

 Let me loan you the Miller boys. We’ll have a log cabin up in 5 days. Sarah was fitting stone so precisely that no gap showed wider than her little finger. Mr. Vickery, in your log cabin, what’s the temperature difference from floor to ceiling when the fire’s going? He frowned. 20°, maybe 30. Heat rises. That’s natural. And at floor level, where a sick child sleeps? Cold.

 Which is why we bank the fire at night and sleep close to the stove. This shelter will be different. Sarah pointed to the curved back wall she’d created. No corners means air circulates instead of stratifying. Temperature will stay within 5° floor to ceiling. And because we’re surrounded by earth that’s already 48°, I’m not heating from zero.

 I’m adding maybe 20° to get to 68 70. Your cabin, you’re fighting to heat from 20 below up to 70. That’s 90° of difference. Mine’s 20. Johanna Linquist had brought hot soup. The theory sounds lovely, Mrs. Brennan, but theory doesn’t keep children alive. You’ve got no chimney, no stove, and winter’s 2 weeks away. Sarah took the soup gratefully.

Chimney’s going in tomorrow, and it’s going to do triple duty. See how I’m running the flu pipe across the back wall before it exits. She’d trace the path with chalk on the stone. Smoke travels 43 ft through the shelter before exhausting, giving up heat the whole way. Same principle as a Russian stove, but simpler.

 and I’m building a baking al cove directly into the flu mass. Bread bakes from the waste heat of a fire that’s already heating the space. Reverend Cobb shook his head. Sister, you’re describing a maze of impossible complexity. What happens when smoke backs up? When the draw fails, we’ll be burying you and the boy come spring. Reverend, the draw is simple physics.

Hot air rises and this pipe climbs 12 ft from fire to exit. Steep grade means strong draft. I learned this watching my grandfather’s forge in Pennsylvania. He could pull flame horizontal 6 ft before venting vertical. Same principle. Bill Helm writer climbed down from his wagon. I’ll grant your thinkings creative, Mrs.

Brennan. But creativity doesn’t replace experience. I’ve seen families die their first winner. Good people with solid cabins. You’re betting your son’s life on untested ideas. Sarah sat down the soup. Her voice stayed level but carried an edge it hadn’t before. Mr. Ryder, my husband died in debt because we listened to experienced men tell us how things had to be done.

 Bought on credit, borrowed for equipment, paid interest until we bled dry. I’m done with conventional wisdom that benefits everyone except my family. These untested ideas kept people alive in saw houses on the Great Plains, kept them warm in dugouts from Nebraska to Colorado. The only thing untested is whether folks in Montana are too proud to learn from settlers they consider beneath them.

 The silence that followed was broken by Thomas’s coughing fit. When it finally subsided, Johanna Linquist quietly said, “What do you need?” By day 11, Sarah had help. Not charity, a trade. Johanna brought her husband Sven to help lift the roof beams in exchange for Sarah teaching Johanna her stone fitting technique. Joseph Kowalsski contributed advice on wall stability in exchange for Sarah promising to help with his spring planting.

 Even Vicery sent his oldest boy over with a load of the thin pine logs Sarah needed for the roof structure. The shelter was taking shape in ways that defied conventional frontier building. Sarah had created a 22-in thick stone wall across the entire south face. carefully fitted without mortar, but packed with clay she’d dug from a creek bed and mixed with dried grass.

 The wall had three openings, a door frame, a window frame, and the chimney exit. Everything else was solid thermal mass. Behind the stone face, the earth sheltered portion curved in a modified dome shape, maximizing space while minimizing exposed surface area. The ceiling beams, 17 logs ranging from 8 to 12 in in diameter, spanned the width and anchored into the hillside itself on the back edge.

 Over these, Sarah had laid a lattice of thinner poles, then a thick mat of willow branches woven tight. “This is where it gets interesting,” she told Thomas, who was wrapped in blankets, but insisting on watching. “Most folks waterproof a roof with boards or shingles, maybe tar paper if they’re wealthy. We’re using what the great plain settlers figured out 30 years ago.

 She began laying thick prairie sod grassside down in overlapping rows. Each piece was roughly 12 in wide, 18 in long, and 4 in thick. The grass roots formed a natural binding mat. Sods waterproof once established insulates better than wood, and it’s free. Come spring, wild flowers will grow up there. Right now, it’s going to hold heat like nothing else.

 Over the sod layer, she added 14 in of loose earth excavated from the shelter itself, creating a final roof mass 22 in thick. The total weight was immense, but distributed across the entire hillside structure. The earth itself carried most of the load. Joseph Kowalsski calculated the numbers in his head. You’ve got maybe 18,000 lb of earth on that roof, Mrs.

 Brennan, plus whatever snow load winter brings. and the hillside behind it has been holding millions of pounds for thousands of years, Sarah replied. We’re just borrowing a tiny portion of that stability. The door was salvaged from the foreclosed cabin. Sarah had negotiated taking it as part of her final possessions. She hung it to open inward, creating an airlock effect with a canvas curtain 5 ft [clears throat] behind it.

 Two barriers means cold air dumps its temperature in the entry space, not in the living area. learned that from a trapper who’d spent winters in Canada. Said the natives up there sometimes used three barriers for the worst cold. The window was her one major expense. $4 for a salvaged double pane unit from a failed hotel in Helena.

 She installed it with meticulous attention to ceiling using pine pitch mixed with charcoal dust as weatherproofing. The window faced southeast maximizing morning and midday sun penetration. For those of you watching who value practical knowledge over theoretical building codes, I want to ask you to do something.

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 Day 14. The first serious snow arrived 6 in overnight with temperatures dropping to 8°. Sarah was installing the heating system, and this was where her design either proved revolutionary or catastrophically wrong. She’d built a small but efficient masonry heater in the northwest corner, the coldest spot farthest from the window.

 Using stones she’d heated and tested for their ability to hold warmth, she’d created a firebox 18 in square and 24 in tall. The critical innovation was the heat capture maze she’d built around it. Standard stoves vent straight up, she explained to Thomas, who was feeling well enough to hold tools.

 All that heat goes right out the roof. Russian stoves, Scandinavian masonry heaters, even some of the designs from central Europe. They make the smoke work before it leaves. Her flu pipe climbed 2 ft vertically from the firebox, then made a 90° turn and traveled horizontally for 8 ft along the back wall encased in stone and clay. It made another vertical rise of 3 ft, turned horizontal again for 12 ft along the sidewall, then made a final vertical run up through the roof.

 The total distance from fire to exit was 43 ft, and every foot of that journey was giving up heat to the surrounding thermal mass. The stone and clay absorbed the heat from the smoke, then radiated it slowly into the living space for hours after the fire died. “One small fire in the morning, maybe another small one at night,” Sarah said.

 “That’s all we’ll need. The thermal mass does the real work.” Marcus Vickery arrived just as she was testing the draw with a small kindling fire. He watched smoke travel the entire labyrinth and exit cleanly through the roof pipe. I’ll be damned, he muttered. No backdraft, no spillage. Mrs. Brennan, you might actually survive this winter. Mr.

Vickery, we’re going to do more than survive. Sarah added a few more sticks to the fire. The shelter temperature was already climbing. This uses 16th the wood of a conventional cabin, produces steadier heat, and once we’re through a full winter, I’ll prove it to anyone who wants to see the numbers.

 But survival wasn’t guaranteed yet. On day 16, Thomas’s cough turned into full pneumonia. His fever spiked to 103° and he could barely breathe lying flat. Johanna Linquist came with what herbal remedies she knew? Mullen for the lungs, willow bark for fever. But everyone understood the reality. Pneumonia killed children on the frontier regularly, especially when combined with cold stress and exhaustion.

 He needs to go to Missoula, Johanna said quietly. The doctor there can’t be reached in this snow. Not with Thomas unable to withstand a wagon ride. Sarah’s voice was steady, but her hands shook as she prepared a mustard plaster for her son’s chest. We’re 50 mi from help, and it might as well be 500. This was the calculation every Frontier family faced.

When to hold on, when to travel for help that might not arrive in time. The temperature outside was dropping again, forecast by Vicar’s barometer to hit 15 below within 48 hours. Moving Thomas in that cold would likely kill him faster than pneumonia. Sarah made the only choice available.

 She moved Thomas into the shelter on day 17, 2 days before she’d planned to declare it finished. The space wasn’t complete. No interior walls dividing sleeping areas from living space. No proper furniture beyond a straw mattress and salvaged table. But it was warm. The shelter held at 64° with a fire no larger than what you’d use for cooking.

 The thermal mass Sarah had spent 2 weeks creating was working exactly as designed. Heat from the small blaze in the firebox radiated through 43 ft of stone encased flu pipe, warming the clay and rock, which in turn radiated that warmth evenly throughout the curved space. Thomas’s breathing eased within hours. The stable temperature, no cold drafts at floor level, no scorching heat near a stove, allowed his body to focus on fighting infection instead of regulating temperature.

 The air’s different in here, Johanna Linquist said, sitting with Sarah during the night watch. Outside, wind howled through the valley at 23 mph, driving snow horizontal. Inside, candles barely flickered. It’s not dry like cabin air gets with a hot stove running. Thomas isn’t fighting to breathe against dry heat. Sarah was monitoring her son’s fever with wet cloths.

 The earth walls breathe moisture naturally, not enough to cause dampness, but enough to keep the air from getting harsh. and the gentle heat from the thermal mass. It’s like the difference between standing next to a hot stove versus sitting in sunshine. One feels aggressive, the other nurturing. By day 19, Thomas’s fever broke.

 By day 22, he was sitting up and asking for food. By day 25, Reverend Cobb came to check on them and found the boy helping his mother weave willow barriers to create interior room divisions. It’s a miracle, Cobb said, removing his hat as he entered. It’s physics, steady warmth, and clean air, Sarah replied. But her voice carried gratitude that went beyond science.

 And neighbors who didn’t let pride stop them from helping someone try something different. The real test came in January. Montana delivered the winter everyone expected. Temperatures dropped to 28 below and stayed there for 11 consecutive days. The wind chill was calculated at 46 below. Marcus Vickery burned through seven logs a day, keeping his cabin livable.

 Johanna Linquist’s family went through two cords in 3 weeks. Sarah Brennan burned 43 logs total for the entire month. She kept meticulous records, not because anyone asked, but because she knew they’d be important. Each morning she noted the outdoor temperature, the indoor temperature before adding fuel, the amount of wood burned, and the indoor temperature 4 hours after the fire.

 The pattern was undeniable. Outdoor temperature 23° F. Indoor pre-fire 61° fire. Wood burned two logs approximately 18 in long, 6 in diameter. Indoor 4 hours postfire 68° fire. The thermal mass created a flywheel effect. Once warm to operating temperature, it took enormous amounts of cold to significantly lower the shelter’s baseline warmth.

 The earth surrounding them on three sides maintained its 48° constant. The 22-in thick south wall absorbed daytime sun through the window and released it gradually overnight. The two-ft earthcovered roof prevented heat from escaping upward while insulating against cold air descending. Wilhelm writer brought his whole family to see it on a day when outdoor temperature hit 31 below.

 This isn’t possible, he kept saying, standing in the comfortable interior wearing just a wool shirt. You’re telling me there’s 69° difference between outside and inside, and you’re maintaining that on a fire the size of what I use for cooking? The shelter’s not fighting the cold, Sarah explained again.

 It’s existing in partnership with the Earth’s natural temperature. We’re adding maybe 20° to what the ground already provides. You’re trying to create 70° from scratch, and you’re losing it through log gaps, roof spaces, cold floors, and every breath of wind that finds a crack. Joseph Kowalsski came to study the construction with professional interest.

 He spent 2 hours examining the wall joints, the flu system, the roof structure. Mrs. Brennan, I’ve been building in stone for 23 years, and I never considered half of what you’ve done here. The Romans knew these principles: thermal mass, hippoc costs for heating. Somehow, we forgot it all in favor of quick log construction.

We didn’t forget, Sarah said. We just started valuing speed over efficiency, timber rights over stonework, what’s easy over what works best. Great plain settlers figured this out because they had no choice. No timber, just earth and desperation. Montana has timber, so nobody bothered to learn from the planes.

 By February, Sarah had visitors almost daily. Homesteaders coming to see the impossible shelter, to check the temperature themselves, to examine the construction. She answered every question, drew diagrams for anyone interested, and freely shared every technique she’d learned or adapted. Marcus Vickery brought his wife and four children. Mrs.

 Brennan, I owe you an apology. I was thinking like a man who knew one way to survive when I should have been learning from people who’d survived in harder places. How much would you charge to help me build something similar? Sarah considered, “I don’t want money, Mr. Vickery. I want a trade. You’ve got that mayor with the good footing on ice.

 I need a reliable horse to get Thomas to church on Sundays. You help me build a small root seller extension using these same principles. We trade work for work and you learn everything I know about earth shelter design in the process. The root seller project became a community education program. Eight families sent members to help dig and build and in exchange each learned the techniques firsthand.

 The excavation went faster with multiple workers. The stone fitting became a shared skill. Wilhelm Ryder contributed his freight hauling experience to calculate proper drainage angles. Joseph Kowalsski taught advanced stone stabilization methods he’d learned in Poland. The root seller, when completed, maintained 44° year round with zero external input.

 Vegetables stored there lasted through spring and into early summer, far longer than conventional storage. The design required no ice harvest, no elaborate ventilation systems, just careful excavation and proper understanding of Earth’s thermal properties. Sarah’s total expenditure for the original shelter, $23.14. $4 for the window, $11 for her original stake, $6 for metal flu pipe she couldn’t fabricate herself, and $2.

14 for nails, hinges, and door latch. Everything else was scavenged, salvaged, bartered, or created from materials freely available on the land. The firewood consumption for the entire winter, November through March, was measured at approximately 1 and 1/3 cords. Marcus Vickery used 4 and 1/2 cords for the same period.

 Johanna Linquist’s family burned six cords. The difference wasn’t trivial. At 2 days of hard labor per cord, cut, split, and stacked, Sarah had saved herself 36 working days of wood harvesting. For a woman alone with a recovering son, that time meant the difference between survival and failure. But the numbers, impressive as they were, didn’t capture the full impact.

 Thomas recovered fully by March and grew stronger than he’d been before the illness. Years later, he attributed his survival to the stable healing environment the shelter provided during the critical fever period. Medical understanding in 1877 didn’t include terms like reduced immune stress from temperature fluctuation, but the frontier experience understood it intuitively.

 Steady warmth heals better than alternating hot and cold. If you’re watching this and recognizing that our ancestors understood things we’ve somehow forgotten in our rush toward modern convenience and you believe this knowledge needs to be preserved and passed forward, I’m asking you to subscribe to this channel. Not for algorithms, not for monetization, but because there are techniques, wisdom, and survival methods that disappear when the last person who remembers them dies.

Every subscriber is a vote that this matters. That frontier knowledge deserves documentation before it’s lost forever. Join us in keeping these stories alive. Sarah Brennan lived in that shelter for four more years before she and Thomas moved to a larger homestead 40 mi north. She sold the original cabin to a newly arrived Swedish family for $68.

 The buyers lived in it for 11 years and reported firewood consumption averaging less than two cords per winter. The design spread quietly through southwestern Montana. By 1882, 17 families had built earth sheltered or semi-sheltered homes using variations of Sarah’s techniques. Historical records from the Montana Territory Land Office show survival rates for homesteaders in earth sheltered dwellings exceeded those in conventional log cabins by 23% during the severe winters of 1880, 1881, and 1886, 1887.

The techniques Sarah employed connected to broader traditions. Anastasi cliff dwellings, the Yaoong cave homes of China, Icelandic turf houses, great plains sod homes, all represented understanding that earth offers thermal stability. Wooden structures cannot match. Modern research validates this. Earth sheltered homes maintain temperatures within a 15 to 20° range using 70 to 85% less energy than conventional construction.

 Marcus Vickery wrote to his brother in Ohio, March 1877. We had a woman here build a shelter that defied everything we thought we knew about winter survival. Used less wood than a cooking fire and stayed warmer than my cabin with two stoves running. She understood something we’d forgotten. That the earth itself is a resource, not just something to build on top of.

 The shelter still exists on private land, part of a working ranch 43 mi southwest of Missoula. The current owner, descended from the Swedish family, maintains it as historical structure. Even without fires, the interior remains stable at 49 to 52° in winter. The roof, after 148 years, shows no structural failure.

 The wild flowers Sarah predicted bloom every spring across the earthcovered surface. Thomas Brennan became a civil engineer and worked on railroad construction throughout the Northwest. In 1903, he published Earth Integrated Structures for Extreme Climates, documenting his mother’s design along with 12 other examples across Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakota Territories.

 The paper found limited audience, but preserved knowledge that might otherwise have vanished. Sarah wasn’t superhuman. She was terrified, working with partial information drawn from conversations and observed techniques. She made mistakes. The first flu design didn’t draw properly. Her door placement created ice buildup. The window leaked until she refined the ceiling technique.

 What made her effective wasn’t perfection, but willingness to attempt something unconventional when conventional wisdom offered no survival path. The frontier was full of ways to die, but also full of opportunities to learn that the right way and the only way weren’t identical. That desperation plus knowledge sometimes equals innovation that comfort never discovers.

 Sarah didn’t set out to revolutionize homesteading. She set out to keep her son alive through winter without resources everyone else considered essential. Her shelter worked because she understood heat, thermal mass, insulation, and Earth’s natural temperature stability. With that understanding, she created comfort from materials others walked past.

 She didn’t need a hardware store or credit or expert contractors. She needed knowledge and willingness to act on it. That pattern appears throughout frontier history. Dry farming techniques that made the great plains viable. Sistern systems capturing rain in arid territories. Root sellers preserving food through brutal seasons.

 All were applications of principle by people who had no choice but to figure it out or fail. Which raises the question, what aren’t we learning now? Because we’re comfortable enough to avoid the pressure that forces innovation. The frontier didn’t make Sarah capable of building that shelter.

 It just made the cost of not trying higher than the cost of trying. The capacity was already there. She synthesized scattered knowledge under pressure into something that worked. That capacity exists in you watching now to look at constraints and ask whether the conventional approach is the only approach or just the familiar one.

 To recognize that this is how it’s done often means this is how it’s been done so far. Sarah Brennan spent $23.19 days building something that kept her family warm all winter on less wood than neighbors burned in a month. But the real story is simpler. A woman refused to accept that impossible odds meant inevitable failure and in that refusal found solutions others hadn’t looked for because they hadn’t needed to.

 Sometimes the best teacher is necessity. Sometimes the best innovation comes from having no other options. And sometimes the most revolutionary ideas are just old wisdom from different places recombined by someone desperate enough to look beyond what everyone nearby already knows. If you found value in this story, if you understand that preserving this kind of knowledge matters, even if you never personally dig into a hillside or build a thermal mass heating system, I’m asking you one last time, subscribe to this channel. Share it with someone who

values practical knowledge and historical wisdom. Because these stories only survive when people choose to keep them alive. Every view, every share, every subscription is a vote that frontier survival skills and traditional building techniques deserve documentation and preservation. Don’t let this knowledge die with the generation that still remembers it.

 Be part of keeping it alive.