Handcrafted Percussion & Cabin Life | Why the Northern Woods Still Call to Me

Handcrafted Percussion & Cabin Life | Why the Northern Woods Still Call to Me

There’s a certain kind of life I’ve always been drawn to. Not a fast life. Not a loud one. But one that’s rooted, still, and honest. A life shaped not by urgency and convenience, but by rhythm, season, and land. The older I get, the more I understand that the work I do in my shop isn’t separate from that life—it’s part of it. It’s a way to stay grounded in a world that often seems determined to pull us away from what matters.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve carried this vision with me: a small cabin in the northern woods. The kind of place where the winters come early and stay late. Where the summers are short but deeply alive. Where the cold doesn’t care, and your comfort depends on whether or not you were prepared. A place where the wind doesn’t ask permission to speak, and the snow doesn’t wait for your approval.

It’s not about isolation. It’s about integration—about living in harmony with something larger than yourself. The kind of life where you rise with the sun because there’s wood to chop, food to gather, and quiet work to be done. Where everything matters, and nothing is wasted. It’s not ease I’m chasing—it’s meaning.

That dream, though, isn’t something I’m waiting for in the future. In many ways, I’m already living a version of it right here in the shop. The tools may be different, and the heat might come from a small stove instead of a wood fire, but the heart of it is the same.

When I build a cajon or any handcrafted percussion instrument, I’m not just assembling materials—I’m working in partnership with them. Each piece of wood carries its own story: shaped by wind, rain, and time. When I choose a slab of walnut or a faceplate of figured maple, I’m not just picking for tone or appearance. I’m selecting something that once stood tall in the forest. Something that lived.

My job is to honor that. Not just the life it had before it came to me, but the life it will have after it leaves. That drum will go on to be part of someone else’s rhythm. Their moments. Their voice. And it should be worthy of that.

This isn’t mass production. It’s craft. I don’t cut corners. I don’t add features just to impress. I build with purpose, not flash. I believe the work should speak for itself—quietly, confidently, and honestly. Just like the northern woods.

My shop is a reflection of that. It’s quiet. Focused. There’s no rush here—only rhythm. And sometimes, while I’m sanding a faceplate or sealing the inside of a shell, my mind drifts further north.

To Alaska.

Not the cruise ship version or the neatly packaged idea people post online. The real Alaska. The one that doesn’t care who you are or what you think you deserve. The one that strips away illusion and reminds you how small you really are. Man has tried to conquer it, and failed. That’s why it still matters.

Alaska lives by the laws we’ve forgotten. It doesn’t bend to your comfort. It doesn’t wait for your convenience. It demands respect. That’s not harshness—it’s truth. And I’ve always felt drawn to that kind of truth. Not because I want to run away from life—but because I want to meet it where it’s still real.

I think about what it would mean to live in that kind of place. To wake up and know that survival depends on your preparation, not your preferences. To live in rhythm with the land, not above it. That’s the kind of life that strips away the unnecessary and leaves you with what actually matters: warmth, food, presence, and peace that comes from living in harmony with nature.

I don’t know if I’ll ever live in that cabin. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But I do know this: every time I step into the shop… every time I brace a shell or seal a faceplate or choose a piece of wood that feels just right… I’m not just building a drum.

I’m building a life.

And every time I do it, I feel one step closer to that cabin in the woods.