Be among the first.

We found it on a June morning, the fog still sitting low in the pasture, and we knew inside the first ten minutes. Not from a listing photo, not from a drone shot — from standing in the wet grass and feeling the ground actually rise and fall the way good land does, meadow to ridge to creek and back again.

The meadow runs long and open where the lodge will sit, catching the evening sun until the last possible minute. Above it, the ridge climbs into pine and hardwood, dark enough at night that the sky opens up completely — that’s where the domes are going, under glass, under stars. Between the two, a creek that never once, in a dozen walks, sounded the same way twice.

We stood at the top of the ridge that first afternoon and could see clean across the valley, and neither of us said anything for a while. Some land you have to be talked into. This land talked to us first.

We’re still walking it most mornings, still learning where the fog sits and which ridge holds the last light. Every stake we drive is a small answer to a question the land already asked. We’ll keep writing as it becomes real — this is the first letter, not the last.