Foster Huntington was an up-and-comer in the New York fashion industry. Then he ditched it all and built his own personal paradise in the sky. —“Escape to Bro-topia," the Times.

Photograph by Kyle Johnson / The New York Times / Redux

Day had just broken over Oregon, cold and pink and purple like a Hypercolor T-shirt strung across the horizon, when the man turned to his tools. To the east, SCOBYs of cloud snaked back toward the man's friends, who still lived in the Bushwick co-op. To the west, a dark chasm dipped its Havaianas into the Pacific. In between, the Great Turntable hummed, blanketed in miles of forest.

The man had in hand cedar planks, with which he planned to build a hexagonal tree house before night fell. He was new to the land, having just quit his job as a brand manager, and was hewing to blueprints he had earlier Instagrammed. He had gotten some tips on building a small-carbon-footprint habitat from a local man who counselled him to prioritize securing shelter over rigging up a sick bike lift. Still, he moved slowly, for he was not a native builder, more like a guy who whittles sticks for fun.

The animal, a French bulldog, watched the man, not understanding why this project of building a cabin halfway up a tree had earned the man a book deal, but knowing that the man would continue to provide her with morsels of grain sausage if she wore the little Patagonia backpack without complaint for the photos.

Somewhere not too far off, the man knew his friends Taylor and Corey were wending their way to him in a Kombi van, bringing the large screen onto which they would project "Ghostbusters II" beneath the stars. The thought warmed the man's heart and he turned back to his task with an easy mind.

He had assembled the wood for a deck and was now hauling it up the tree in bundles, Prusiking up alongside. From there the view was immense—the land stretched for miles without a single solitary microbrewery. Thickets of pines swayed, indifferent to the man's exceedingly narrow pant-cut. As he hammered an anchor into the tree's trunk, it oozed green, but this did not worry him, for his thoughts were on the 1975's new album. He kept hammering and dropping nails through midday, stopping only for a bite of a Bobo's Oat Bar.

The animal watched, knowing instinctually that it would be difficult to hoist a forty-pound bag of dog food up a bike lift, and she felt in her bones, borne of the earth, that Amazon Prime wouldn't deliver here.

Woodland creatures settled into hollows and birds gathered their chicks, but the man barely noticed that, at thirty-three degrees, it was far too cold for his threadbare vintage Boys and Girls Club tee.

He trusted that his friends would be there very soon—it did not occur to him that his former bandmates might have stopped for a brunch of millet pancakes and bloodies in a nearby town. So, too, was he unaware that Jessie, his sometimes ex who had most recently left him to build and live in a beautiful tiny home with her beautiful tiny boyfriend, had already moved on: the tiny home was growing dusty in a storage facility outside Portland, while she filled out law-school applications.

As dusk fell, the man began to think that maybe climbing sandals weren't the best footwear, nor cotton Dickies the best outer layer for his task. He remembered that he had some Cloud Veil Soft-Shell pants in his rucksack, and went to get them, but this proved exceedingly difficult in fingerless gloves.

Using his insensate fingers like chopsticks, he stirred the contents of the pack, hoping the pants would rise to the surface like a fish cake in a bowl of tonkotsu ramen. Finally, the man found his pants and hopped around on frozen feet, trying to get them on.

The dog watched, frowning—but naturally, as a condition of her heavy breeding. The man's dance filled the animal with doubt: if the man could not finish a tree-house shelter, would the dog receive her asthma medicine? She resolved to crouch inside one of the man's down booties and wait for help. The man was always meeting up with other men who smelled like goat milk, sandalwood, and sweat. Surely one would be there soon.

The man had stopped hopping and was now propped up against the tree trunk with an impotent look on his face. The dog flattened her ears and howled—well, yipped the best she could with her breathing issues—and resolved to abandon the man for any living being who could better provide an Instagrammable cabin.