# I Spent 15 Days in the Mountains and Built a Log House by Myself
There’s something primal about the idea of building your own shelter with nothing but your hands, a few tools, and the raw materials nature provides. Last month, I turned that idea into reality. I spent 15 days in the mountains, completely alone, and built a log house from scratch. What started as a fleeting thought became a test of endurance, skill, and sheer willpower.
The journey began with a simple plan: find a secluded spot, gather resources, and construct a small, functional cabin. I chose a forested ridge at about 6,000 feet elevation, surrounded by towering pines and a chorus of birdsong. With no electricity, no Wi-Fi, and no one to lean on, I packed an axe, a saw, a hatchet, some rope, and enough food to last me—barely. The rest, I figured, the mountain would provide.
Day one was humbling. Felling my first tree—a modest pine about 12 inches thick—took hours. My hands blistered, my back ached, and the tree didn’t fall where I wanted it to. But as it crashed to the ground, I felt a surge of triumph. Over the next few days, I learned to notch logs with the axe, stripping bark and shaping them into rough beams. The process was slow, but each log stacked atop the next brought a strange satisfaction.
The design was basic: a 10-by-12-foot rectangle with a slanted roof. I leveled the ground with a makeshift shovel—really just a flat rock tied to a stick—and laid a foundation of stones to keep the logs off the damp earth. By day five, the walls were knee-high, and I’d settled into a rhythm: chop, haul, notch, stack. The forest became my hardware store; fallen branches turned into pegs, and moss stuffed into gaps served as insulation.
The solitude was both a gift and a challenge. Mornings were serene, with mist curling through the trees and the crackle of my fire as my only company. But by night, every rustle in the underbrush had me gripping my hatchet a little tighter. I’d sit by the fire, staring at the stars, wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Yet, each sunrise renewed my resolve.
The roof was the hardest part. On day 11, with the walls finally shoulder-high, I wrestled with how to cap it off. I settled on a simple A-frame of thinner logs lashed together with rope, covered with a lattice of branches and a thick layer of pine needles. It wasn’t pretty, but it held up against a surprise rainstorm on day 13—a victory I celebrated with an extra spoonful of beans.
By day 15, my hands were calloused, my clothes filthy, and my little log house stood complete. It wasn’t perfect—gaps in the walls let in drafts, and the roof sagged slightly—but it was mine. I’d built it alone, with no blueprints or YouTube tutorials, just instinct and persistence.
Stepping back to admire it, I felt a mix of exhaustion and pride. Those 15 days taught me more about resilience than years in the civilized world ever could. The mountains gave me shelter, but I gave myself a home. And that, I think, is worth every splinter and sore muscle
