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Six-Day Cabin: What We Learned In The Woods

Last month, three friends and I ditched our cramped apartments in New York City, Chicago, and Raleigh and met in a tiny town forty minutes outside of Portland, Oregon. The goal: fulfill our dream of building a cabin in the woods. For six days, we worked to turn a small clearing situated in a stand of stately Douglas Firs into a place of our own. Our fearless leader, a builder by trade, had the right experience to guide the project. But the rest of us were total novices.

6 days, 264 two-by-fours, and a $6,000 budget = A Place Of Our own

Why would a group of twenty-somethings burn a week’s worth of precious vacation days and travel thousands of miles simply to wake up with the sun, lug heavy pieces of wood through rain and mud, and essentially build a fort? It might sound nuts, but we wanted to use our hands for something other than tapping away at a keyboard or smartphone; to be directly responsible for building a place that we can enjoy together in the coming years; to use vacation for creation rather than escape; and, above all, to learn something new.

Despite dozens of small screw ups, as well as a few bigger mistakes, we managed to erect a solid ~200 square foot cabin over 6 days of building. The project consumed 264 two-by-fours, ~40 working hours, 3,000 photos (which add up to this time-lapse video below) and about $6,000 (excluding the land we built on). I returned to Manhattan convinced that there is no better way to spend a week with close friends — a cabin build will beat a week in Cancun every time.

In the hope of inspiring a few more restless city dwellers to briefly trade a laptop for a hammer and the urban forest for a real one—and hopefully have as positive an experience as we did—here’s a snapshot of what we learned in the woods.


Standing in the foundation as dusk settles on Day One.

 Our bodies are meant not just to be used, but to be tired out—and they’re better off when we oblige them.

A day spent carrying wood, walking around a worksite, and swinging a hammer is exhausting (especially if your point of reference is cubicle life), and we all slept so much better for it. It was refreshing to hit the sheets in true need of physical rejuvenation, and we awoke feeling more energized, too. Although a hard day’s labor isn’t feasible for the millions of us in office jobs, it’s important to remember that exercise is not just a countermeasure against a bad diet; it is also a primer for better sleep.

It’s a myth that city living must be at odds with an active, outdoor lifestyle.

Megacities like New York and Chicago might bludgeon us into accepting that city living comes at the expense of an active, “fresh air” lifestyle. Yet, the center of Portland – and its vibrant art scene, live music, great food, museums, professional sports, nightlife, and large population of young people – is less than an hour from our cabin. This project gave the four of us hope that in a city like Portland (or Austin, Seattle, Nashville, the list goes on…) it is possible to put in long hours in an office job and still completely escape for a full weekend outdoors.


To get to and from the build site, we took this path across a newly planted field of rye seed (with the farmer’s permission!)

Even thirty miles from a mid-sized city, light pollution is a major problem.

We built the cabin in a thicket of trees located on a farm outside of Portland and lived on the farm for the week. Epic stargazing was anticipated, but night after night the sky above pulsed with reflections of urban light radiating from Portland and the constellation of smaller cities in its orbit. It is despairing that light from even a mid-sized city can kill a starry night thirty miles away.

A shared goal, even briefly held, can deepen long-term friendships.

Friends might hang out, go to dinner, and party. Good friends might live, work, and/or travel together. Best friends might share years’ worth of common experiences. But even the tightest relationships achieve some sort of plateau of normalcy. The cabin crew has been tight for ages, but being mutually invested in making the Six Day Cabin happen really brought us closer in a way that “life as usual” would not have. It’s hard to pin down, but definitely something we all feel.




Creative play is not just for kids – adults can, and should, play too!

No doubt the world would be pretty weird if “grown ups” spent the day playing tag or building castles out of wooden blocks. But it would do us all good to spend less time on what we are good at and more time letting our guard down, trying new things. Write a bad book. Paint a crappy picture. Build a shoddy cabin. It feeds the mind and soul.

Vacation can be more than mindless leisure, or travel for its own sake.

There is a lot to be gained from an expanded definition of vacation. So many people take “vacation” to mean something like, “sit on a beach with a drink in hand,” or “go to visit museums, restaurants, and monuments in a new city.” While those can be nice ways to spend free time, it was unusually energizing and memorable to spend the week investing in new skills, sleeping on a farm in a town that no travel blogger will ever write about.


Rural Oregon in the early morning during a mid-project lumber run.



The sun sets on Day Three.

There are at least ten ways to use a hammer.

Driving nails. Removing nails. Knocking blocks of wood into a tight space. Ripping holes in a wall. Scratching guide marks into wood and metal. Opening a can of paint. Cleaning the bottom of a boot. Hacking half-sawed wood apart. Measuring equal space between nails. Flattening a roll of metal flashing. … One more week on a worksite, and we could probably learn ten more.

People love a good project. From start to finish, friends and family members were calling and texting us for updates. One friend drove out from Portland to bring us a hearty lunch (complete with nonalcoholic beers, lest a power tool be misused that afternoon) to check out the worksite. Even the guys who sold us lumber at the local Home Depot asked to see a few pictures. Everyone wants a little adventure.

View from the cabin’s back porch. In the future, the logging road that snakes off into the forest will provide entry to the cabin. We shot a time-lapse video of the project from the tripod visible near the bottom of this picture.

View from the cabin’s back porch. In the future, the logging road that snakes off into the forest will provide entry to the cabin. We shot a time-lapse video of the project from the tripod visible near the bottom of this picture.

Behind any finished product are dozens of provisional steps no one will ever see.

You lay a carefully measured foundation only to hide it with four walls and a roof. You support a newly-raised wall with a diagonal floor-to-ceiling two-by-four that gets removed when the second wall goes up. You attach an entire piece of plywood siding just to carve gaping rectangular holes for a door and window. You painstakingly unspool roll after roll of roofing felt only to obscure it with a layer of shingles. It sucks to erase carefully executed work; yet—and this is true in so many pursuit—we must to destroy to create.

Starting to lay the roof on Day Four.

Starting to lay the roof on Day Four.

Processed with VSCOcam with g3 preset


Nailing a provisional strut to support the first wall. It was a crucial step a the time, but that strut was soon removed to make room for the second wall.

Nailing a provisional strut to support the first wall. It was a crucial step a the time, but that strut was soon removed to make room for the second wall.

In building (as in anything) mistakes are inevitable, and most can be fixed.

At one point or another, we made just about every mistake in the book. Buying the wrong lumber (Home Depot, it turns out, does take returns, even if the order weighs a thousand pounds). Hammering nails crookedly. Falling from a stepladder (…yeah, that was me). Butchering a saw job that needed to be straight. Improperly measuring slots for doors and windows. Dropping an entire rafter from fifteen feet in the air. …and these barely scratch the surface.

Prior to installation: salvaged windows that we bought cheaply from recycled home center in downtown Portland.

Prior to installation: salvaged windows that we bought cheaply from recycled home center in downtown Portland.

After every mishap, however, our builder buddy William (the one guy in the group who very much knew what he was doing, as well as what the rest of us were supposed to be doing) devised a creative workaround; then he would share a story about a different time he’d seen the same mistake. He taught us that most mistakes have been made before; they’ll be made again; and a little creative thinking goes a long way.

Turns out you’re supposed to cut on the line, not a quarter inch off of it.

Turns out you’re supposed to cut on the line, not a quarter inch off of it.

Hacking two inches off a wall that was too long. Mistakes are not permanent.

Hacking two inches off a wall that was too long. Mistakes are not permanent.

For extended work and travel, wool clothes cannot be beat.

We packed light. One pair each of pants and shoes. A few pairs of socks. Sweatshirts and rain jackets. And a single wool t-shirt. By the end of the week, our pants and socks were crusty with dirt and grime and didn’t smell great. Yet, our wool t-shirts remained soft and barely smelled. How is this possible?—It turns out wool is naturally anti-microbial, wrinkle resistant, and durable (6x stronger than cotton!). So there’s no better fabric for extended work or travel outdoors.

The interior on Day Five.

The interior on Day Five.

A lot can be accomplished in the absence of a computer.

“But I can’t leave my phone at home… I’ll miss a week’s worth of emails, Snapchats, and updates from the ESPN app. NO!” So many of us are developing a phobia of disconnectedness, rooted in the feeling that nothing in work or life can get done without a laptop or smartphone.

Spic ‘n span on Day Six.

Spic ‘n span on Day Six.


On the build site we operated on Airplane Mode, occasionally snapping a picture or two but using our phones for nothing else. It was great to be reminded that Google searches and Quora feeds are no substitute for picking up a hammer, saw, or piece of wood—no substitute for doing something. A lot can be done in the absence of 4G, Wifi, a search bar, and a keyboard.

The “a place of our own” ideal is totally achievable—and can even be pretty cheap.

We all came into this project with aspirations of creating a space where we can come to slow down, live simply, and kick back. We left having answered some fundamental questions:

Is 200 sq. ft. enough space? For three or four friends to spend the weekend, yes; we’ll spend most of our time outside and use the interior mainly to cook and sleep. Beyond that, it’d definitely be a tight squeeze.

Is a house like this livable longer term? It’s hard to say until we finish the interior. Even then, the answer is probably something like “It’s probably fine for me, but my girlfriend would hate it. And my mom wouldn’t visit.” We’re working on that…

Can we build a habitable space affordably? Between lumber (~$6,000), decorating the interior with rugs, blankets, bedding, etc. (this is in-progress, but let’s liberally say ~$1000), and acquiring tools (ours were borrowed, but let’s add another few $K for tools), a project like this should cost ~$10,000 excluding land (we borrowed that, too). That’s not cheap; but if you split the cost amongst four or five friends and can get a mortgage on a cheap parcel of land, it’s definitely doable for a group of young people who have worked full-time for a few years (especially if everyone forgoes the annual trip to Vegas or Miami… stop wasting all that coin!)


Wood—even thick, heavy pieces-is unbelievably flexible.

Walk down the aisles of Home Depot, and the multi-story piles of lumber look like they’re made up of perfectly horizontal slices of wood. But load up a trundle with twenty two-by-fours and you’ll be lucky to have a single one that looks dead straight upon closer examination. At first we were miffed—“how can you build a structure with bent wood?” But throughout the week we learned just how flexible wood can be when manipulated with care. With a nail gun to anchor it and a hammer to make adjustments, a two(in)-by-four(in)-by-twelve(ft) can safely bend an inch or two on each end—so half an inch here or there is not the end of the world.

Given the way trees sway in a storm and schoolchildren bend wood pencils, perhaps this should come as no surprise… but we thought it was cool.

There will always be ways to make your cabin (or anything else) better; but sometimes enough is enough.

Had we spent a month building the cabin rather than a week, inevitably there would still be months or years worth of potential improvements to be made. Painting, sanding, insulating, decorating, shelving, bedding, seating, heating, plumbing… the list goes on. No doubt we’ll continue to improve the cabin over time, but—with four walls, a roof, and a place to sleep—it has already exceeded our wildest expectations. Sometimes enough is enough.


Story and photographs by Aaron Flack and Mac Bishop. To see the entire build, please visit

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