A Hut in the Woods

One summer, when I was about ten or eleven years old, I decided to build a hut in my backyard. I don’t quite remember what inspired me to start building the hut, but in retrospect it was most likely out of boredom and the desire to feel at peace. My desire to be secluded was not in reaction to anything that was going on inside my home; in fact, I quite liked the modern furnishings that I was accustomed to enjoying. Instead, I think I was interested in what it would be like to create a special, secret place in which I could reflect. Also, that previous spring for my fifth grade English class I read My Side of the Mountain, by Jean Craighead George. The novel is about a twelve-year-old boy, Sam, who runs away from his home and decides to live in the Catskill Mountains. While I initially found Sam’s life choices to be a bit foolish, if not downright insane, he did create an interesting house from within the trunk of a dead tree. To a privileged private schooler, the thought of living simply and within one’s own means sounded foreign, daring, and thus arguably appealing. In the book, Sam also befriended a peregrine falcon, a weasel, and a raccoon. While the latter seemed a bit too Disney-ish for my tastes, the construction of a modest hut seemed somewhat doable.

Finding the location for my hut was fairly easy. I began walking around the property of my house, which is surrounded by woods, in order to find the perfect spot. About twenty yards or so from the lawn was a dried out gully that was covered with leaves. A fallen tree laid near the top of the gully, with its branches extending over the gully’s opening. Since I lacked any formal knowledge of hut building, I merely began stacking sticks and twigs against the tree’s branches until it seemed as though hardly any sunlight shone through into the gully. Even though my hut was not in the slightest comparable to Sam’s stylish and functional abode, I remember feeling a new sense of accomplishment as I gazed upon what I had constructed. In regard to Thoreau’s construction of his home, I might have agreed with him that true architectural beauty lay in the simplicity of the dwelling, which did not need ornate furnishings to enhance its appearance (35-6). I was more interested, however, in the amenities that lay directly outside my hut. While I had been gathering sticks off of the forest floor for my hut, I began to see the sunlight shine off of objects that were protruding from beneath the leaves. Upon further investigation I realized that various glass jars and bottles were buried throughout the “front yard” of my hut. I instantly was interesting in excavating these “artifacts,” as I thought they might be valuable due to their apparent old age. Various inscriptions that had been whittled into the trunks of surrounding oak trees also intrigued me. As I looked at the mysterious initials and messages “J.T.&M.P. ’68,” “Paul ’45,” and “Eat Shrooms, ’82,” I wondered if any of these messages revealed something about my neighborhood’s past. In retrospect, I am reminded by Thoreau’s quote regarding why he went to Walden Pond: “My purpose…was not to live cheaply nor to live dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest obstacles…” (17). My dreams of profit and recognition, however, were quickly dispelled when I showed my mom the new discoveries. She told me to be careful not to cut myself on the broken glass and said I better not open the mildew-laden jars that my dad had unethically decided to dump into the woods some years previous. As for the messages, she merely told me that they were most likely written by some mischievous teenagers that wanted to deface private property. Not only did this information ruin my chances at potentially making a profit and gaining notoriety, but it also took some of the magic and mystery out of my sacred place.

In the months that followed, I would return to the spot sporadically and play games there or just sit and ponder. The hut was very small and could house no more than myself and perhaps a friend. The only furniture pieces in the hut were two roughly shaped rocks that were used as chairs. Gradually, after numerous summer storms and winter snowfalls, my hut began to fall apart and I did not see the point in constantly rebuilding it. I remember gazing out the window and seeing the frame of the hut slowly diminish, until all traces of that small, but interesting part of my childhood disappeared from within the woods.