Ten years ago, when we moved to Tennessee into what a dear friend once called a "shack in the woods," we had a vision for what it could be. That vision included a small guest cabin for anyone who wanted to come visit. We dubbed it The Bunkhouse.
I drew up hundreds of cabin designs. Mason kept telling me to make it smaller.
I flagged which trees to take down make room for my vision. Mason revved up the chainsaw.
I sat at my writing desk and stared out the window at that clearing we created. Mason stalled.
"Let me build a carport. I promise, after the carport, we can start the bunkhouse," he bargained. The double carport was finished less than a month before Mason decided to add onto it, making room for the spare car we decided to keep, because when you drive 20-year-old-plus vehicles, one is always on the fritz. Then it seemed silly not to add a fourth stall for the 1949 International Cub tractor that we rarely use.
Finally, three years ago, Mason held true to his word. I came home dirty and stinking from working at the garden nursery one day and he had drawn up his own plan. Hallelujah! Of course I knew I would redesign it, but his graph paper sketch showed more than a floor plan. It showed Mason was finally all in!
But could we afford it? When we started scratching at the dirt with cinderblocks that would form the bunkhouse's foundation, we guessed the project would cost us about $15,000. We vowed to log every receipt and keep track. We weren't sure how we were going to wheedle that kind of money out of our tight budget, but I was determined.
By the fall of 2018, we had built the foundation of a 20-foot-by-16-foot cabin, with a 6x12 utility room. We had just started the walls when we had to bury our 14-year-old dog, Nick, who’s health had been declining for the past year. The project was a well-timed gift, a distraction from the hole in our hearts.
The first wall went up with my sister and brother-in-law’s help; we never could have raised that 26-foot-long piece by ourselves. (Later on, a neighbor and his son helped us lift a 6-foot-wide window into place, but those were the only two times we didn’t do all of the work ourselves.)
That winter, we worked nearly every day. On freezing mornings, I spent the first hour of the workday chipping ice off the subfloor so we could safely walk and work atop ladders installing a massive center beam and cross supports that would hold up a cathedral ceiling.
I really hoped that we built that center beam strong enough. I still can’t believe I was strong enough to help install it. We really, really needed to keep working hard so we could get that roof on.
Once it’s dried-in, Mason said, we would be able to take a few days off.
Well, in early January, sooner than we expected, we found ourselves taking a day off to race to a nearby animal shelter and rescue a dog whose face we fell in love with. Layla was meant for Flat Top Mountain. She’s an outdoor girl, and after a few weeks of forced cabin time to ensure her newfound loyalty to us, she would soon spend her days hanging at the base of the bunkhouse, watching us work, chasing the occasional squirrel and waiting for our lunch break and her evening walk.
I remember a 30-degree day in late January shingling the roof. While Mason climbed down and up the ladder for the 20th time, heaving unbelievably heavy bundles of shingles over his shoulder, I laid down in the valley between the cabin and utility room roofs, seeking refuge from the north wind and soaking in the sun’s warmth off the black shingles. It was almost pleasant, until I had to get up to work again.
Once the roof was done, we did take a few days off. Then we launched into window installation. The 8-foot-wide window on the back wall involved scaffolding, pulleys and lines — all born from Mason’s imagination in yet another Rube Goldberg rig that allowed two aging beer drinkers to lift way more than they should have been able to.
There was a 150-foot-long ditch for the propane and electrical lines to dig. And digging a 5-foot-by-5-foot-by-5-foot-deep pit for the septic tank, renting a jack hammer to finish the job. Then digging the leech lines.
Then Mason decided he wanted to side the cabin with cedar shakes, which are utterly charming, but super labor intensive compared with 4x8-foot sheets of siding. By the time he was done, so was summer.
Launching into wiring and plumbing, Mason realized we might have room to add a washer and dryer in the utility room. If you’ve ever been to a Soddy-Daisy laundromat, you would realize how exciting this was. It was just about when the COVID pandemic hit when I had finished drywalling the laundry room and Mason had finished installing the washer and dryer. Now we had one fewer reasons to go to town and mingle with the unmasked masses.
Next we finished out the bathroom, because a second bathroom is always a good thing. The shower is large, and the tiling project was a nightmare. The rest of the space is very small, forcing us to create an unconventional vanity.
The rest of 2020 was spent finishing out the main area: drywall, trim, tongue-and-groove ceiling, flooring, painting, wood stove. Oh, and the small kitchenette, complete with propane cooktop for that morning coffee! We might still add a small fridge for that cold beer.
The last few months were spent rounding up the decor, everything kindly gifted from good friends who are downsizing and from family (all the art in the cabin is by my mom). The only furniture we had to buy was the $100 couch, which folds out into a full-size bed, allowing the bunkhouse to sleep three, or maybe four if two are small kids. Larger families will get to stay in the big cabin, and Mason and I get to stay in the bunkhouse!
All those receipts? We tallied them up to a whopping $22,000. We were shocked, because we didn’t splurge on anything, and luckily we bought all our lumber before the COVID price spike. But if I did the math right, that’s just $55 per square foot, which is about $150 less than the average rate here in Chattanooga.
So, $22,000 and nearly three years later, the bunkhouse is ready! Who’s ready to be the first (vaccinated) guest?
(The next project, you ask? I’m rallying for a greenhouse; Mason wants a “line shack” down by the creek on our new property.) We’ll see …
