Surviving Alaska’s Mud Season: Family, Delays, and Lessons from the Yurt Build

Seven-Second Version:
Amid Alaska’s mud season, lumber delays, and a bittersweet season of mourning and rejoicing, I was reminded—sometimes the wisest step isn’t to push harder… it’s simply to follow.

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Spring Breakup Season: Mud, Mess, and Making Time for Family in Alaska

After a long, full Alaska winter packed with yurt building projects and life here on the property, I knew it was time to slow down a bit.

Breakup season had arrived—that stretch of spring in Alaska when the snow melts, but the ground stays frozen solid, turning everything beyond the driveway into a muddy mess. Thankfully, our gravel driveway stayed firm—but the lumber drop was still far enough from the yurt to make moving everything an ordeal.

At the same time, pandemic supply chain issues had driven building costs through the roof—by nearly 280% in some cases. What I’d originally budgeted for our yurtstead build had been swallowed up by skyrocketing lumber prices and shipping delays. Every board felt like gold, and every new project came with the weight of wondering if it was wise to push forward at that moment.

I knew I needed to pause and be present with my family more—but I also wasn’t ready to stop the build entirely. So, I decided to keep moving forward—just at a slower, more deliberate pace, with more space for family in the mix.

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Lumber Delivery Delayed Into Alaska’s Breakup Season

I had planned the lumber delivery carefully—hoping it would arrive while the ground was still frozen and solid. That way, we could unload everything without getting stuck in the mud.

But like everything else during that season, pandemic supply chain delays got in the way. The delivery showed up weeks late—right in the thick of breakup season, when the ground was soft, muddy, and messy. The path from my driveway to the stairs was a cobbled together gangplank of construction waste over calf deep mud.

According to the paperwork, it was literally a ton of wood. But with the yurt set back a ways from the driveway and everything beyond it a sloppy mess, they had no choice but to drop it at the driveway’s edge—far enough away that moving it by hand became a full-on chore.

And then, life shifted again.

As I stared at that mountain of lumber, I got the call: My grandmother—Nanny—had passed away.

Though her health had been slipping, the news still landed hard. My wife and I wanted to fly back to Pennsylvania for her funeral—but now, I had this huge lumber order sitting outside, and there was no way I could finish the yurt loft framing before we left.

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Building Lessons: Moving a Ton of Lumber by Hand in Alaska

Leaving it outside wasn’t an option. With supply chain shortages still raging, a 2x8x16 was nearly worth as much as a bar of gold and lumber theft wasn’t uncommon—and I’d already heard stories of building supplies disappearing from other job sites.

So, I improvised.

Rather than hauling everything on foot over the muddy ground or trying to navigate awkward paths, I pulled off the sheathing below a window and passed every board through by hand—one piece at a time—directly into the yurt.

Honestly? I’m convinced that building projects like this are about 75% moving materials from one spot to another—over and over—before you even start actually building anything.

Anyone else feel that way? Or is it just me?

I finished that lumber haul around 8 p.m.—and two hours later, we were loading our two-year-old and seven-month-old into the car for a classic Alaska red-eye flight to the Lower 48.

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Finding Rest, Family, and Faith Beyond Alaska

That trip back to Pennsylvania became more than just a funeral. It was a needed reset.

We gathered with family, sharing stories about Nanny—her love for Jesus, her faithfulness, and her joy in sharing the gospel with others. My heart was heavy knowing I wouldn’t get to call her during those quieter workdays anymore—our phone conversations had been a steady comfort throughout the build. But there was peace and deep joy, too, knowing she was home with her Savior.

Funny enough, as I passed that heavy lumber through the window back in Alaska, one of her old Sunday School songs kept running through my head:

“My Lord knows the way through the wilderness; all I have to do is follow.
Strength for today is mine all the way, and all I need for tomorrow.
My Lord knows the way through the wilderness; all I have to do is follow.”

Her passing didn’t leave me uncertain—my heart was sad but steady, full of both mourning and rejoicing.
It was the build that felt uncertain. Costs were high. Progress was slow. I wasn’t sure how—or when—it would all come together.

That little song became my quiet anchor as I kept working through those unknowns.

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Choosing Margin: Slowing the Yurtstead Build for Family Time

While we were back East, I made a conscious decision—not just to keep the build moving, but to protect more time for family along the way.

I called my friend and neighbor—a fantastic carpenter and general contractor—and hired him to finish framing the yurt loft floor and install the tongue-and-groove flooring. My brother-in-law, who had recently moved to Alaska, had been working with him, and together they knocked it out not long after we returned.

By the way if you need a fantastic contractor check out https://cottonwoodcarpentry.com/ and let him know Jared at Yurstead Alaska sent you.

It wasn’t just about finishing faster. It was about freeing up a little more time in my evenings and weekends for what mattered most in that season—being with my wife and kids, and creating some breathing room after everything we’d walked through – a busy building winter, birth of a child, the death of a loved one and learning to be a family of 4 through it all.

Soon after we got back, breakup season gave way to green. Grass from the seed I’d scattered in our clearing began to sprout. Trees budded out.

And there, on our front porch, my favorite visitors stopping by—my wife and the kids coming out to visit Daddy while I worked nearby. Those simple little visits, and the bright colors smeared across the porch, felt like signs of life returning after the long, hard winter.

The next chapter of the yurtstead build had officially begun.

I remember thinking, Surely we must be close to done by now… right?
Oh, poor Jared. I still had two more years ahead before it would be finished but I didn’t know that then.

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Life Lessons from Alaska Yurt Building: Slowing Down Can Be the Wiser Move

That muddy spring reminded me of something I’m still learning:

Not every season is meant for fast progress.

Sometimes the wiser move isn’t to push harder—but to slow down. To make space for family, for mourning and rejoicing, for rest—even if it means the project takes longer than you hoped. To slow down, but not to stop and give up. Not to burn out.

And as I learned to slow my pace, that little Sunday School song from Nanny kept coming back:

“My Lord knows the way through the wilderness; all I have to do is follow.”

Turns out, those two lessons go hand in hand.
Slowing down isn’t just about patience—it’s about trust.
Trusting that the path doesn’t have to be rushed.
Trusting that the wilderness—whether it’s muddy ground or a bittersweet season of life—has a Guide.

Sometimes the best progress doesn’t come from pushing faster…
but from simply following where the Lord leads.