DIY Yurt Mistakes in Alaska, Budget Trade-Offs, and a Lesson in Humility

Seven Second Version:
We were exhausted, out of time, and out of answers. So we picked up the phone. Turns out humility can build a yurt faster than pride ever could.

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Our Alaskan Yurt Build Nearly Stalled—Until We Called for Help

The yurt was up… kind of. The bones were there, we had even framed some interior walls! But, I had hit a wall of my own. There were no instructions for how to secure some of the final yurt components, and the yurt company was too busy to pick up the phone. Not even obscure instructions. No instructions. Just a mostly-ish built circle of frustration with holes in the roof.

But before we could figure out the next steps, the Lord opened another door.

Some generous friends had just bought a “fixer upper” right across the street. We had been praying for a way to live closer to our Alaska homestead while finishing the yurt, and this was an unexpected answer. It wasn’t an escape plan—it was a provision. This place needed work—a lot of it. I won’t go into the whole saga here, but let’s just say it began with hauling out three feet of trash bags… and the demolition of a second-story deck that had been marinating in what we’ll politely call trash juice. My in-laws and our friends—who had just become our across-the-street neighbors and the owners of this new project—jumped in to help transform the first floor into a livable apartment.

That build ended with a beautiful—and mostly finished—apartment. There were a few things I meant to circle back on, but between chipping in a good chunk of the yurt budget and raising two kids under two, they just… never happened. The cabinets had no doors. One window had no sill or trim. But we were in. And at that point, that felt like a miracle.

We moved in. Dropped from exhaustion. And our in-laws, whose visit was supposed to last two or three weeks, finally headed home… six months later. We were so grateful for their help and presence—but now, it was just us again. A family of four. Two kids under two. A full-time job. And an unfinished yurt staring back at me.

I was stuck. I didn’t want to put more holes where they didn’t belong. I’d already had enough of that (see: roof punctured by 75 mph windstorms – https://www.yurtsteadalaska.com/how-to-put-a-roof-on-a-yurt-or-at-least-try-not-to-launch-it-into-orbit/). I needed help.

So I swallowed my pride and picked up the phone. After a couple tries, I finally got through.

The yurt company was still too busy to send their own crew, but they gave me the number of an experienced Alaska yurt builder who used to work for them. I called him. He showed up with two other guys a few days later.

I was a sponge. I watched. I helped. I asked every question I could think of. I learned that I’d made a few mistakes—not because I was careless, but because I didn’t know what I didn’t know. They corrected them, we got everything taut and tight, sealed (minus those holes in the roof… did I mention there were HOLES IN MY ROOF?!), and secured.

It wasn’t cheap. And it definitely took the shine off the whole “totally DIY” badge. But honestly, I was okay with that. I hope I continue to grow to not be the kind of person who has to be the hero of every story. Sometimes, you need to ask for help. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is admit you’re not the expert.

With the yurt finally sealed up, there was still one last critical piece—getting the woodstove vent installed before deep winter, which would be back before we knew it. So I rigged up a rope ladder and climbed onto a “redneck stand’n platform” strapped to the very top of the dome—22 feet in the air. Probably not OSHA approved… but let’s be honest, “not OSHA approved” is kind of the unofficial standard around here.

The yurt was standing—but we still had a lot of work ahead of us to set it up as a full-time residence. The snow was melting. Summer was around the corner. But more importantly, I could feel my own people—my wife, my kids—needing me to shift focus. Even with the in-laws’ help, that winter had been hard on my little family. I had been working an 8.5-hour job, then building for another 8 hours most nights.

I had been so focused on building shelter that I forgot I was also building a family. Sleeping little. Thinking constantly about the next material order, or build hurdle to surmount. Showing up for my family, but with next to nothing left in the tank. I hadn’t been gone—but I hadn’t been all there either.

I wasn’t just physically tired—I was running on spiritual and relational fumes.
It was time to stop building onto something, and start building into someone.

My wife. My kids. My walk with the Lord.

We needed to rebuild what we’d quietly traded for progress: connection. Margin. Stillness.
I needed to shift from being a project manager to being a husband again. From being a builder to being a dad. From being roommates to being a family.

So for a little while, that became the project. To not just build a yurt, but build a marriage. To not just construct walls, but cultivate warmth in my home.

The yurt was finally up. We were living across the street in a space the Lord had provided. A new season was beginning.

And this one started not with self-sufficiency—but with humility.

God had answered prayer in a way we never would’ve predicted: not by helping us muscle through, but by putting people in our lives to carry the load with us—and at times, for us. From faithful and generous in-laws, to church family who jumped in with labor, meals, childcare, encouragement, and prayer. From neighbors who became teammates, to friends who made time even when it cost them—it was never really about what I could build.

It was about what He was building in us.