I was about nine years old and had just finished my second novel by James Fenimore Cooper. The descriptions of what life was like for Native Americans and early American settlers inspired me to build a hut in the woods behind my house.

It was a typically cool mid-August morning around Limekiln Lake. The air pulled back its nighttime chilly wave of air and gave way to a warm respectable day-perfect for a construction project.

I hunted around the garage for some tools that might help me build a sturdy hut similar to the drawings I saw on page 155 of the Deerslayer book.

The sketches showed sticks bent in a domed shape and covered with bark and boughs to make the hut weather-proof.

In the garage I found a bow saw, hatchet and a spool of old rusty wire my dad used for Beaver trapping.

I slipped the spool of wire over the hatchet handle and set out with my tools to find the perfect location for my hut.

I tried to make my way up the hill on an old Deer trail next to the trickle of a stream, but the ground there was too wet. I moved further away from the gully to dryer ground.

I hiked along for about a half-mile in search of a building site and some good building materials. I halted at a flat spot next to two very large boulders.

The area was covered in a bed of ferns which I felt would make a good ground cover for the hut.

I dropped my tools and scanned around the area for saplings that might work well for the super structure.

There was an abundance of good stuff growing nearby. I picked up the bow saw and began cutting away to make some large saplings smaller.

I cut for over an hour and had accumulated a pretty good pile of materials.

Most of the wood was very flexible, so I had no trouble bending it into perfect half loops.

However, keeping it bent was another story altogether.

Every time I stuck one end in the ground and bent it into a bowed shape, it would spring back up into its naturally straight condition.

But with a bit of boyhood ingenuity and a lot of Beaver wire I finally managed to create something that resembled a skeletal dome.

Hours had passed in creating the framework of the hut, and my enthusiasm to cover it with brush to complete the project had diminished.

Instead, I laid down atop the bed of ferns inside my hut. I folded my knees so I could fit within its walls.

I wondered if the natives in James Fenimore Cooper’s books would have accepted my hut in their village, eventhough I had forgotten to make room for a doorway.

Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Big Moose Lake.ltmitch3rdny@aol.com