One Night in a Leaf-Shelter in the Woods: What it can teach us.

It smells mossy, cold, and like stars. I'm lying on a thick pile of leaves under a narrow roof made of rotten branches. It's January, almost freezing, midnight, and I'm alone in the forest. In a shelter—made of leaves. Now you might ask yourself: What the fuck? Have I gotten lost somewhere? Yes and no. In October 2025 I started to go back to school to become a wilderness educator. You think that just means spiritual blah and memorizing a few tree names? Definitely no, because wilderness education is one thing above all else: wild. Not just outside in nature, but especially inside of you. It's about leaving your comfort zone behind, overcoming fears, gaining experience, and self-efficacy—meaning the ability to firmly believe in yourself when facing major challenges and to successfully master the situation on your own. And the path to get there is not paved with rose petals, but leads to places that are scary, cold, uncomfortable, and unfamiliar. That's why, after the first module, we were given the homework assignment of building our own emergency shelter – out of branches and leaves, in the forest – and sleeping in it for at least one night. Well, I could have done that in spring or summer. Or in a place where I hadn't already died of fear alone in a tent a year and a half ago. 

But after I built this shelter in the weeks before Christmas “just for fun” to see if I could do it, it suddenly grabbed me. Right after New Year's, when it was really cold. “I'm going to do this now!” I said out loud to myself and then laughed. Absurd. Why would I do that? 
Because I know about the incredible power of overcoming fears. The inestimable value of experience. The freedom I gain when I push the boundaries from “I can't do this” to “I did it.” This a story of re-connecting with nature, courage, learning, frost, and a squirrel. 
Yes, a squirrel.

If you've had a bad experience in a place, go back and change its meaning. One of my favorite sayings. A year and a half ago, I had the idea of spending a night alone in my tent for the first time, here in my little forest in the countryside in Germany. I had camped many times before, in much wilder parts of the world where there were bears and wolves, but never alone. The night was horrible. The whole time I heard footsteps around my tent (it was a blackbird rummaging in the leaves) or worried that late at night in the summertime, tipsy people would crash into my camp on foot or on ATVs. Maybe even an axe murderer. I only slept for two hours and was completely exhausted the next day.  

Now I'm back here. This time in winter. Without a tent. Without a sleeping bag or sleeping pad. These are the parameters from my wilderness school. In case of an emergency, a shelter must be able to function with only the clothes you are wearing and keep you warm enough to survive. I spent over ten hours building the shelter in the past few weeks. And just as it was finished, snow came and the thick, insulating layer of leaves on the branch frame slid off completely. Great. I don't want to do all that work for nothing again. “It's time to sleep in there. Now. January, frost, who cares,” I say as I lean against a nearby tree and watch the sunset. It's 5:30 p.m. and still 45°F. It's supposed to drop below freezing during the night. Since this is my first shelter ever and I don't know how good my building and insulation skills are, I have my backpack with a hammock and sleeping bag nearby as a backup, because hypothermia is a serious threat. I want to have an experience, but I don't want to be stupid or foolishly heroic and then need to be rescued.

My biggest question is: Will I be frightened again?

I'm sitting in the completely dark forest under a blue starry sky with a cup of tea from my thermos in my hand in front of my shelter, and I'm completely calm. Back in summer, it was mainly the presence of other people that drove me nuts. Now it was freezing cold and pitch black. There was really no one else out here; I had seen the last hiker over an hour ago – and he hadn't seen me. In a cheerful way, I feel hidden and protected by the dark winter forest. I've already worked through my fear of wild animals in Canada and the USA with grizzly bears, bison, and wolves. Most wild animals have no interest in confronting humans – unless you leave your food scattered carelessly. I notice how my relationship with nature has changed radically in the last years. Why? Because I get to spend so much time in it. When you know something, really know and understand it, rationality grows and fear shrinks.  

It's 6 p.m. when I crawl into my shelter. The layer of leaves on the ground is perfect—thick, soft, and warm. Aren't there insects and spiders in there, too? Probably. Would I see the whole issue in a different light if I was in a country with life-threatening poisonous spiders, scorpions, and snakes? Definitely yes. But I'm here, in my pretty harmless little German forest. The only thing I will do later is check for ticks. That's routine. Otherwise, whatever wants to live in here can live there. Some time ago, I thought about the equality of humans and all other living beings in the world. Humans as the crown of creation? Lol – we cause far too much damage on this planet for such an honorable badge. We are no better, indeed, we are the worst. But that's another topic. For me, all beings are equal. Me and the ant – no difference. A thought that has taken away a lot of my disgust and fear and given me humility and awareness. I watch the darkness. “Damn, the ceiling of the shelter is awfully high...,” I think. Then I sleep and doze until about 11 p.m.

The thing about high ceilings is that a shelter like this should be as small and close to the body as possible, because the only source of heat is your body—and if the shelter can't retain that heat, then you're screwed, to say the least, and would probably freeze to death. From 11 p.m. to 0.30 a.m., I get this experience served in-my-face. It's freezing cold. I toss and turn, curl up into a ball, start shivering, and feel my fingers and toes going numb. I had wanted to hold out until sunrise. Haha. When I realize that not only am I not getting any sleep, but the situation could also become really dangerous, especially for me as a total beginner, I get up and take my sleeping bag out of my backpack. Then I crawl back into the shelter with it. After a few minutes, I feel the warmth. My lesson learned: next time, make the shelter, especially the spacious entrance, much smaller. Wait a minute, did I just say “next time”? 

Just as I close my eyes, I hear a deep “Whoo! Whohohohoooo!” I hold my breath. An owl! Definitely. With childlike excitement, I reach for my phone with my bird call app. An owl—in my forest! That's impossible! I've known this forest since childhood and had no idea that owls live here. Tawny owl, says the app. “Tawny owl,” I whisper reverently. I would love to rush into the dark fir forest to my left with my binoculars, overcome with joy. But then I just listen, as if someone were reading me the revelation. Sometimes the sound comes from further away, then it's closer again. I finally fall asleep to this wonderful hooting.

When I wake up again, it's still dark. Great, it's probably only half past two or so. I sigh and look at my watch. Holy shit, it's seven o'clock! Whaaaat? I slept like a log, as if I were in my own bed. At first I want to get up, but then something holds me back. I turn onto my belly and look out at the slowly brightening morning sky. It's the promised just-below-freezing temperature.

The cold on my face feels refreshing, I feel rested and awake. More awake than I am at home. Internally awake, as if my senses were made of polished diamond. Then there's a goldcrest. It chirps softly in the pine forest next to me. Next, a blackbird. Slowly, the bird universe awakens and I lie well hidden in my leaf shelter. How close everything is.

I did it. A night alone in a self-built leaf shelter in the forest. I found its flaws and know what I can improve. But above all, I have returned to a place of fear and transformed it into something magical. A place of wonder and peace. A place that has shown me that I am no longer the same person I was a year and a half ago.

Suddenly, I think how sad it is that I have never seen a squirrel in this forest. In all these years. I love squirrels.

As a robin joins the bird orchestra, there is suddenly a rustling sound incredibly close by, as if human footsteps were approaching. I stare at the ground and see something jumping in the semi-darkness. Something about the size of my water bottle with a long, bushy tail. A second later, it jumps onto a tree trunk just a few feet away from me and races up it. “A squirrel...” I whisper. Then a few tears well up in my eyes. The squirrel—my spirit animal, my little guardian angel, and my sign in significant situations. It's here. In the forest where I've never seen one before. Now, at this moment. After this night in the shelter. You did it, yay! says the squirrel.

No coincidence.
Definitely not. 
Go outside and do things. There is so much out there and the door of possibilities is always half open. Push the handle.

If you like, you can follow my stories and outdoor adventures daily on Instagram: @squirrel.sarah.

Find more outdoor adventures here: 

• 7 Mile Hole - a Night at the Bottom of Yellowstone Canyon
• Long-distance Hike on the Laugavegur - with a tent and backpack in Iceland
• Hiking in Wales: Worm’s Head – Race against the Tides to the Island in the Sea
• Away from it All - Christmas in a self-sufficient mountain Cabin