It's going to be very hard to see it go.
In Bentonville, Arkansas, a retired tile-layer named Mike Fitzgerald transformed a lifelong childhood fantasy into a towering, handcrafted reality — spending over two years and more than $600,000 to build an 866-square-foot treehouse suspended among four oak and hickory trees. What began as a personal retirement dream became an act of experimental construction, requiring arborists, expert consultants, and extraordinary patience to honor both the vision and the living trees that hold it aloft. Now listed at $1.25 million and renting nightly on Airbnb, the structure stands as a quiet meditation on what it means to bet one's savings — and one's later years — on something built not for practicality, but for wonder.
- A man nearing sixty cashed out his life savings — no 401K, just faith in a dream — to build a treehouse that no one in his circle had ever attempted at this scale.
- Every decision was slowed by the trees themselves: root systems had to be protected, arborists consulted, and heavy equipment kept at a careful distance, stretching a six-month plan into more than two years.
- Thirty feet in the air, workers refused to finish the roof for months, and a swinging bridge, a hammock, thousands of reclaimed wood pieces, and eighty thousand tons of Oklahoma stone all had to find their place in the design.
- Neighbors stopped their cars to photograph the rising structure, and a grand opening drew the community — the treehouse had become something larger than one man's retirement project.
- Now generating $486 a night on Airbnb while listed at $1.25 million, Fitzgerald admits it will be hard to let go of the place he still visits most days just to be present in what he built.
Mike Fitzgerald grew up climbing trees and building forts, and when retirement arrived, he decided that the treehouse he'd always imagined deserved to actually exist. What he estimated would take six to eight months consumed more than two years and somewhere between $600,000 and $700,000 — savings he'd accumulated in place of a traditional retirement account, wagered entirely on a structure held up by living wood.
The project began with a problem: the trees on his own property weren't right. A local treehouse expert named Josh Hart helped him identify four oak and hickory trees on a neighboring lot, which Fitzgerald purchased for $30,000. Before construction could begin, an arborist examined every root and trunk, and Fitzgerald consulted with the Nelson Treehouse team — the builders behind Treehouse Masters — to ensure the design could work. The result is an 866-square-foot structure supported entirely by the four trees, with no ground columns beneath it.
A nearly thirty-foot swinging bridge connects the main treehouse to a lookout patio, with a hammock hanging fifteen feet above the ground at its far end. Fitzgerald built much of the interior himself — cabinets, bathrooms, and a floor assembled from thousands of individual pieces of reclaimed wood. The roof alone, thirty feet up and terrifying to workers, added several months to the timeline. A main house, outdoor kitchen, live-edge dining table, and eighty thousand tons of Oklahoma stone completed the property.
Every phase had to account for the trees' survival. Heavy equipment was kept away from root systems, and the sequence of construction was dictated by what the land could absorb. The scale was unprecedented for everyone involved — experimental, slow, and uncharted.
Fitzgerald finished in April 2022, nearly two and a half years after breaking ground. Neighbors had been stopping to photograph the structure since the first beams went up; he held a grand opening and invited the whole neighborhood. Now the property is listed at $1.25 million — mid-range for Bentonville's market — while he rents the treehouse on Airbnb for $486 a night. He's there most days when it isn't occupied, cleaning and simply being present. "It's going to be very hard to see it go," he said — a place that cost twice as much and took twice as long as planned, and still manages to feel exactly like what it was always meant to be.
Mike Fitzgerald spent his childhood climbing trees and building forts, the kind of outdoor play that defined a generation before screens took over. Now, nearing sixty and retired from a career laying tile, he decided it was time to stop dreaming about treehouses and actually build one. What he thought would take six to eight months consumed more than two years of his life and somewhere between $600,000 and $700,000 of his savings—money he'd set aside instead of a 401K, betting everything on a structure suspended in the air.
The treehouse sits on land Fitzgerald didn't originally own. A local treehouse expert, Josh Hart, told him the trees on his own property weren't suitable for the design he had in mind. As they surveyed the neighborhood, they spotted four oak and hickory trees on a neighboring lot that was for sale. Fitzgerald bought the land for $30,000 and began the painstaking process of turning those trees into the foundation of his retirement project. Before a single beam could go up, an arborist had to examine every branch, root, and trunk. The trees had to be healthy enough to support the structure for decades. Fitzgerald consulted with the Nelson Treehouse team—the builders behind the Animal Planet show Treehouse Masters—sending them detailed measurements and specifications.
The treehouse itself is an 866-square-foot structure elevated entirely by the four trees, with no additional support columns. A swinging bridge, nearly thirty feet long and inspired by a design from Treehouse Masters but reinforced with extra supports, connects the main structure to a lookout patio on another tree. At the far end of the bridge hangs a hammock suspended fifteen feet above the ground. Inside, the treehouse has a loft design with the primary living area downstairs and sleeping quarters accessible by a movable ladder. Fitzgerald built much of the interior himself—the cabinets, bathrooms, and flooring. That floor alone required him to cut and install thousands of reclaimed wood pieces, one of the most labor-intensive parts of the entire project.
The roof proved to be another bottleneck. Thirty feet in the air, with workers terrified of the height, it took several extra months just to complete that single component. Fitzgerald also built a main house on the property, another two-story structure with its own kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. An outdoor kitchen and dining area features a live-edge wood table, a grill, and a fireplace. Some of the interior cabinetry came from reclaimed truck beds; an old wagon became a coffee table. The driveway and pool area are lined with eighty thousand tons of stone sourced from Oklahoma, requiring multiple trips and careful loading to transport the heavy materials.
The project's timeline stretched because every decision had to account for tree preservation. Fitzgerald couldn't simply bring heavy equipment onto the property and work freely—the root systems had to be protected. He built the treehouse first, then the main house, carefully managing the impact on the living trees that held everything up. The scale of the undertaking was unprecedented for everyone involved. The local builders, the treehouse expert, even the consultants from Treehouse Masters—none of them had attempted anything quite like this before. It was experimental construction, and experimentation takes time.
When Fitzgerald finally finished in April 2022, after starting in December 2019, he had created something that stopped neighbors in their tracks. From the moment the first beams went up, people would drive by and stop to take pictures. He held a grand opening and invited the neighborhood. The property sits near a local bike trail but remains quiet and secluded. Now he's listing the entire 866-square-foot combined property—treehouse and main house together—for $1.25 million. In Bentonville, Arkansas, where the median home price is $485,000, his asking price sits in the mid-range. While he searches for a buyer, he's renting the treehouse on Airbnb for $486 a night, covering costs and generating income from his investment.
Fitzgerald's advice to anyone considering a similar project is straightforward: track every expense because costs spiral quickly, and don't cut corners on materials. He chose redwood for the exterior and deck because it resists rot and insects, betting that quality construction now means fewer repairs later. He's there most days when the property isn't rented, cleaning and simply being present in the structure he built. "It's going to be very hard to see it go," he said. For now, the treehouse that took twice as long and cost twice as much as expected continues to draw attention, one night at a time, from people willing to pay to live briefly in someone else's childhood dream.
Citações Notáveis
I thought we would be done in six to eight months, and it took two years. Doing everything so that you could preserve the trees was probably what really slowed everything down.— Mike Fitzgerald
I'm there every day if it's not rented, just cleaning and relaxing around it. I love being at the treehouse for sure.— Mike Fitzgerald
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
When you say the trees weren't strong enough on his own property, what does that actually mean? How do you measure if a tree can hold a house?
An arborist has to inspect the entire tree—the trunk diameter, the branch structure, the root system. A tree that looks healthy on the surface might have internal rot or weak branching patterns. For a treehouse, you're not just hanging a swing; you're anchoring a full structure that will bear weight for decades. The oak and hickory trees he found were thicker, healthier, and had the right branch configuration.
He consulted with the Treehouse Masters people. Why would a TV show crew be relevant to a backyard project in Arkansas?
Because they've built dozens of these structures and understand the engineering. Fitzgerald wasn't making this up as he went—he was sending them measurements and getting feedback on load-bearing capacity, safety margins, how to attach beams without killing the tree. It's the difference between a hobby and a structure that won't collapse.
The roof took months longer than expected because workers were afraid of heights. That's a very human detail. Did he have to find different workers, or did they just push through?
The source doesn't say he replaced them. It sounds like they pushed through, but slowly. Fear is real, and you can't rush someone working thirty feet in the air. That delay is baked into why the whole project doubled in time.
He spent $600,000 to $700,000 of his own savings instead of a 401K. That's a huge bet. Did it pay off?
On paper, he's asking $1.25 million for the property. But he's still renting it on Airbnb at $486 a night while looking for a buyer. He hasn't sold it yet. So the bet is still in play—he's generating income from it, but he's also still living with the risk that it might not sell for what he's asking.
What does it feel like to build something for two years and then have to let it go?
He said it's going to be very hard to see it go. He's there almost every day when it's not rented, cleaning and just being in the space. It's not just a financial asset to him—it's the physical manifestation of a dream he had since childhood. Selling it means giving that up.