Sauna is an interesting word. It is both a noun that describes the little structures I spend my days making and the action of how one uses that building. Mostly, I focus on the details of building and let the details of how one uses the sauna fall to the individual taste of my clients. I don’t adhere to a dogmatic approach; everyone has experiences and memories to draw from. Different countries have subtle variations: wetter, drier, hotter, timed sessions, birch vihtas, etc. My memories stem from my time at Podunk, in the old Finnish sauna. I remember the five-gallon joint-compound buckets used to gather water from the creek and few much-loved, battered aluminum wash basins as well as plastic wash tubs, wooden back brushes, loofa scrubbers, and other unique bathing implements. There was always some sort of ladle for pouring water on the rocks (which we always called a kipper in some misappropriation of Finnish-ness). And there were various soaps and shampoos—some common, some not so, like the dark-brown Finnish pine tar soap, which, despite its comparison to the sticky pine tar we brushed on our skis, actually felt pretty good.
Podunk.
Once the sauna got good and hot, we stripped down as unceremoniously as possible and went in. The first round was always be pretty talkative and end with a healthy ladle-full or two of water on the hot rocks until we had to bolt out the door and head to the creek. If someone were annoyingly loud, sometimes a good löyly would be timed to quiet things down. In the second and third rounds, if someone had bothered to make birch vihta from the tree outside the Podunk sauna, we might take great pleasure in thrashing each other (gently) with the leafy switch. The old Finns would make vihta in the spring out of fresh, soft birch leaves and keep them in the freezer. Now, you can actually buy them from Finland, dried and vacuum packed for a reasonable sum. After softening them in water for twenty minutes, they smell just like a fresh birch tree.
The last round in the sauna was the time to wash: after getting hot again, we took turns on the little washing bench, scrubbing ourselves (or each other) with the loofa or stiff sauna brushes and some sauna soap. Finally, a rinse with warm water washed off all the dead skin and residue of a week’s hard work, and we would leave the sauna all fresh and natural smelling. None of us ever had to wear deodorant or poufy colognes.
Pouring water on the rocks.How to have a sauna bath.Simple beauty of an ice lantern.
Sometimes I sauna with friends, sometimes alone. Always, it is the same: get hot until sweat just pours out of me, cool off, repeat; scrub my skin, maybe switch my back with the vihta, wash up, rinse down the sauna. It’s a ritual of sorts, but not like how a ritual in the church is dictated to you. As in church, there are ritual objects that create focus and help direct the actions, but instead of incense and gold, they are plastic and wood. And unlike church, there is no sin in doing it anyway you want to. The brushes, basins, ladle, soap, and vihta are there to help maintain the flow of the sauna experience. To the uninitiated, it may seem strange, but after a few times in a sauna, it all makes sense. It is just a bathhouse, after all.
Lately, I have found that the top of my noggin does not have so much insulation from the heat of a good löyly, so I have taken to wearing a felt sauna hat, which is sort of like a Shriner’s Fez, which is to say that it makes you feel just a little goofy. But then again, I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking the sauna ritual too seriously!
I just completed a large 9’x12′ sauna at Silverlaken Glampground near Letchworth State Park. The glampground is an ideal setting for quiet retreats or group gatherings: a main lodge in a historic cottage, private cabins and luxury tents next to sparkling Silver Lake just miles from one of the most popular state parks in New York. The sauna is the perfect centerpiece for small or large gatherings. A group sauna is different from a small intimate home sauna; it creates a unique social situation where you can commune with strangers and make new friends all while stripped bare of the trappings of social status, class, or superficiality. It can be a perfect setting for friends to solemnly celebrate life’s important moments: a reunion, a wedding, a men’s retreat, or whatever occasion that will be enhanced by closeness and shared exhilaration. The sauna easily holds a dozen or more bathers and is a stone’s throw from the lake.
As I always do, I tested the sauna before leaving a finished project. The new owner was elated as I brought it up to temperature and explained the intricacies of sauna; after a round, we jumped in the brisk lake. It was the perfect way to end an exhausting effort and make my long haul home a relaxing one.
If you are in Western New York and looking for a unique place to stay and want a sauna experience, I recommend you check outSilverlaken!
Recently, I was visiting my good friend Daniel, in Eugene, OR, and had the fortune of being able to help him put the final touches on the sauna he has been building in the backyard of his urban utopia. He moved there seventeen years ago from Ithaca, leaving behind the sauna on the family homestead in Podunk, just outside of Ithaca (yes, that really is the name of the hamlet). That little weathered building was where I was indoctrinated in the way of the sauna; it was the catalyst behind my sauna building career. As was typical with the Finns, Willie Uitti (the property’s first chicken farmer owner) built the sauna at Podunk was built first and it served as rudimentary shelter while the house was being built. Daniel has had to dream for the past seventeen years before he was able to build his sauna.
We worked together for a day and a half installing the heater, hanging the door, and getting it ready. Needless to say, the first firing of the new sauna was nothing short of perfect. It reached a good temperature, it made good löyly, the reclaimed cedar boards gave off a rich odor, and most importantly, it reached down to the pit of our sauna loving souls and transported us back to that cherished time and place on the banks of Taughannock Creek.
To the Finns, Sauna is not just a building or the simple act of sitting in a hot room, it is a quotidian ritual, a centuries old tradition, and a centering of one’s soul. The beautifully funky little shed behind Daniel’s house isn’t just a man shack, it is his identity. My role in helping was more midwife than carpenter, the honor of sharing the first sauna more like best man.
So it goes in the sauna building business, I don’t just make little buildings for people, I help them hold onto their identity, their heritage, and their dreams. It’s an honor and a privilege—and always a joy to share that special excitement of the first heating.
Podunk aficionados will recognize this bell that used to hang by the old sauna. Traditionally, the bell was used to alert bathers that a round was over or that the sauna was hot or that someone was approaching from the outside world.
The electric heater, although a far cry from wood, can still give off a nice glow. If installed correctly, it will provide plenty of heat and good löyly.
The inside as it should be: simple and dimly lit. The heat should be felt and almost seen as a shimmering veil that falls over the stress of daily life. Detailing here is clean and rustic, newly built but as old as the tradition of sauna.
My latest project came about because of the enthusiastic insistence of the client, who, with typical Finnish ingenuity, decided that her tiny “garden shed” needed to become a sweet little sauna. Typically, for the electric saunas I build, I carve out space in the recesses of a dark basement or some other unused corner of the house. This space had its own bright little shell for me to work with, perfectly placed a few paces from the kitchen door. The exterior had charm, so I left that alone except for the new galvanized metal roof, which mirrors its surroundings. It is clandestinely tucked into the yard, so that unbeknownst to the neighbors, there is a whole world of warmth inside.
It immediately reminded me of a Tardis. For those of you not up on Dr. Who, of the popular British TV series, a Tardis is a time machine in the form of a phone booth. And Tardis is an acronym for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. When the door is opened, an enormous interior is revealed. My challenge was to make this 64 sq. ft. shed completely functional as a sauna and feel larger than it is. So far it has surpassed my expectations. It feels roomy, airy, and comfortable for two or three people with a heat that burns deep and a löyly that lingers just long enough. I even fit in a foyer/disrobing area. Stepping out of it in a cloud of steam, it is hard to reconcile the size of the outside with the comfort of the interior.
Like the Tardis, the sauna is a time machine. Once inside, the heat takes you to another dimension as minutes turn to hours and worries melt away like the face on a Dali watch. Sometimes, I want to thank my clients more than they thank me, for the inspiration to create something so perfect and for taking me out of my world and into theirs.
My family name, Licht, came from my German ancestors who made candles—the family crest features a candle—so it’s no wonder that I think about lighting a lot.
The most important thing about building a sauna is creating the right atmosphere. It’s not just about temperature, it’s about engaging all of the senses in a soothing way. The sauna is a sweat bath, light therapy, aroma therapy, and talk therapy session all rolled into one.
With that in mind, I think hard about the quality of the light in the sauna room.
Although all sorts of colored LED and optic fiber lights are available, I try to avoid any electric lighting. In fact, if it is a traditional woodburning unit, I avoid electricity entirely. Not only is it not needed to run a woodburning sauna, but if there is an electric line to the building then there will be a temptation to add outlets and harsh outdoor lighting. The next thing you know, someone is plugging in some beeping device or the light is blotting out the night sky and the whole experience is compromised. What you want is dim light that will let your eyes adjust to the darkness and that will make even the most modest bather feel comfortable, even if their towel happens to slip off. A few candles can be just enough to light the sauna room. The problem with candles is that they will melt in the sauna—even if you don’t light them! To solve this, I install a candle window above the mantle so the candle (or lantern) stays in the dressing room and lights both rooms.
I also consider daylighting and place windows to allow for natural light without compromising a sense of privacy. When rough framing the windows, I leave space so that the window placement can be adjusted to frame the perfect view when seated on the bench (but not the perfect view from outside).
In an electric sauna, I will often put a light under the bench, with a dimmer, so that there is no harsh light, only a soft glow that sweeps across the floor. No one wants to stare at a glowing light fixture (which is exactly the situation in most commercial units). Whatever the situation, I work with the light to create just the right ambiance.
Just beyond the reaches of the village of Trumansburg is the settlement of Podunk. When I was growing up, it was home to some thirty people and a cross-country ski shop. The place was run by Osmo Heila, a Finn, who also sold steam juicers and sauna stoves. Ozzie was an ambassador for all things Finnish. There was a rustic ski lodge, a modest circuit of trails, and a sauna. I was good friends with the family and spent winters there skiing the trails and summers taking saunas and hanging out by the creek.
The original owner of the property, Wilho “Willie” Uitti, was also Finnish, and following tradition, he built the sauna before the house. It was constructed with locally cut wood and with a modest profile. Despite a few upgrades over the years, it maintained a typical Finnish pragmatic aesthetic. New parts were eschewed in favor of jerry-rigged repairs, like the paint can that became part of the stove-pipe. There were a few feminine touches, like curtains in the dressing room, but the sauna room contained only the bare essentials: stove (or kiuas) with its pile of rocks, a water tank heated by the stove, simple benches, and buckets, brushes, and loofas for washing. A window, propped open with a stick, provided ventilation. The spalled concrete floor had a drain and wooden slats, called duck boards, to walk on. The pine wall boards had resinous knots that oozed sap into shapes that made us think of strange creatures, like a speeding weasel. Returning to Podunk in the years after high school, it always seemed the same. The same mementos were in the dressing room, the same plastic buckets were on the benches, and the creatures on the wall had barely moved. But, like the creek meandering behind the sauna, the sauna was slowly changing: being swallowed by the bushes, sinking into the earth, and eroding away.
Taking a sauna consisted of several sessions of heating up, each followed by a cooling down or a plunge into the creek, and lastly, a scrub and a rinse in the sauna room. Afterwards, we relaxed in the house and shared food and drink. Eventually, somebody looked at a clock and we suddenly became aware of the hours that had passed. We called this lost sense of time sauna time.
Applied to everyday life, sauna time means slowing down, stepping away from technology, and observing the subtle changes. It is an appreciation of all that is impermanent. The continuity of life doesn’t come from holding onto things, but from the rituals, traditions, and relationships that one carries in their heart. As the sauna at Podunk slowly degrades into a pile of boards, I am reminded that sauna is much more than just a building and that building saunas is about much more than just carpentry.
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