In order to save it, the old Sauna at Podunk had to be taken down. The squirrels had taken over and filled the dressing room with a cache of nuts. The building was slowly sinking into the earth and the safety of the chimney, a heavy cast cement affair supported in the ceiling by a rusty homemade contraption, was questionable. The gaping mouth of stove door was rusted open in a permanent state of whoa. If this sauna was ever to make löyly again, work would have to be done. So, a month ago, after careful consideration and much debate, Scarlet and I joined members of the Heila family for a day of deconstruction.
As you may recall from earlier posts, (Sauna Time, Sauna Ritual,Homecoming, Back to Podunk) this is the 90 year-old sauna where many of us locals were initiated in the joys of sauna during the heyday of the 70’s when the Podunk Ski Center was a mecca for Nordic Skiing and all things Finnish. Its simple rustic character, which addressed the basic functionality of the sauna with what I call Finnish pragmatism, is the inspiration behind much of my sauna building. The demolition would give me the chance to dissect it and uncover some the secrets of its original design.
We always thought it was the perfect sauna: hot but airy, it made good löyly, and was roomy enough for an intimate crowd of 8.
What I did not know was how the materials related to its function: how well it heat up, how it held a good Löyly and never felt stuffy, and why it never burned down. Aesthetics aside, these are essential components to a good functioning sauna. We often debated whether it had any insulation at all, so I was especially curious about that.
It was a drizzly morning with a chill to the air; ironically, a perfect day for sauna. Our plan was to document the existing structure and take it down methodically, saving what we could and carting the rest away. Eventually the structure will be rebuilt, as close to the existing as possible, on the same site. We proceeded quickly, each of us attacking an area. Beloved details like the doors and little shelves in the dressing room were labeled, wrapped and carefully stored. The barn board siding was carefully removed board by board, and the whole front facade was Sawzalled off and preserved. As the layers were peeled back, we discovered not only that there had been several incarnations to the structure but we uncovered the answers to some of the questions I had been pondering. There were several surprises.
As the walls were removed from the outside in, we uncovered many layers and each wall was different. On the east wall, under the vertical reclaimed barn boards (installed in the 1970’s?) was a layer of Inselbric, the ubiquitous and horribly ugly asphalt siding that was used starting in the 1930’s. It was easy to use and durable and is still found on many “economy” (or as my Dad would call it: “Early American Poverty”) style homes dating between 1930 and 1960, until aluminum siding became popular. This was over a layer of horizontal 1×6 pine boards, loosely spaced, which went around most of the building. Under this was the big surprise: flattened cardboard boxes, several layers deep, between rough sawn vertical framing members about two feet on center.
The cardboard was in good shape and the labels were easily read: cereal case boxes from Wheaties, Corn Flakes and others. This was the insulation we all wondered about!
A web search of the logo style led to verification of the 1935 date of construction. Interspersed with the cardboard were vertical boards with no apparent purpose. Was this to add thermal mass to the walls? The interior surface was initially all Beaverboard, an early fiber board, which was covered with a thin veneer of plaster (real plaster, not joint compound) which was painted. This was akin to the plaster and tile block sauna of Van Buskirk Gulf I wrote about in a previous blog. This would have provided a vapor resistant barrier that would have held the Löyly steam for the right amount of time. Later, in the 1970’s, this was covered with 1×6 tongue and groove knotty pine. With our current obsession over cedar (or other wood) interior walls wonder if a more authentic sauna might be simply plaster with wooden benches and back rests? The plaster and paint layers (probably lead) were vapor semi-impermeable and thus capable of holding some of the moisture. Surely all the outer layers in the walls were breathable, that is, allowing vapor to easily escape and not collect as condensation, which is a very important consideration in any kind of construction. But I did notice one corner post had signs of severe rot. Did the plaster layer crack here and allow moisture to saturate the wood, setting the stage for a colony of carpenter ants to move in?
I also noticed that, other than the entire building sinking into the earth, the walls were structurally sound. So much so that when Tom hooked up the tractor to pull the north wall off, the whole remaining building (already missing its east and south wall) simple hopped along the foundation slab behind the tractor, taking the chimney with it and sending me into a fit of laughter. All those random layers of heavy boards were keeping things together. It’s not a recommended practice, but sometimes just heaping layers of wood into a structure creates enough redundancy to make it solid. I prefer the more efficient approach of building more with less.
The ceiling was like the walls, with plastered Beaverboard covered by pine. The tiny attic space was filled with a layer of cellulose interspersed with rodent droppings, walnuts, empty boxes of rat poison and a few old bottles, which probably once contained hooch. One was verified as being from 1938 by its unique design. Probably teenagers hiding their stash after a sauna; but, quite possibly, offerings to the sauna Gods to protect it from burning down.
As for fire safety, it was a miracle that the sauna never did burn down. There was a lot of charred wood throughout the attic, especially around the iron chimney supports.
Again, there were a lot of heavy boards, which seemed to have no structural significance, perhaps only adding thermal mass or insulation. The roof rafters were so heavy and the roof so strong that after it was lying on the ground like a low pup-tent, Tom had to drive the tractor over it to break it apart. The metal standing seam roof, with its many coats of black tar, was in surprisingly good shape, but leakage was occurring where the heavy, cast refractory cement chimney penetrated it. The stove below, welded by me in the 1990’s, was so rusted it was deemed to be scrap.
The cement floor had sloped to a drain but was cracked and broken. The original cement pour seemed hodgepodge and lacked any re-bar. Woodchucks had tunneled voids underneath it. The drain allowed for bathing— something the early Finnish farmers needed as the house probably lacked plumbing; bathing, to me, is an essential part of the sauna experience; that function of the sauna informs my designs. The floor will be replaced with an edge- thickened slab as the foundation; with a solid gravel base over undisturbed earth and with steel reinforcement.
The one component that perhaps was a factor in why the sauna felt so good was all the brick work around the stove, which was fired through the dressing room wall—a traditional design I frequently use. This added about a thousand pounds of thermal mass around the stove. Thermal mass holds the heat and radiates it back into the room but also means it will take longer to heat up. I typically use a lightweight fire wall so the sauna will heat quickly and to lessen the load on the building structure, but perhaps I should re-think that and revert to the solid masonry I started building with in the ‘90s. Ironically, the brick work at Podunk was added in the 70’s. The old Finns around here commonly relied on asbestos board for fire protection.
By the end of the day, we had a pile of barn boards and other parts stacked and labeled in the old ski lodge, and a dumpster overflowed with the rest. Although most of the sauna was discarded, the lessons learned will live on in the saunas I continue to build. Next year, we will rebuild Podunk with modern efficiency but in the same basic footprint as the original. Hopefully the entire facade will be replaced and the lilac tree where the sauna bell hung replanted. We’ll probably skip the lead paint and asbestos board and use a modern, UL listed chimney support in lieu of the home-made rig that was there. Fire safety will be based on science, not luck. Cedar over foil (with an air gap!) will line the walls and the functionality will be the same, and hopefully, better.
Family and friends will gather there to sweat and bathe and run naked to the creek for generations to come.
If you look “Podunk” up in the dictionary, it will tell you that it is a hypothetical or insignificant town. The folks who live there think otherwise. Podunk is actually a place name on the map a short ski south of Trumansburg, New York, where I grew up. Despite having only a smattering of residents, they will all tell you that is very real and very significant.
In the 1960’s Ozzie Heila settled there with this family on an old farmstead established by an even older Finn who first built his sauna (above) before the house in the 1930’s. It is also where I learned of all the important things in life. In the 1970’s I spent countless winter hours there at the ski center that Ozzie established, becoming a become a damn good Nordic skier and developing a life-long passion for the sport.
In the summers I explored the creek with his son, my good friend Daniel, and learned the value of immersing one’s self in nature. Daniel’s mother, Ethel, was my art teacher in middle school; she helped me become the artist I am today and we still have wonderful conversations about color theory and art composition. And at the heart of the complex of dated farm buildings was the sauna; there I learned to channel my need to experience extremes into something healthy and life affirming. We loved going from the hot to the cold.
Jumping in the creek in the dead of winter after a searing round in the sauna, we felt more alive than ever. That feeling has never died; each cold plunge I take during sauna takes me back to that creek.
Today, Daniel and his family were back in the area and we went to Podunk to visit the old homestead once again. This time we took our Finnish Blue mobile sauna and parked it next to the ramshackle old sauna, which is now defunct and awaiting a rebirth. Many things have changed but some things are the same. The trees have grown huge or even died, the old purple Lilac, with the rusty sauna bell hanging from its branches, is gone and the brush has been cleared away from the old sauna, revealing the sagging bones of the century-old structure. But the building itself is as recognizable as the last day I took a sauna there about 25 years ago. The inside is a sadder story—it turns out that squirrels like the sauna too and they have made it theirs. As if in a expression of horror at the mess, the Lämpimämpi stove I welded up for Ozzie in the 90’s sits with it’s mouth rusted wide open.
The path through the field to the creek is the same but with a detour to the left towards a new dipping hole: a bathtub in the midst of the rushing current with a strategically placed rock to help keep your butt moored. The run down to the creek had the same awkwardness … trying to run all out before you cooled off but trying to maintain stable footing the same. And the sensation! The whoops and hollers of 12-year-old boys came out of us as we braved the icy April stream.
Real or not, Podunk is the same as it will always be. What are memories but unreal fragments in our minds, ready to be stirred up by whirling waters of a cold stream, or by the hot steam of a sauna? The old next to the new will always appear old, until we make it new again and live our lives in the now, to the fullest, with no regrets, and dreams, not of memories, but of tomorrows.
New sauna and parked it next to the old sauna near the creek.
When building a sauna the first and possibly most important consideration is the location. With a wood-burning sauna, which is free from the tether of an electrical connection, it can be away from the house—not just for safety but also to create a separation from the electrical buzz of modern life. Simple and inexpensive solar options make it easy to provide needed lighting. It should have some of the comfort of home but be integrated into nature; near a body of water is always a good choice.
My latest sauna does all of that and more. The site is fairly close to the house but lies outside the garden gates. It all but hangs on the edge of a small gorge that contains a lively creek in its serpentine confines. Like the basswood and cherry trees that cling to the sides of the gorge, firmly rooted in the ground, the sauna is anchored to the 300 million year old shale bedrock with concrete and steel. The owners built a steep stair down to where small waterfall flows into a perfect bathtub sized hole. Descending it may be slightly perilous but that only adds to the adrenaline to rushing from the steaming of the sauna and plunging in the ever-cold water.
As I build I tweak my design to allow nature into the sauna. Framed and without sheathing I could see the perfect view up the ravine from the upper bench, suggesting the optimum location for a small candle window. The large window allows a view of the wooded hill and brings in ample afternoon light and the view down into the creek through the framing allowed me to imagine the possibility of a small square creek view porthole below knee level that would let in the ambient sound of the rushing creek. Exiting the sauna one faces the woods, not the house; a crude stair-path leads the eye up into the forest while the other leads to the creek.
The sauna is visible from the road and the house, but neither is evident from the sanctuary within. All you hear is the babble of the creek and all you feel is the relaxing heat of the sauna. Finishing a few rounds in the sauna with a dunk in the massaging water is pure bliss.
The site not only perfect for the sauna but it was a joy to work there, listening to and watching the water flow. Daily I took dips in the creek to beat the steamy summer heat. Having a site that allows me to enjoy the process of building lends means I can build a better sauna—one that is infused with the spirit of the place and connected to nature.
Sauna is an interesting word. It is both the noun describing the little structures that 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 his or her own experiences and memories to draw from. Different countries have subtle variations: wetter, drier, hotter, timed sessions, birch Vihta, etc. My memories stem from my time at Podunk, in the old Finnish Sauna. I remember the 5 gallon joint-compound buckets for gathering water from the creek, and the various cheap plastic wash tubs, brushes, loofa, and other bathing implements. There was some sort of ladle (which we always called a kipper in some mis-appropriation of Finnish-ness) for pouring water on the rocks. And there would be various soaps and shampoos–some common, some not so common, like the Finnish pine tar soap, which, despite its comparison to the sticky pine tar we would out on our skis, actually feels pretty good.
Podunk
Once the sauna got good and hot we would strip down as unceremoniously as possible and go in. The first round would 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 so as to quiet things down. In the second and third round we might take great pleasure in thrashing each other (gently) with a birch vihta if someone bothered to make one from the birch tree outside the Podunk sauna. The old Finns would make them in the spring out of the fresh soft 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
would be time to wash: after getting hot again we would take 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 some warm water
would wash off all of that dead skin and residue of a week’s hard work and we
would leave the sauna all fresh sand 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 the way a ritual in the church is dictated to you. As in church, there are ritual objects that create focus help and 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 just to help establish the flow of the sauna experience. To the uninitiated it may seem all strange, but after a few times, it all makes sense. It is just a bath house, 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!
My good friend Daniel has come home for a few days so we decided to take the trailer sauna down to Podunk, his family’s homestead, where, as a youth, I was indoctrinated in the way of the sauna. The old shack built by the original Finnish owner of the property has long since gone to the squirrels, but our memories of saunaing on cool summer evenings are still as vivid as the lush green canopies of the giant poplar trees that stand as sentinels in the field by the riverbank, keeping the creek from advancing any further as it swishes across the valley. On a geologic scale, the creek— the same that carved the falls at Taughannock— slithers like a snake, back and forth, carving a new path every few years. In our short lives we can remember when it made this turn or that, turning a rocky bank into an inviting swim hole or turning the old dipping spot—the one we would run down to from that old sauna, hooting and hollering— into a rocky shallow.
There is a new swim hole now. It’s an Olympic sized pool compared to what we used to dip in, allowing for real swimming as opposed to the slow rolls we used to take in the knee deep water just below where the pipeline crosses. As we lay there with our heads pulsing from the effect we called “sauna stoned,” minnows would nibble on our fresh cooked skin. With this new hole, the creek is more perfect for a sauna now than it was then.
I parked the trailer just on the edge of the bank and fired it up. The fact it was close to the creek where the spring high water often lapped the trunks of the poplars did not matter; this was a temporary affair, a brief encounter with our own youth, a dip into the pool of nostalgia. Once it was hot we climbed aboard and were transported back in time some forty years. My little stove holds a hundred pounds of rocks, all glacial erratics, transported here by the great river of ice in a time before memory. When heated, those rocks are capable of producing the best löyly, letting off a burst of steam that sends us out the door and clambering down the banks to the sweet cool water of the creek. It’s impossible not to let out a few whoops.
Just beyond the reaches of the village of Trumansburg, where I grew up, the settlement of Podunk was home to some 30 people and a cross-country ski shop. The place was run by Osmo Heila, a Finn, who also sold juicers and sauna stoves, and 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 was also Finnish, and, following tradition, he built the sauna before the house. It was constructed out of 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 jury-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. 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, it 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 all 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.
