Recently, I was called upon by a couple who had bought a property with an existing sauna that needed some professional help. The structure was a cordwood affair: a building method where timber framed walls are in-filled with short logs, stacked like firewood, with mortar between them. It looked like it came right out of the pages of Rob Roy’s classic how-to book: The Sauna. The exterior was fairly solid and quaint in a hobbit kind of way, but the interior, in terms of functionality, had some serious flaws. The timber frame and log and mortar walls looked pretty good, but it is obvious that the project was a classic DIY affair: a case of a homeowner taking on a project that looks easy, but with complex details that get skipped due to a lack of knowledge, funds or basic skill.
There are elements to a sauna that are essential: such as a welded steel stove that will not crack or explode when doused with water and the installation of that stove that conforms to the NFPA 311 guidelines. Insulation must be able take the heat, provide proper moisture retention, not attract rodents and not become a health hazard. Doors must open out and have non metal, non-latching hardware and be self closing (ever try to turn a 200° doorknob with sweaty hands?) There must be no varnish or paint in the sauna room; it will only off gas or worse, burn.
This sauna missed all of these points and more. From the pile of starling skeletons in the stove, I can only guess that it has not been used in a very long time (another detail: birds will fly down the chimney only to find themselves in a death trap.) From the lack of tell-tale scorching or smoking of the wood, I could also tell it had not had been used much. In fact, if it had been fired to a decent, Finnish-approved temperature, I am sure it would have either caught on fire or sent it users scrambling to get out as all of the varnished wood off-gassed.
It is a classic example of a DIY affair: started with good intentions but never finished properly. When I went into the house with the owners to discuss my plans for bringing it back to life, they brought out a book that had been left with the house: a dog eared and highlighted copy of Rob Roy’s: The Sauna.
I just completed my second mobile sauna for a client and brought it home to give it a test run.
The premise is simple: take a small trailer and build a sauna right into it so the client can move it back and forth between his lake house and his regular house. As simple as it sounds, the challenges to pulling off such a project are many. First, creating a roomy design into a five by eight space without creating a claustrophobic box takes some planning. A big window with a generous view really helps. So does the gently arched roof which means that even a tall person doesn’t have to stoop. And the white cedar I use creates a world of it’s own: entering the sauna, you are bathed in the aroma of the north woods. The color and gentle pattern of the grain is soft and welcoming to the eyes. It is really this cedar, which I get from northern Vermont, that makes this little vessel possible: it is the lightest North American species, yet no weakling. Favored by boat builders, it is easy to bend, strong and stable; it allows me to keep the trailer under its listed gross weight limit. The entire roof structure weighs less than a hundred pounds!
This one is heated by propane with a Scandia heater. The ample rocks make good löyly- in fact they were still warm when I went out tonight to check out the Moon chasing Jupiter and Venus through the sauna window.
Several years ago, feeling a need for a change, I sold my house (and sauna), but the new mortgage rules discourage banks from lending to self-employed folks like me and have kept me in a renters trap. I don’t mind the mobile existence for now, but I do miss my sauna. The trailer sauna is the perfect solution: no matter where I end up, I can take it with me! So, if you are a renter but dream of owning a sauna, there is a solution.
Recently I was visiting my good friend Daniel, in Eugene, 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 17 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, the sauna at Podunk was built first, and served as rudimentary shelter while the house was being built. Daniel has had to dream for the past 17 years before he was able to build his sauna.
We worked together for a day and 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 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 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 best 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.
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, Brand new 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 one had its own bright little shell for me to work with, perfectly placed a few paces from the kitchen door. The exterior had its own 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—which, for those of you not up on Dr. Who, of the popular British TV series, is a time machine in the form of a phone booth; when the door is opened, an enormous interior is revealed (Tardis is an acronym for time and relative dimensions in space). My challenge was to make this 64 square foot 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 2 or 3 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, literally 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 really think 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 wood burning unit, I avoid electricity entirely. Not only it is not needed to run a wood burning sauna, but if there is an electric line to the building then there will 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 day-lighting 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 in).
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, 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.
Recently, I was called upon by a couple who had bought a property with an existing sauna that needed some professional help. The structure was a cordwood affair: a building method where timber framed walls are in-filled with short logs, stacked like firewood, with mortar between them. It looked like it came right out of the pages of Rob Roy’s classic how-to book: The Sauna. The exterior was fairly solid and quaint in a hobbit kind of way, but the interior, in terms of functionality, had some serious flaws. The timber frame and log and mortar walls looked pretty good, but it is obvious that the project was a classic DIY affair: a case of a homeowner taking on a project that looks easy, but with complex details that get skipped due to a lack of knowledge, funds or basic skill.
