Finishing a job is always a sweet endeavor. I usually budget in one day of fussiness: A day when I can pay attention to all of the little details, get the stove in place, and then, as a last step, give the sauna a test run. This is when I get to see how my efforts have paid off and take note of how the sauna actually fires. Is it hot enough? Is it light and airy and does it have that right sauna feng shui? Does it reach a good temperature and would Ozzie—the Finn who started me on my sauna-building path—approve?
The job I just finished is a modest affair: bare bones, applying that Finnish sort of pragmatism. I converted a kit-built garden shed, the type you’ll find lined-up on the edge of a big-box home store parking lot, into a simple sauna with no dressing room. I liked the challenge of working within a modest budget, and I liked the folks: down-to-earth, modern-day Helen and Scott Nearing types. I had to remind myself that a sauna does not have to be a luxury item, affordable only by those in the higher income brackets. A sauna should be as essential and ubiquitous as indoor plumbing.
I lined the inside with knotty pine—a low budget alternative to cedar. Sitting on the top bench, I noted that the smell of pine reminds me of my forays into woods here in the east. It is a familiar smell, close to my heart, unlike the rarefied smell of cedar. Aside from the knots, which will forever bleed sap that will inevitably find it’s way into someone’s hair, it is a fine wood to use. It is not as stable as cedar, but the inevitable cracks will open the sauna up and let it breathe. We always said that Ozzie’s old sauna at Podunk, with its gappy, knotty-pine walls and sagging ceiling, felt better than any other.
MyLämpimämpi stove fired fast and hot. The rocks quickly reached good löyly temperature and the first splash of water had me moaning in ecstasy. At no point did I feel that claustrophobic locker-room-sauna feeling of not being able to breathe. The dual windows filled the space with light. The benches will hold the couple, their kids and several neighbors. In term of essentials, it is a perfect sauna. Nothing more is needed—no fancy tile or trim work, no designer dressing room. It works, plain and simple, and it works well. It was the best sweat I’d had in a while, and a good sweat is almost payment enough.
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 was obvious that the project is 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 installation that conforms to the NFPA 211 guidelines. Insulation must be able to 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° F 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), I can only guess that it had not been used in a very long time. From the lack of tell-tale scorching or smoking of the wood, I could also tell it had not 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 its 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 book The Sauna.
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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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 was obvious that the project is 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.
