While some dwellings, like those in the previous section, are geared toward extended or full-time use and are equipped to handle long stays, there are plenty of people who dig tiny spaces but might not be willing or able to live in something so, well, microscopic. For these folks — whether they are attracted to the affordability of microshelters or just to the idea of scaling down and getting away from it all — a cabin, vacation cottage, or mere backyard office just might be the fix they’re looking for. So here goes: a healthy handful of camp eclecticism for you to pull ideas from.
W ere I forced to pick a handful of more memorable tiny spaces, ones that just wowed the pants off me in look and approach, this would be one of them. At once whimsical, entrancing, rustic, and soothing, it employs some of the more “out there” build and decor approaches I’ve seen, all in a very pleasing and effective way. The Owl House is habitable art, plain and simple. From its mortared wine-bottle walls to its multihued, planked sheathing, it comes off as charming and daring. Designed and built by Madrid-based artist Leonardo Alverez Pinel, the Owl House has played host to many guests from around the world as a rental. This is no surprise — in addition to it being a marvelous piece of “living art,” it sits beside a breathtaking coastal view, surrounded by miles of beach trails. Owner Tracy Lewis is just as remarkable: she’s a Paralympian as well as an artist who uses recycled and found materials in her compositions and in her own home studio, which is located adjacent to the Owl House.
The Owl House is stunning in its array of multihued recycled timbers, funky homemade windows, and overall vibe. The mortared bottle-end walls are a great touch, enabling light to pass through them in many colors and patterns. While the feather decor and giant eye of a window give this guesthouse its owlish motif, it’s the giant “windshield” that opens it up to so much natural light and brings the interior’s materials to life.
I ’ve long been an A-frame addict, and, while I understand their head-bumping shortcomings and the challenges of pushing vertical furniture against slanting walls, I still can’t help but love the look and simple nature of these classic dwellings.
This project was a team-up with David and Jeanie Stiles, an author/architect duo I have long admired, resulting in a plan set that has sold rather well online. The aims of the project were simplicity and affordability, two things I had felt were being driven out of the tiny housing and vacation cabin scene. Could we come up with a tiny cabin that slept two, had a mini storage loft with the potential to sleep one more, and a kitchenette — all in a structure that could be built for under $1,200? Yup, we could . . . and did.
Running short on time as winter descended, I found that a good many other projects on my plate were getting in the way of my actually building this design. So for the first time ever I called on a friend, Joe Everson, to tackle the actual construction. Joe heads up Tennessee Tiny Homes near Memphis, and he and his crew did a great job. They managed to bring to life all the design facets I was gunning for: two beds that double as storage, an abundance of shelving (much of it doubling as the cabin’s horizontal structural elements), good ventilation and natural light (by means of a large hatch in the loft), and even a polycarbonate wall that lifts open, drops a set of legs, and becomes an open-air porch. With the wall open, you can unfurl mosquito screens for protection. This porch adds ventilation in hot weather and increases the A-frame’s useable space by almost 30 square feet. Better yet, when closed, the white, translucent Tuftex wall brings in some great diffused light while maintaining privacy. At night, when lit up, the Transforming A-Frame becomes an ethereal lantern in the woods.
Of course I like most of what’s going on with the Transforming A-Frame, since, well, I designed it. I would have liked to add a tiny bathroom or wet bath, but I also wanted to keep it very small, quick to build, and under a certain budget. I wrestled with the idea for a while but then figured that since it was supposed to be only a weekend cabin, a separate facility or outhouse would do. The flip-up porch could later be permanently framed open and made into a bathroom of sorts too. I also tried to design this A-frame in factors of two or eight feet so that anyone building it would be faced with very little wasted stock-length lumber. Additionally, I was pleased with how the loft became a means of sleeping a third person if the need arose. I won’t call it spacious, but it’s bigger than I expected and easily fits my 6-foot, 4-inch frame.
P ull to the side of the road about a half mile past North Balsam Lane. Hike until you find the waterfall on the uphill side of the road, and then, after crossing a bridge, continue along the stream until you find an old campfire ring. The cabin is a few hundred feet above that point.” Those were, more or less, the directions I was given when I set out to photograph this cabin, a self-designed retreat where musician Jim Matus can gather his thoughts and focus on his songwriting. As hard as it was to find this little haven in the woods, it was a trip well worth it.
Jim’s cabin is a mere 8 feet deep and 10 feet wide with a single-pitch roof. It’s one of the more basic cabins in this book, but also exists as proof that a cabin doesn’t have to cost half a kazillion dollars and be architecturally drafted by H. R. Richinbank and Associates in order to function wonderfully while looking good. Sometimes less is more. While Jim’s cabin is furnished only with a castoff coffee table, a daybed platform made from a recycled door, and the smallest of cooking and storage setups, it works for the intended occupant and should serve its owner well for years to come.
Speaking of the merits of small structures, this cabin demonstrated a case of unintended semi-portability. Apparently, it was situated too close to a stream for setback standards, and a random hiker decided to blow the whistle. The town’s zoning board asked Jim to move the entire shelter almost 200 feet away, which he did, piece by piece.
I love the quaintness of the Streamside Retreat. The natural tree-trunk porch poles are a nice money-saving approach, and a back-saving one too, as Jim had to haul in all of his supplies by trail. I’ve also always been a fan of single-pitch shed roofs; they’re easier to build than other roof styles, and they still look good. For his siding, Jim employed the “ply and paint” method: once the cabin’s framing is skinned in plywood, you simply caulk the seams and apply several layers of good exterior paint. It saves money and time and eliminates the need for more materials (shingles, tar paper, staples, hundreds more nails), so this makes perfect sense for any backwoods, off-grid endeavor. And it holds up better than you might think.
I designed this little cabin on the fly for a communal build workshop I held deep in the woods of northern Vermont. It’s off the grid and has as its only lighting a Coleman lantern and other candle and oil lamps. Because half of the roof is clear Tuftex polycarbonate, when the sun goes down this microstructure takes on a lanternlike appearance from a distance.
This 8 x 8-foot cabin is meant to be a simple, bare-bones, seasonal retreat in the woods, as well as a backwoods library of sorts. During future workshops, a pair of attendees could stay there and enjoy the sweeping view of the woods through its many windows. We dubbed it the Rock Bottom because it was built on the most meager of budgets, it happens to be downhill from our main camp cabin, and it sits next to a very large boulder, a giant glacial erratic that seems to stand as the cabin’s long-lost prehistoric relative.
All in all, the Rock Bottom cost a mere $300 to build, with many of its materials scavenged for free or acquired secondhand. The window in the door is a Pet Peek dome, designed to give pets a view through solid fencing, and it adds a little character to the front of the cabin. The multicolor chair inside also is made from what many would consider trash: barn boards and pallet wood. The front deck was yet another freebie. It’s actually a thick fence panel that Goodridge Lumber in Albany, Vermont was tossing out. After I reinforced it from below with more free lumber, it was transformed into a nice spot where I could survey the landscape with a cold beverage while tending the nearby campfire.
What I particularly like about the Rock Bottom is its simplicity. It’s basically an easy-to-build A-frame that’s been lifted onto short knee walls to create a little more space inside. The deck is proof that if you keep your eyes peeled and are willing to wait a little bit or think outside the box, the solution might be right under your nose. Better yet, that solution just might be a free one. The low windows come with the risk of being kicked out, but when you’re stretched out in a sleeping bag, they offer a unique ground view of the forest floor and the landscape downhill.
I ’ve often been asked in interviews, “Deek, of all the cabins and designs you’ve seen, which ones have been your all-time favorites?” Well, the Writer’s Haven from the Vermont-based Jamaica Cottage Shop would certainly rank right up there. This 12 x 14-foot cabin, complete with a rather unusual triangular, single-posted porch, is both aesthetically pleasing and an effectively planned little getaway. It’s got it all: ample space (while not eating up too much land), several windows, and a lofty ceiling. Plus, the Jamaica Cottage Shop builds most of its cabins, cottages, and sheds with a timber-frame approach, so should an elephant or three decide to sit on your roof, or have a dance-off on it, you’ll most likely be fine.
These things are overbuilt. But I’m sure Domenic Mangano, head honcho of the Jamaica Cottage Shop, hasn’t gotten any complaints about that. Like I said, I’m a big fan of the streetside-appeal factor of the Writer’s Haven. It’s a good-looking little cabin that could easily be insulated and heated and put to many uses. A built-in deck doesn’t hurt either. The deck is tiny, but extending it, if you wished, would be beyond simple. I envision the Writer’s Haven perched by a tiny stream deep in the woods, harboring a little woodstove, a multicolored braided rug, an abundance of books and sketch pads, a bottle of good wine, perhaps, and the time to enjoy them all. That little front porch is just begging for a hanging chair, too, which could be unhooked to free up space that might otherwise be overwhelmed by a conventional deck chair.
Adding a loft to any cabin is an age-old technique to maximize the use of vertical space, whether for storage, sleeping space, or a reading nook.
I love hearing land-discovery and cabin- building stories, even when I know I’ll never get to visit. Dianne, a reader of my blog, contacted me with a wealth of photos and enthusiasm for their little cabin.
While visiting their daughter near Ottawa, Dianne and her husband, Bill, decided to check out a four-acre piece of property on a small creek, surrounded by a large wetland and a few farms. They had long been wanting “waterfront” property they could afford, and before they knew it the deal was sealed. Since they already lived in a large log home they’d designed and built themselves, they opted for another log building, this time using squared timbers sourced from a local lumber mill. The original plan was for a 14 x 20-foot cabin, but it was difficult to get a building permit as there were so many restrictions. Finally, they decided on a building of 108 square feet, the maximum allowed in Ontario without a building permit. They chose dimensions of 9 x 12 feet, with an 8 x 9-foot sleeping loft cantilevered over the front of the cabin to create a covered porch and additional interior space.
The cabin has a skylight and five windows to allow for lots of natural light. There’s no electricity, but Dianne and Bill hope to eventually install two small solar panels to run some lights. They also built a large outhouse with a solar shower and hand-washing station outside. Cooking is done outdoors on a propane camp stove. They haul in their water, and they heat with a kerosene radiant heater rather than a woodstove. “The reason,” says Dianne, “is because we did not want woodsmoke to be visible in order to protect our privacy. It’s for the same reason that we used green steel on the roof; it blends in with the pine, spruce, and cedar trees that surround the cabin.” They’ll also leave the logs to weather gray, “which will further help us blend in with the landscape.” This sturdy cabin will be there for many years to come, and Dianne and Bill plan to pass it on to family someday.
Dianne and Bill’s cantilevered loft is a clever and often-used trick: build the base to abide by code restrictions, but then make up for the compromise in the loft, which often isn’t considered useable or “habitable” space by the authorities. Blending into one’s surroundings is another good idea, especially when use of the cabin is intermittent. This reduces the chance of break-ins, vandalism, and theft. Why advertise that an unattended cabin is lying there in the woods when taking only a few simple steps can reduce its visibility?
O ne of the locals near my Vermont camp has a trailer that my brother, Dustin, and I have long referred to as “the chameleon.” This house looks like an absolute heap of garbage from the exterior, while inside, although not exactly Xanadu, it comes off as very nice by comparison. The Rock Shed works with the same concept — ugly as sin on the outside and, well, quite unexpectedly pleasant on the in. It was also rehabbed, paint and all, for only about $400, including many of the homemade art and furniture pieces. Pallet wood, a wild array of spray paint, and roadside finds were all my friends on this constructive jaunt. The drum set, a Manhattan kit from Peace, is also a space-saver, as it takes up only 3 square feet or so. (Yes, it is possible to fit a playable, great-sounding drum set in even the tiniest of spaces!) The Rock Shed, all in all, is 10 feet wide and 12 feet deep. This is the maximum size I can build in my little Massachusetts town without needing a permit.
The key to this shed transformation was the 4 x 4-foot skylight we installed. This relatively large window brings a lot of natural light into the Rock Shed, creating a more spacious feeling and cheerful environment within, all for so little in cash and time. The skylight is the very first thing people notice, giving them a great view of the tree boughs above. Cost: $25 on Craigslist. I should also add that I don’t usually paint things all white, but lighter colors do work well for small spaces. Truth be told, I also had access to some really inexpensive white paint. I often preach on the challenges and fun of letting the materials dictate the build, and in this case I went so far as to let nearly free paint (and my thinning wallet) guide the vibe. If you’re looking to save money and make use of leftover paints, don’t be afraid to mix them all together before they go to waste. You just might wind up with an extraordinary color — or, if you’re not careful, some sludgy, murky brown.
T he 110-square-foot Vision Hut was built in 2008 by Bruce Damer and friends as a place to finish writing his PhD thesis as well as a place to meditate, practice yoga, compose music, host sleepovers, and view sunsets and the night sky from the wraparound deck. It’s part of a larger complex that includes an art bus and an octagonal stage, so funkiness already seems to be the norm at this spread. The hut looks out over a redwood valley in the Santa Cruz Mountains of Northern California. Pure Heaven, and just what the doctor ordered — literally.
While I’m a fan of art-laden walls (sometimes even when they’re at borderline-hoarder extremes), there’s no denying the appeal of the unadorned natural wood of the Vision Hut, not to mention its great use of a small deck to extend the outdoor living space (something I always recommend, unless you live in Siberia), and that attention-grabbing, view-framing circular window. The locale doesn’t hurt either! Well played, Dr. D., well played . . .
S ince 2009 I’ve run the blog Relaxshacks.com, focused on tiny dwellings, outbuildings, and woodland-escape huts and offices. In the past, people often referred to my designs as “relax shacks,” even though I’d never given a project that name. Eventually I figured it was time to use the name for real.
The idea here was to build something large enough for several uses: a backyard office, reading room, yoga studio, kid’s fort, storage shed, guest sleeper, nap nook, hobby space, even a greenhouse. I also wanted to ensure that this structure was tiny enough to circumvent codes and permitting in most areas, and to be relocated without too much effort should the need arise. The result is a panelized room that’s 6 feet 6 inches square. Why that and not the full run of an 8-foot board? Well, I’ve built a few straight 8 x 8 cabins, and that extra 18 inches, while useful, just somehow makes them feel overly boxy and cumbersome instead of cute or humble. Also, the lumber I had on hand was limited in length, so this smaller dimension worked to my advantage while still being long enough to let most people stretch out for a snooze, should one decide to add in a little daybed or couch, which I later did. It’s not a house, but it can make for a great little vacation cabin or guest bunkhouse for short stays, and its petite nature allows it to be plunked down on the tightest of city lots.
The Relax Shack’s windows were discovered at a town dump, the floor is made of recycled metal pool siding, and the “Wild Wall” is made of colorful scrap wood and signs.
A tiny escape pod in the city? That could be pretty darn cool. Even cooler, you could crane this rustic yet wild-looking snooze cube up onto the rooftop of an apartment complex, or into a tree!
Not easily missed is the rear wall I’ve dubbed the Wild Wall. Built at a workshop, the wall was a group effort to find creative ways to use up my long-standing stock of scrap boards and found materials. The result is a tiled array of funky, multicolored, and variously textured planks, and even a few scrap wooden signs I had saved from various festivals. Look closely and you might see the remnants of a sign from New York City’s Maker Faire in 2010, a display plaque from a Walden Woods build I did, a chunk of polycarbonate roofing, the oak bottoms of salvaged dressers, and even a few cartoonish images that the workshop attendees doodled in marker. In such a tiny, and initially plain-looking, cabin there’s a good deal to look at, and almost all of it was crafted from nothing.
The Relax Shack achieved its goal of being a simple cabin in many ways: simple to build, simple to move, simple to afford, and simple to situate. I’m also a fan of the front wall of windows, another case where the materials dictated the design. Those four double-paned window sashes were freebies I found at the town dump while on vacation in China, Maine. Better yet, I was able to sell many other windows I found for $30 a pop and funneled that money into materials I couldn’t find for free. The blue faux-plank flooring, by the way, is made from the recycled metal sides of an old aboveground pool that belonged to my neighbor (“crazy man” Paul LaCivita, from my YouTube series).
T he Miner’s Shelter is a desert dwelling built and designed by Dave Frazee, a student at Taliesin, the Frank Lloyd Wright School of Architecture. Both the concept and title were inspired by the architectural ruins that were found at the project’s site. Held 2 feet above the desert surface by two steel posts and cuddled by a paloverde tree in one corner, this structure conveys a sense of longtime residence and belonging in the landscape.
Desert heat is a formidable opponent for any shelter, so Frazee and his team wisely covered the shelter with steel panels attached to metal channels. These channels hold the panels 3 inches away from the wall and provide a shade space where hot air can vent away from the structure, keeping the interior cooler.
For materials, steel and wood (ebony-stained redwood) were selected for their aging qualities and durability in the desert. The rusted steel pays homage to the desert’s rich mining history. Over time the panels will acquire a patina similar to that of the desert mountain range surrounding it.
Frazee explained his reasoning for the door’s location: “The entrance to the shelter is intentionally located on the inner courtyard of the concrete pad, close to the chimney mass. This allows an occupant to open up the shelter and gain warmth on a cool night” — either from the nearby fire or from the day’s solar heat stored in the slow-release thermal mass. Beyond its heating, cooling, and geographic orientation, I just love the openness of the Miner’s Shelter and its surrounding views of the Phoenix Valley on one side and the McDowell Mountain Range on the other. Tiny house, big view.
I built the original incarnation of this cabin in 2011 for The United Stats of America, a show on the History Channel. I had received a call asking what I could pitch to them, then build, transport to Brooklyn, reassemble, tear down, and drive back to Boston in a mere three or four days. This was no easy feat. Well, while watching two kids, I was able to moonlight and developed a panelized, prefabricated structure for under $1,000 — and with time to spare. Post-shoot, the network had no use for this little “small-space-trend representation,” especially with space at a premium in New York, so it was gifted to me. Score!
What you see now is a far departure from what the cabin originally looked like, and it still continues to change. This little 8 x 8 x 8-foot box not only has a bunk bed for guests but also stands as the tiniest of art galleries for some truly bizarre art, where the paintings and odd flea-market finds are always rotating as I list and sell them on Craigslist. This little side hobby is fun in a treasure-hunting way, and it brings in some additional income, American Pickers–style. The All Eights looks different from month to month, and, as a result, I’m never tired of its eclectic decor. Trying not to overfill it with my flea market and roadside hauls — well, that’s another story.
The All Eights lit up at night, a testament to my attraction to clear Tuftex roofing as walls.
My brother, Dustin, in an early bare-bones version of the cabin.
What I like about this little art locker is that it became a place where I could harbor all the odd, unique, and fun items that normally might not make the cut, stylistically, inside my family home. In the All Eights, the colors don’t have to match and there’s no one else to judge whether or not a certain piece of art or a vintage Avon-truck-shaped perfume bottle from a yard sale will fit in or not. It’s my free-reign, ADD man cave.
The bunk, albeit small, has worked out well. The hut has even been used as a “green room” during film shoots, a place where people could keep warm, grab some grub, or just relax off-set. Also, while not insulated, the All Eights stays rather cozy with just an electric radiator, even in below-freezing weather. I’m no longer such a fan of the curved roof, which I originally loved, and the front “circle hole/square window” experiment is something I wouldn’t repeat — it just doesn’t look right, nor does it open. But I do love the Pet Peek window I later added to the door. Alongside a bright-orange paint job, it gives this place a ’70s vibe and spruces up an otherwise boring-looking door (a very old one found on the street).
W hen a children’s book designer needed a work space separate from the main house, a small and private retreat ended up fitting both the bill and the budget. The challenge in this case was to tear down an existing shed located at the top of a steep hill and replace it with a small studio in the exact same footprint. The homeowner also wanted this new studio to be small yet airy, bright but cozy, and inspirational yet modest. Hinterland Design and founder Riley McFerrin delivered on all counts, especially when it came to an expanse of windows (a whole wall) for natural light. Another success by design was making this space look and feel modern yet in harmony with the rustic charm of the countryside.
With a one-month schedule and a very modest budget, Hinterland Design did a complete demolition of the existing shed and provided the design and build of the new studio from the ground up, including a new foundation, all framing and finishes, new utilities, custom-built workspaces, and even the interior millwork. They were able to incorporate salvaged windows, siding, and doors, as well as repurposed timbers for interior shelving and storage. This helped keep down costs and created that rustic atmosphere. Tucked into the trees, the studio provides expansive views of the ocean through large windows that not only provide light but also inspiration for the artist within.
The Hinterland Studio’s sliding outdoor wall, which moves to cover the largest of the windows, is a great idea. I also love the “pop” of the orange door, which gives this little office a dash of character before you even get inside. The natural tongue-and-groove ceiling keeps things light and airy, as the client requested, and the gable-end window brings in a great deal of light. The lack of collar ties in the ceiling space also keeps this place visually uncluttered, while the head, or front edge, of the loft still serves like a collar tie to keep this house plumb and solid. The loft (not shown, at the owner’s request) is merely for storage.
Tyler’s second build (bottom) has a much more refined look compared to her first build (top).
I ’ve received a good many e-mails and photos from readers who have gone on to build some of the designs I’ve offered, or variations of them. Some were just inspired to get out there and try something, which is especially rewarding in cases where the builder has zero previous building experience. Such was the case with 16-year-old Tyler Rodgers, who, when presented with a pile of recycled and scrounged wood, set upon the task of cobbling together a narrow little riverside getaway with a view, all visible from the hammock she strung across the interior of the cabin. Yeah, it was no polished and perfect project, but keep in mind that’s not always a bad thing. Some of the more rough and rustic designs I’ve seen have also been the most infused with character.
Tyler later cleared her original riverside shack to make room for progress: a “step two” tiny house that she designed and built as part of her thesis for her high-school senior project. It’s a commendable effort for a 17-year-old (or any new builder!) and shows great growth in a short time span.
All in all, the budget for this secondary build came in at under $500, due in massive part to a wealth of salvaged materials that Tyler was able to find. This little house has a sleep loft, ample storage, a bathroom, and a couch/daybed, and it still hasn’t let go of that amazing view that made the original shack so likable.
I really admire Tyler’s use of raw, unpainted wood in her first project, especially in the wall work where species and stock are mixed (I call this the “calico effect,” even if there are more than three looks or colors at play). That said, there’s clearly a great deal of progress and growth between her first build, which is more like a fort, and her second one. Structure two is divided into separate living spaces (minuscule as they may be) and has a more cohesive style, some storage space, an actual bed, and even some space set aside for a future bathroom nook. Overall, the two structures are like night and day — but they were built by the same young woman in the span of only a couple of years. She should be proud.
B uilt for Massachusetts’s own “Minister of Sinister” horror author John Grover during the summer of 2012, the Horror Hut was something I designed as both a writing escape and a greenhouse. How could the two coincide? Well, not only do the generous 6-foot-tall transom windows in front grab a ton of free heat from the daytime sun (the front is south-facing), but those same windows open up to allow the heat to bleed out when John wants things, less, er, “greenhousey.”
This little backyard office employs the following salvaged materials: a roadside door, a single-sash freebie window, four very large windows from Craigslist, and a thick sheet of glass from an old stereo cabinet that I fabricated into yet another side window. I used dark crushed stone for the floor because of its thermal mass (the ability to hold the sun’s heat and release it slowly). Furthermore, the floating deck floor is made of cedar, a toss-away from a mill in Vermont, and can be moved in and out of the structure as the owner sees fit.
The Horror Hut was a case of Craigslist really coming through for me. My brother, Dustin, originally purchased seven(!) 6-foot-tall Andersen windows for a mere $425, and this hut used only four of them. New, these windows would have been close to $1,000 each. For the roof I used clear Tuftex polycarbonate roofing, which has really held its own, and it looks great. Polycarbonate, or “polycarb” as it’s often called, is used to make bulletproof glass, and I turn to it for its durability, ease of installation, and light weight.
T he Periscope stands as the first “tree house” I ever built twice! Now hear me out, as, yes, what you see is not in a tree. A while back, I was contacted by a woman who wanted a multi-use tree house cabin built on her property, and seeing as her lot wasn’t incredibly close to me, I accepted the gig but under the condition that I could prebuild most of the wall pieces on my own time, in my own backyard. This allowed me to work sporadically when little snippets of time presented themselves (and while listening to heavy metal and drinking beer, if I so desired).
Things progressed nicely, and I planned each piece so that it could be strapped to my little 4 x 8-foot trailer. But somewhere along the line I got carried away with the design, windows, and material use. When the walls were finally good to go and I went to drag them to the trailer, it was clear that my chiropractor was going to be financially thrilled if I continued. I was able to move the four board-and-batten walls, but the idea of singlehandedly hoisting and positioning them high in a tree didn’t strike me as very bright . . . or safe.
Then and there, so close to being done, I scrapped the entire plan, decided to keep the cabin, and reassembled it in my own yard, ground-bound style. What was one more little structure in my backyard Oompa Loompa village? Thankfully, my wife was supertolerant and didn’t kick me out of the house or file for divorce. The tree house I ended up building for this woman is also featured in this book: The Lime Wedge.
Construction story aside, the Periscope was so named for its tall, skinny façade that comes off as quite a bit taller than it really is. This is partly because its anchored base, only 6 feet x 6 feet 6 inches (just long enough to sneak a bed in) is in such contrast to its height of almost 13 feet. I’ve also referred to this cabin as the Tetris Tower, since its unusual front window seems to resemble the odd geometric formations from the classic video game.
All said and done, it’s just a simple, one-pitch-roof art-studio cabin. Almost three-quarters of the materials were obtained absolutely free through the employment of a little salvaging elbow grease. The plank walls were made from an enormous storm-blown fence that the owner was thrilled to be rid of — two trailer loads of true-inch timbers. The roof was built with the very same wood and covered with the remains of an old aluminum aboveground swimming pool. Furthermore, the windows were found on curbs, while the door was pulled from a 100-year-old cabin in Maine set for demolition. The loft area up top is small but is made more spacious by the recycled window that opens awning-style and gives way to an exterior shelf, upon which you can perch a glass of iced coffee or tea while enjoying a book.
The tall, skinny figure of the Periscope looks cool and unusual during the day, but it’s a lanternlike beacon when lit up at night, full of unusual silhouette patterns created by the woodwork and whatever happens to sit on the framed shelves — bottles, a ceramic owl or two, potted plants, and anything else that strikes my collecting fancy. This wall, in effect, becomes a “shadow art” display.
A fter quitting their jobs to begin building a cabin in the woods on generations-old family land, Nick Olson and Lilah Horwitz ended up with a getaway that stands as the grand example of being “naturally lighted.” Instead of trying to place their windows to chase or frame the sunset, the duo decided to go for an all-windowed approach on the cabin’s front wall, beginning with a sash they harvested from an old farm in Pennsylvania. From there, it became a quest of locating, and then framing and fitting, various windows — each with its own origin of interest and its own story to tell. Some windows open, others don’t, and the whole assembly comes off as rustically chaotic yet somehow cohesive and well planned at the same time. It’s shelter as art — not surprising, as Lilah, a clothing designer, and Nick, a photographer, are both very talented in their respective fields.
The Sunset House, a 12 x 18-foot shed-roofed cabin, completed in 2012, became the subject of a short film by the Half Cut Tea production company and soon went semi-viral, with almost one million views in under a year. Again, no surprise, as it’s such a strikingly appealing space.
With the cabin’s vast wall of glass, the sun might wake you sooner than you had planned in the Sunset House, but who could complain when greeted with that expansive vista? I suppose you might think, “But what about privacy?” But if you’re deep in the middle of nowhere, the beauty is that you probably wouldn’t need, or want, curtains. The raccoons might see what you’ve been up to, but who are they gonna tell?
Being a fan of natural wood, I’m also very glad that this place wasn’t hastily slapped with an interior paint job. Paint has its time and place, but with great paint also comes great responsibility — the upkeep, the touch-ups, the time and money to coat a place to begin with, and so on. The cliché “less is more” certainly holds true in this case.
W eighing in at a mere 170 pounds, with the added attraction of being completely foldable for storage and transport, comes this neat little answer to temporary housing, potentially for camping or even the homeless. Setup takes all of about 15 minutes, with two or even one person. This unassuming little shelter breaches the barrier between shed and tent (a shent?). Add in a folding table, a swivel lamp stand that folds against the wall, a screened window or two, and even a mount on which to display your iPad’s fireplace app, and you have the makings of a cozy little getaway or refuge from the wind and rain. Kathy claims that even in winds over 25 miles per hour, this luggable little shelter holds up just fine.
The fact that it’s merely four sheets of solid plywood — connected with a spline and braced with various “plug-in” hardware and boards — makes the Collapsible House beyond easy and affordable. It is little more than a spacious, rigid tent, but it’s certainly fun and clever. A souped-up version of this might be a viable option for disaster-relief shelters.
B uilt at a hands-on workshop I hosted in late 2013, the Bread Box was named for its resemblance to the bread cubbies of old that would hang beneath a cupboard. Take that shape, flip it over, and you more or less have the basis for this tiny little structure. It’s meant as a backwoods or backyard office, a greenhouse, or a minicamp for weekend retreats. No, it doesn’t have a bathroom, kitchen, servants’ quarters, wine cellar, or billiards room, but even as a mere 6 x 8-foot shelter it feels rather large inside because of its abundance of windows and, therefore, natural light.
As with many of my designs, the aim was ease of construction, flexibility of use, and affordability. This entire cabin could be built for somewhere in the ballpark of $700. It has a very basic platform base, a framed wall skinned with poplar plywood sides, and really nothing more. I chose to frame the door-end wall with 2x6s, instead of the standard 2x4s, for their added depth. The walls were also framed horizontally so they offer several layers of shelving, and all are supported with debarked maple limbs for a rustic tie-in. Apart from this one Adirondack-style nod, the Bread Box is really a very modern outbuilding.
The art on the back wall is one of many large pieces I’ve made out of what would otherwise be trash — little scraps of trimmed, painted wood saved from my projects over the years. Yes, while I save just about everything, I use just about everything. The smallest of unpainted scraps, those I actually deem worthless, wind up heating my home via my central woodstove. I call this the Hotdog Approach: everything gets used.
You wouldn’t know it, but almost the entire base of the Bread Box is built from free, found dimensional lumber and pallet wood — pressure-treated, too! You just can’t beat that price. The floors are clad, rather unusually, with antique beadboard. This style of tongue-and-groove board is usually reserved for walls, but I felt it would make a great floor. I overcame the challenges of its crumb-catching grooves by slapping on some polyurethane with a hardener additive. By applying a few coats, I eventually filled and leveled out the channels and wound up with a nice, glossy, flat floor. Again, by thinking outside the box and breaking a conventional rule or two, I found a means to an attractive, budget-friendly end.
F rom a team of Russian architects known as the Arch Group comes this wildly modern and compact sleeping unit aptly named Sleepbox. Marketed to transportation facilities such as railway stations and airports, this sleek, lunchbox-shaped snooze chamber comes complete with a fold-out desk, bunk beds, ample power to charge your laptop and cell phone, and, yes, heavy shades for privacy. Better yet, these affordable temporary relief stations are soundproofed, air conditioned, come in an expansive variety of colors, and take up so little space that they hardly interfere with retail areas or pedestrian traffic.
These modern microhuts can be located either indoors or out and are aimed at saving time, money, and energy for weary travelers dealing with layovers. At airports they can save you from having to book a costly hotel room, take a cab back and forth, recheck your bags, and pass through security again — all for far less money than conventional lodging.
Oh yeah, they’re also fully loaded with Wi-Fi, TVs, and gaming systems and come in single, twin, and double units.
Layover or not, I’d like to go to an airport just to check into one of these things. And I have to say, the Sleepbox is just begging to be turned into a jaw-dropping tree house. I’m also a fan of the little storage nooks and pull-down workspaces. These take up little or no visual space and almost zero room when folded away. “Out of sight, out of mind” is an important adage to remember when designing something so very tiny.
The Sleepbox makes for a cozy retreat in the middle of an airport or railway station.
T his rustic log cabin was built by Neil and Kurt Malek (my cousins) as teenagers in the mid-’90s, with help from one of their good friends, Mark Polanski. The simple structure has been sitting alone, deep in the woods of Connecticut, for almost two decades now and has held up remarkably well considering the harsh winters. I revisited the site in 2013 and snapped a few photos. Inside, there’s a Scandia woodstove, which was donated to my cousins’ project by my father, Glenn. This stove was the very unit that used to heat our home when I was a boy.
According to Neil, the footprint of the cabin was around 10 x 12 feet, with a standing height of about 7 feet (they dug the floor down about 6 inches so they wouldn’t have to build up as much) and the peak of the roof somewhere around 12 feet. They built the whole thing by hand, without any power tools. “We cut the trees with a bow saw and notched all the logs with an axe so they fit snugly,” says Neil. “We then chinked between the logs using a mix of mud from the swamp nearby (a few hundred feet downhill) and grass clippings from our yard. The roofing was my aunt’s old pine flooring that she gave us when she redid her floors (with tar paper laid underneath).”
Kurt hollowed out a large log to use as a sink and made a drain hole in the bottom, complete with a hose that emptied outside the cabin into a hole covered by a stone. They used slab wood (left over from cutting logs into boards) from a sawmill down the road to fill in the gable triangle above the door and in back. Another friend gave them deer furs that they salted and dried and hung in the loft as cushioning “until the critters got into them.”
Neil remembers staying overnight in the cabin, even in the winter. “If you got the stove ripping, that place would get darn hot even with the holes in the walls. We used to cook on that stovetop, too, and cleaned the pots and pans in that sink, which, like the woodstove, is still sitting up there in the woods to this day.”
This is a pretty impressive project for three kids, all under 18 years of age at the time. Kurt, the youngest, was around 14. As small as it was, the cabin had a simple horseshoe-shaped loft that slept three. Digging the floor down to limit the number of logs to be cut for the wall (a laborious and time-consuming task) is also a common and clever tactic. This log cabin doesn’t have a stone starter base as most would, but it still holds up rather well without one, nearly 20 years later.
I n 2013 I was sent down to Austin, Texas, to teach a class on small-scale design and building with free, salvaged, and recycled items. Well, as “Keep Austin Weird” has been this city’s ongoing slogan and mindset for some time now, it was no shock that I soon found an abundance of cool, funky, backyard cabins and studios to visit — and visit I did! Jennifer Francis’s little rental unit stood out to me, and although my visit was brief, I really dug the vibe of this place, which is simple, colorful, and built on an extremely small budget.
This little backyard retreat is occasionally rented out on airbnb.com and features a few wallet-friendly renovations (from its initial shed state) that are worthy of mention. The porch sports a pair of columns rescued from a neighbor’s 1930s Sears-Roebuck catalog house, and “every stick of furniture was nabbed from garage sales,” says Jennifer. She and her father wired the structure for electricity, built in a lofted sleep space (you can also sleep down below on the couch), and gave it all a very rustic and natural look with an abundance of old fence planks. Yes, what you see as interior siding is made of slats from a pile of fence wood!
