The promise of cabin living is that with a little land and some ingenuity we can have simpler times and more nature.

Sævik compares her house to a contemplative hideout. “It’s very quiet,” she says. “You can concentrate and let thoughts fly.” Her favorite summer pastimes include reading, painting, drawing, yoga, and “just sitting and feeling the forest,” she says.
When not in use as the headboard, the large redwood slab folds down to become a desk.
The house is divided into three sections connected by a series of outdoor galleries. “When I walk from one room to another, I have to go outdoors and feel the weather and nature—rain, cold, and sun,” says Sævik. 

Instead of emphasizing the expansive panorama of oak, pine, and aspen trees, the house frames select views—a move inspired by Japanese design.
superrkül dubbed this project the Stealth Cabin because it's hidden in the landscape and will continue to recede in view over time. Photo by Shai Gil.
The charred cedar exterior gently basks in the Alaskan sun.
The defining feature of this lakeside cabin in northern Idaho is a 30-by-20-foot window wall that opens the living area to the surrounding lake and forest. Concrete blocks, steel, and plywood make up the simple palette of materials.
“What often happens in our relationship is I come to Funn with an idea and he makes it into something livable.” —Vincent Kartheiser
In the shadow of Denali mountain, amid Alaska’s meadows and icy streams, a former teacher and a four-time Iditarod winner calls upon Mayer Sattler-Smith to design a modernist cabin as expansive as the Last Frontier.
The house may appear conventional at a glance, but a closer look shows how Oostenbruggen has pushed the boundaries of the traditional gabled typology. It has an asymmetrical roof, with slate shingles that extend down the eastern side to close it off completely.
Olson Kundig Architects' Delta Shelter, in Mazama, Washington, is a 1,000 square-foot steel box home with a 200 square-foot footprint. Photo by Olson Sundberg Kundig Allen Architects/TASCHEN.
Large sliding glass doors allow daylight to fill the living room. Smaller windows are placed in the kitchen area and the sleeping loft. The exterior is clad in heart pine which needs very little up-keep and is known for its strength and hardness.
A polychrome facade made of salvaged, 100-year-old barnwood gives this small, lofted cottage space its unique character. Its copper roof is also reclaimed, a lucky Craigslist find from a local remodel. Though the structure has a footprint of just 11' x 14', it provides a useful space to entertain, catch up on work, or relax.
"We did our best to tuck the buildings into the site—the goal was to get up high on a perch. It was a matter of setting that elevation and working back down with the topography," says architectural designer Riley Pratt.
Regain focus and boost your productivity—here, we walk you through seven steps to soundproofing your home office.
The House for a Musher is all about taking advantage of its hilltop site. The courtyard in the front has vast views and the house itself is oriented toward the surrounding landscape.
Deep eaves prevent the entrance from being buried in snow. The clients can see directly into the valley and mountains below.
The roughly 160-square-foot modules, dubbed Mini House 2.0, were built in collaboration with Swedish manufacturer Sommarnöjen, and are delivered flat-packed. The homes are painted wood, and include a shaded deck space, plus full insulation and electricity, for a price of about $29,000. The modules come in various layouts, and can be configured and combined to include a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and living space.
“We really wanted to capture the ruinous quality of this old building rather than do something overtly new,” says Greg Blee, founding partner at Blee Halligan Architects. Before construction could begin, however, he and Halligan had to patch the remaining walls using stones found in the nearby river. Wherever a wall had collapsed, the designers inserted framing to create windows and doors. For the roof, they turned to the original tiles. “My father’s terrible at throwing things away,” Blee says. “We took the tiles off 30 years ago, as it was too dangerous to have them up there. They’ve been sitting in the fields ever since, and this was our last chance to use them.”
“We did our best to tuck the buildings into the site—the goal was to get up high on a perch. It was a matter of setting that elevation and working back down with the topography.”—Riley Pratt, architectural designer
The site needed a path that would let residents easily ascend from the bank to the house. The architects created one by simply replicating the way they had naturally walked up the site the first time they visited. The result is a meandering trail that directs visitors to the landscape’s different features — whether a majestic Arbutus tree, a private stone beach, or a wildflower clearing.