Back in the Cabin
The cabin as it stood before my dad and I started turning it into a sauna. The giant White Pine that once stood beside it has since been felled. Another pine has grown in its place. Jon Hull
The cabin sits behind my childhood home. A stream runs behind it at the bottom of the slope about 150 feet away. For years, I didn’t pay much attention to it. Shaded by a towering white pine, it blended into the landscape, untouched by summer sun and winter snow.
My dad was finishing up the cabin roof on a September evening in 1994 when my Aunt Bethy called down to him from the house—my mom’s water had broken. My mom tells the story of my birth the same way each time, and the cabin is always part of the exposition.
Dad and I started by drawing out the plan on graph paper. He showed me how to scale drawings and use tracing paper to cycle through different ideas. Jon Hull
The Path
On the other side of the yard, a footpath led to the Carey’s house. Unlike the cabin, the path was used daily. My mom and Cheryl Carey blazed the trail in the early 90s and, over time, it became a well-trodden connection between our backyards.
Brianna Carey and I wore that path down with thousands of trips back and forth. We traveled it so often that Mr. Carey felt compelled to add a Belgian block staircase at the bottom. The path wasn’t just a shortcut; it became the foundation for a friendship that shaped my childhood.
We spent much of our time imagining we ran important businesses—a detective agency in my basement, a restaurant in hers, a trail management company in the woods. One summer, she appeared with a star-shaped lamp and the next big idea: DinoLite.
“Do you want a special lamp in any shape? We can do stars, cars, dinasours, you name it! Call DinoLite.
Di-no-Lite: Light up your life!”
The cabin would serve as the company headquarters. It had sat unused for a while. Carpenter ants had made a home out of the plywood floor. Wasps occupied the rafters. We bug-bombed, slathered white paint onto the unfinished walls, and stapled scrap linoleum to the floor. It wasn’t much, but it felt like ours.
We spent many afternoons planning and playing, inventing a world that existed only in our heads. By fall, DinoLite was forgotten. We moved on to another adventure, and the cabin went dormant again.
It stayed that way for years. Time passed, and Brianna and I grew up and drifted apart. The entrance to the path became choked with weeds and deadfall. She moved to Hawaii for a while. I met Jessica, fell in love, and started traveling with her.
Transforming the Cabin
Saunas are everywhere in Finland. They aren’t a luxury reserved for spas and gyms; they’re a way of life and nearly every home has one. A typical winter night with friends might end with hours spent cycling between the intense heat of the sauna and the crisp outdoor air, a beer in hand. In the summer, Finns escape to countryside cottages which are often equipped with the basics: a way to boil water, a place to sleep, and a sauna. It’s euphoric, communal, and grounding all at once.
When Jessica and I lived there, we took friends and family to plunge into the frigid Baltic Sea. Most were skeptical at first, but all were converted after experiencing the sauna. Jessica’s love for the ritual—her sense of how it brought people together—sparked the idea of building one someday.
That dream led me back to the cabin. Thirty years after my dad first built it, and twenty years after Brianna and I declared it DinoLite HQ, it is ready for a new chapter.
Over Thanksgiving break, my dad and I spent a couple of nights measuring, sketching blueprints, and reading about the art and science of sauna building. People have strong opinions about everything from wood types to ventilation systems. We are keeping it simple—this will be a backwoods Finnish-style sauna, not a luxury spa.
This project feels like a valuable chance to learn from my dad’s expertise. Jessica and I still dream about buying and renovating a house someday soon. Until then, this is a chance to practice—on a smaller scale—a few skills I’ll need when that time comes.
On Friday, we started moving a door and removed one of the windows to prepare the space. We woke up early Saturday morning to load 2x4s into the truck for framing out the new interior. By 8 a.m., sawdust flew. I plan to spend the next few weekends in Newtown to finish it by Christmas.
As we work, I can’t help but think of all the ways this feels full circle. This cabin has been a silent witness to so many chapters of my life—from my dad laying the final shingles on the day I was born, to the summer Brianna and I spent dreaming, to now. It has become the foundation for something I hope will become part of the landscape of my life for a while.
Every cut, every nail driven into the frame feels like a connection—to home, my parents, my friendship with Brianna, and my relationship with Jessica.
The cabin belongs there, nestled into the contours of the hill. It stands like a representation of man in a Thomas Cole painting. When we’re done, I hope the sauna becomes a space where friends and family gather. But for now, I’m content to be in the middle of it all.
Some pictures from various sauna experiences in Finland.
