Our Story

I grew up building things in the woods. Forts, treehouses, wilderness shelters — whatever we could piece together from scrap lumber and fallen branches. When a new development would tear one down, we’d find another spot and build it bigger. That cycle of making, losing, and remaking taught me something early: the act of building is its own reward.

What I couldn’t articulate back then — hiking through the hills with a film camera, trying to capture something in nature that moved me in ways I had no words for — I eventually found a name for in Japan. Yugen: a profound awareness of the beauty and mystery of the universe, felt more than explained. Half the time I never even developed the film. It was never about the photograph. It was about the moment — the act of seeing, the mental connection I craved. I’d been chasing that feeling my whole life without knowing what to call it.

The Long Way Here

Design Build Bluff - Cedar Hall

I studied architecture at the University of Utah — bachelor’s, master’s, and a few years teaching at the School of Architecture. I got licensed and started my career at a small firm in Park City that punched well above its weight: off-grid sustainable homes, mixed-use projects, deeply design-driven work. My mentor there was an extraordinary architect, author, and philanthropist whose influence still shapes how I think about buildings. That early education — that design philosophy matters, that materials matter, that a building should honor its place — never left me.

I also spent time in Japan studying architecture, where I fell in love with the intentionality embedded in every detail. And a fellowship in Europe studying adaptive reuse — the art of giving old structures new life rather than discarding them. Both experiences reinforced something I already believed: the best buildings aren’t just new things. They’re continuations of a conversation between people and place.

From Park City I moved to the largest architecture firm in Utah, where the work shifted to civic and educational projects — schools, community buildings, the kind of structures that shape how entire neighborhoods function. I earned my WELL AP and Living Futures Accreditation, diving deep into wellness and performance-based design. There’s something uniquely satisfying about designing a school where the air quality, the light, the acoustics all conspire to help a kid focus. That work felt important.

But as I grew into a senior role, the job became more managing and less making. More spreadsheets, fewer sketches. I missed the part where you sit with a blank page and a problem and just design.

B.ende

Around the same time, my family was spending every free weekend camping and fishing in the mountains. My kids were getting older. I wanted them to have what I had growing up — time in wild places, working with their hands, seeing something take shape because of their effort. I’d always dreamed of having a cabin, and I decided to stop dreaming.

I bought a small piece of land within my budget and set myself a challenge: how inexpensively could I build a cabin without compromising on design or sustainability? That became B.ende — named after the “Bald Endeavor” I knew I was taking on. It would either make me bald from stress or send me soaring with the bald eagles the area was named for.

I sourced almost everything through sweat equity. I tore down old barns and structures around my community — free labor for the owners, and I’d keep the wood and materials. The rusted metal panel siding on B.ende was almost a hundred years old when it found its second life on my cabin walls. The cedar siding had decades of weather in it — a silvery gray you can’t buy, only earn. Nearly every material in that cabin carries a previous life and a story.

My kids worked alongside me. They hauled lumber, handed me fasteners, watched the walls go up. They saw what hard work looks like and got to stand inside something they helped create. That was the whole point.

Why This Exists

I should mention — before architecture school, I spent twelve years in construction, primarily framing houses. I built one house start to finish in high school. And at the University of Utah I was part of the Design Build Bluff program, where we went to Bluff, Utah and built a community education space called Cedar Hall. The line between drawing a building and building it has never been abstract for me. I’ve always had one foot in each world.

After B.ende was finished, something clicked. This was a calling back to my roots — spending time in nature, seeing its potential, connecting with place. I started designing cabin plans in my spare time as a creative outlet, a return to the sketch pad while my day career continued with the more technical side of the profession. Local people started asking for help with their designs. Then I put them online.

That was two years ago. Over a hundred plans delivered across North America now. Every design carries the same principles I learned building forts as a kid and refining at architecture firms: build with intention, use what the land gives you, make something that earns its place in the landscape.

I’m still a practicing architect. I still explore the wilds of Utah, Idaho, and the surrounding states every chance I get. Every new ridge, every unfamiliar canyon — I’m back to that kid with the camera, chasing moments I can feel but can’t quite explain.

That’s yugen. That’s what these cabins are for.