The Great Room
Lake wallDouble-height glass, a steel wood stove, and a linen sofa long enough to lose an afternoon on.
Eventide is the old word for the close of the day — the hour the lake goes flat, the light turns amber, and there is nothing left to do but sit with it.
We spent four winters building this house at the quiet end of the lake — black cedar, a wall of glass, a stove that holds heat until morning. It is rented whole, to one party at a time. No lobby, no neighbours through the wall, no schedule but yours.
Everything faces the water. The plan is one straight line — living, cooking, sleeping — so the lake is never more than a turn of the head away.
Double-height glass, a steel wood stove, and a linen sofa long enough to lose an afternoon on.
Honed soapstone, matte black cabinetry, and a window full of Douglas fir. Gas range, real knives.
The bed sits at the glass with nothing between you and the water. You wake to fog lifting off it.
A tub carved from one block of stone, a forest window, and a candle. Best used while it rains.
Built-in oak, a wool throw, and the sound of rain on the pane. The shelf is full; take one home.
1,640 sq ft. Three bedrooms, two baths, one wall of glass.
See the whole house →Heat, water, fire, and a boat. The rest of it is already here — stocked, split, and stacked before you arrive.
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The whole cabin, every time. No cleaning crew mid-stay, no shared anything, no surprise resort fee at the end of it.
Del builds boats forty minutes down the valley; Mara ran a restaurant in Seattle for eleven years and still can't help stocking the pantry. We live on the far side of the ridge — close enough to bring firewood, far enough that you'll never see us unless you ask.
Write to us with your dates and anything you need — a crib, a canoe lesson, a table booked in town.