We Rebuilt a 1980s Mammoth Ski House From the Studs Up — Here's What We Made

12 hours ago
8 min read

*Published: May 2026| Category: Home Improvement / DIY | Part 1 of the Mammoth Mountain Series*

In June 2025, the New York Times featured 490 Hillside Drive in their ["What $3 Million Buys You in California"](https://www.nytimes.com/2025/06/02/realestate/2-million-dollar-homes-in-california.html ) column. One sentence in a real estate roundup. A photo. A listing price.

What the Times didn't have room to tell was the story behind it — the 1980s ski chalet we gutted to the studs, the once-in-a-century storm that pushed our walls out of alignment mid-construction, the self-taught female crew that never blinked, and the two years of decisions, setbacks, and obsessive material sourcing that turned a choppy mountain house into something that ended up in the paper of record.

That's what this series is for.

This is the house I built for my family to come home to.

Not our primary home. The other kind, the one you drive toward for hours in the dark, kids asleep in the back, skis strapped to the roof, and everyone a little giddy about what's waiting. That kind of home. The one that holds holidays and powder days and late dinners and the quiet mornings in between.

490 Hillside Drive in Mammoth Lakes was a 1980s ski chalet when we found it - choppy, dated, awkward in all the ways a house can be when it was built for function and forgot about feeling. It sat right on the Ski Back Trail, which was the dream. The bones were there. The soul wasn't, yet.

What happened next was a full gut renovation, a record-breaking winter storm, $300,000 in weather damage, a self-taught female-led crew, and one of the most meaningful creative experiences of my life.

This is that story.

The Vision: A House That Draws People Back Where we started:

When I looked at this house, I wasn't seeing what was there. I was seeing what it could hold.

Four children. Their friends. My husband's family. Holidays, celebrations, ski weekends, summer escapes. I wanted to build the kind of place that gives everyone an excuse to show up — and a reason to stay longer than they planned.

I knew I wanted to work with a real architect. Not to hand the project over, but to have a real partner, someone who could see the potential in the bones while I focused on everything inside them. That led us to the team at **Sharif:Lynch Architecture**, whose approach to mountain-modern design immediately resonated. They don't just design structures, they design experience.

My job was to be co-general contractor: source all materials that weren't available at the local hardware store or lumber yard, or through subs. Plumbing fixtures, light fixtures, grates, covers, knobs, vents, all interiors, every room, every material, every choice was mine. I'd never done anything at this scale with this much freedom. I taught myself interior design software. I modeled each space. I made hundreds of decisions, and I owned every single one of them.

What We Were Working With

— the original kitchen before

The existing house was 3,200 square feet that didn't feel like it. The layout was choppy and closed — rooms that talked past each other instead of to each other. The kitchen was builder-grade and buried. The windows were small and oddly placed, disconnected from the rooms they were meant to light. There was a small loft that went nowhere. A hot tub room that felt like an afterthought. A basement that was just... basement.

But it was south-facing, which in Mammoth is everything. Light all day, even in the depths of winter. And it sat directly on the Ski Back Trail — ski-in access, 10 minutes on foot to The Village. Location doesn't get more dialed than that.

The opportunity was enormous. So was the challenge.

The Architecture: Everything Changed, Nothing Was Lost

Sharif:Lynch's approach was to honor the original angles of the house and reframe them as assets. Those quirky 1980s geometries? Now they're focal points — sculptural windows that frame forest views, vaulted ceiling lines that create drama, nooks that invite you to pause.

We didn't add square footage. We *found* it. A bedroom was added. A full family suite was carved out of the basement. Two and a half new bathrooms. All within the existing footprint — just smarter, more intentional, more connected.

The formerly awkward loft became a hidden kids' retreat, accessed by a custom iron ladder that functions as both art and architecture. The windowless spa room was opened up and reimagined as an indoor/outdoor sanctuary. Windows were added and enlarged to flood the south-facing rooms with light.

What began as a renovation became, in Sharif:Lynch's words, "a restorative act of communal gathering." I think that's exactly right.

The Build: A Female-Led Crew and a Once-in-a-Century Storm

Here's what nobody tells you about building in a mountain town: the mountain will have opinions.

We were mid-construction when a once-in-a-hundred-year storm hit Mammoth. Work stopped for weeks. Snow piled so high between our house and the neighbor's that it created a glacier, and the weight pushed our walls out of alignment. Engineers came in to assess. We waited two months to understand the full extent of the damage. By the time it was repaired, we had racked up over $300,000 in weather-related costs.

A lesser crew would have crumbled. Ours didn't.

The woman leading our job site on the ground was self-taught — not credentialed the conventional way, but talented in every way that matters. She navigated record-breaking structural challenges without losing sight of the design vision for a single day. I am in complete awe of her.

(If you want the full story of what building in a mountain town actually looks like — the contractor dynamics, the material delays, the insurance nightmare — I wrote about all of it, here: ) https://www.craft-and-bond.com/post/the-challenges-and-surprises-of-building-in-a-mountain-town).)*

The Interiors: Every Room, Exactly As I Imagined It

This is where I got to be my own interior designer, fully and without compromise, for the first time.

I had a vision for every room and I chased it. Here's a look at the through-lines that run across the whole house:

Walls as poetry. I'm obsessed with wallpaper as a design tool. Throughout the house, we used Rebel Walls murals, Isidore Leroy, and Farrow & Ball wallpapers to give each room its own character and mood. The primary bedroom mural was its own adventure, you can read the full installation story [here](https://www.craft-and-bond.com/post/transforming-my-bedroom-with-a-rebel-wallpaper-mural-a-step-by-step-journey).

Tile with texture. Zia Tile and Cle Tile** ground every utilitarian space in warmth and intention. Bathrooms and the kitchen backsplash especially.

Furniture that layers. Pieces from RH, Crate & Barrel, West Elm, Pottery Barn, and Rove Concepts were chosen for tone and touch as much as function. Nothing precious, everything beautiful.

Bedrooms as sanctuary. Spanish linens imported from Zara Spain. Schoolhouse for Pendleton wool blankets. The kind of bedding that makes guests say "where did you get this?"

Fixtures that feel intentional, noteworthy. Anthropologie fixtures throughout, vanities, drawer pulls, accessories, bring eclectic charm to spaces that could easily feel generic. We sourced original Ply light fixtures from Poland via Etsy, and a piano-rack coat hanger from Japan. My own artwork is mixed with pieces made by friends. Every object tells part of the story.

The Kitchen: Designed for Togetherness

If I'm honest, the kitchen was the room I was most excited about, and the one that got the most complete transformation.

The original kitchen was builder-grade and awkward, tucked away from the flow of the house. We redesigned the entire layout, added custom seamless hardwood cabinetry, and expanded the footprint enough to make it the heart of the home.

The centerpiece is a Dacor 6-burner professional range, the kind of appliance that makes you want to actually cook. Flanking it: open floating shelves in warm wood stacked with ceramics and everyday objects, and a marble slab backsplash that is genuinely the most beautiful thing in any room. A Dacor wine fridge lives in the island. A Kohler farmhouse sink means you can cook for 14 and deal with the dishes later.

The overhead shot of this kitchen - the one I use as my hero image - was taken from the loft above. It shows the full U-shape of the kitchen, the marble island, the professional range, and the reclaimed hardwood floors. I've had more people ask about this kitchen than any other room in the house. It was designed for togetherness, and you can feel that just looking at it.

(The full kitchen deep-dive — every material, every appliance, every source — is coming in Part 2 of this series.)

The Spa Room: An Indoor/Outdoor Sanctuary

One of the most transformative changes in the whole project was the hot tub and sauna room.

The original spa space was windowless — a cedar-clad room that felt dark and disconnected from the forest it sat in. We opened it up completely, adding windows that look directly into the trees, and redesigned it as an indoor/outdoor sanctuary. Hot tub. Indoor sauna. Heated floors throughout.

After a day on the mountain, this room is everything.

What This House Holds Now

The house sleeps 14. It has 4.5 baths, two private suites (one with a kitchenette), remote-controlled fireplaces, Alexa on every floor, and two on-demand water heaters so nobody ever runs out of hot water during ski week.

But what it really holds is harder to measure.

The first winter we had it finished, my kids didn't want to leave. That's the whole thing, right there. That's what all of it was for.

The House Proved Itself

Before we sold, we listed it on Airbnb for one season. Our first booking — and our only one — was Christoffer, who brought a rotating group of friends for a full month. February through March, peak ski season. Some stayed the whole time. Others flew in for a long weekend or a week. Young professionals, late twenties and thirties, the kind of group that actually uses a hot tub at midnight and cooks a real breakfast before first chair.

Up to 14 people moving through the house at any given time. Different configurations, different rhythms. The layered spaces — the private suites, the loft, the open main floor — handled it all without anyone stepping on each other.

The review he left was short:

> *"We absolutely loved our stay with Kellie and Josh. They were extremely kind and communicative. Would recommend them to anyone."* ★★★★★

One booking. One five-star review. That's all it got before we sold. But it was proof — the house delivered exactly what we'd designed it to deliver.

We've since sold the house — a decision made for reasons that have nothing to do with how much we loved it, and everything to do with the season of life we're in. But the design lives on here, in this series, because I believe in sharing what I learned. About the process, the materials, the decisions that worked and the ones I'd change.

Every room has a story. I'm going to tell all of them.

The Mammoth Mountain Series

This post is Part 1. Here's what's coming:

- Part 2: The Kitchen — Every material, appliance, and source. The full shoppable breakdown.

- Part 3: The Primary Bedroom Suite — Rebel Walls, Spanish linens, and designing a room that feels like a hotel you never want to leave.

- Part 4: The Living Room — Anchoring an open-plan space in a mountain-modern palette.

- Part 5: The Loft — How a useless space became everyone's favorite room.

- Part 6: The Spa Room— Hot tub, sauna, and the art of the après-ski.

- Part 7: The Family Suite — Sleeping 14 without sacrificing style.

- And more...