The adage “once burned, twice shy” held no sway for Buttons and Ridgie Barton. In October 2017, the catastrophic Nuns fire incinerated the ’70s-era A-frame in Napa County, California, that had served as a family retreat for 20 years and that the couple, who are mostly retired from a business-to-business marketing company that they ran together, were in the process of turning into their permanent home.

When the fire hit, the Bartons had almost finished their move north from the Cliff May ranch house in Anaheim they’d lived in for 52 years. They’d already brought nearly all their family keepsakes and heirlooms, making the loss especially poignant (fortunately, the couple were away at the time). But while rebuilding in fire-prone areas is often controversial, they never even considered leaving.

“Nope, we didn’t think twice,” says Ridgie, although they did vow to build a home that took into account the realities of its environment. “This is just such a special spot, and it holds so many memories,” says Buttons, walking the site as hawks circle overhead. Reached via a winding road, the secluded two-acre property among the redwoods of Mount Veeder offers east-facing views over the Napa Valley, which is sometimes swathed in layers of fog and at other times appears to stretch to the horizon.

After meeting with four or five architects, who all proposed conventional—and conventionally flammable—builds, the Bartons found a kindred spirit in designer Brandon Jørgensen. Not only did he share their spare aesthetic and aversion to fussiness, but he’d spent his childhood camping, foraging, and exploring in the hills on the other side of the valley, attuned to both the area’s beauty and its inherent risks—risks that have only been exacerbated by climate change.

“Building resilient homes is not only ethical, it’s common sense,” says Jørgensen, who is currently working on six other houses razed in recent wildfires. “It’s just that now people actually want to discuss it, whereas before it was like white noise.”

When Buttons and Ridgie explained what they wanted from a new house—apart from a greater ability to face down flames—their programmatic brief was, well, brief. “Just build me something cool,” Ridgie recalls saying. Otherwise, the couple were keen to replicate the high ceiling of their A-frame but reorient the public spaces to face the views, not the driveway.

“Building resilient is just common sense. The way you build, the landscape, the placement of the house have always been at the forefront for me.”
—Brandon Jørgensen, designer

The new house rises like an abstract woodland outpost, the lines of its facade guiding the eye to the entry courtyard and through the transparent front door.

Inside, the living room is the heart of the 2,316-square-foot home. The outside world fills the space through two soaring glass walls, and doors slide open to erase the threshold. A kitchen sits on one end, with a dining nook tucked under the stairway and a guest room around the corner. Upstairs, the couple eschewed window coverings in their loft bedroom, reveling in the tree house–like openness.

“In the morning, the first thing I see is light speckling through the redwoods—I watch the sun rise, then go back to sleep,” says Buttons. Ridgie describes the “inside-out” feeling of the home: “It’s so beautiful,” he says, nearly tearing up. A second guest room doubles as a den, and there’s a small study for Ridgie behind the staircase.

“This time around, we have a house that was actually built for its surroundings.”
—Buttons Barton, resident

If the bronze color of the corrugated steel cladding reflects the charred exterior of the surrounding redwoods, the interior walls of Russian birch plywood echo the unscathed wood beneath the bark. The plywood is lower maintenance than painted drywall—unwanted scuffs and stains just sand out. “I don’t design museums to live in,” says Jørgensen. “We love that industrial, natural look,” says Buttons.

When Jørgensen installed temporary stairs made of engineered wood, both she and Ridgie opted to keep them and leave them exposed. “They have such an interesting and beautiful pattern—why cover them up?” she says.

Within the walls, Jørgensen applied his research in fire-safe building practices. In the case of Mount Veeder, this meant what Jørgensen calls “hardening the structure” with a series of protective layers, including two composed of fire-resistant magnesium board, between the wood frame and the metal cladding (concrete walls were deemed too expensive).

“Another part of creating a seriously defensible place is to avoid vents, gutters, seams—anywhere embers can penetrate,” adds Jørgensen, who overlapped the corrugated steel panels and bent the corners over beyond what the code required during construction. As a result, though the official fire-resistance rating is 2.5 hours, he estimates the actual time before heat would penetrate and ignite the frame to be closer to four.

As Covid restrictions have eased somewhat, the Bartons have been able to welcome their two daughters and their families back to visit at Mount Veeder, where charred reminders of the fire dot the landscape. Displayed on the retaining wall is what appears to be a piece of abstract art but is actually a mangled, melted aluminum wheel rim from their destroyed car. It is both a memento mori—a reminder of the destruction that can never be kept completely at bay—and a symbol of renewal, hope, and a potentially more enduring future.

Project Credits:

Architect of Record: Atelier Jørgensen / @atelierjorgensen

Structural Engineering: DJ Engineers and Associates

Interior Design: Atelier Jørgensen and Erin Martin Design

Cabinetry: Atelier Jørgensen and Pacassa Studios

Metalwork: Atelier Jørgensen and Bryon Slay / @slaybuilt

HVAC: Jeremy Jack

Operable Glazing: Pacific Sash & Design / @pacificsashdesign

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