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Anyone who has grown up in Minnesota is familiar with the phrase “going to the cabin.” Each summer, tens of thousands of Minnesotans pack the car, hitch up the boat, and strike out on the highway leading to “the cabin.”

Not long after leaving the city behind, they enter the cabin zone—a state of mind that anticipates putting the wristwatch in the drawer, throwing a line in the water, playing board games during a thunderstorm, and waking to the call of loons. Minnesota summers would not be the same without at least one jaunt to a cabin.

This tradition is not a recent one. History tells us Minnesotans were going to the cabin well before the advent of the automobile. A hundred years ago, the trip wasn’t a weekend getaway. It was often an extended stay lasting, in some cases, the entire summer. Arriving by train, vacationers of means flocked to cottages and resorts at Leech Lake, Bay Lake, Brainerd, Bemidji, Detroit Lakes, Grand Rapids, and Lake Superior.

A lakefront cabin on Bay Lake in Crow Wing County

Many of those resorts continue to operate today, hosting new generations of cabin-goers.

By the 1920s, automobiles began to replace the railroads and Minnesotans began to build their own private retreats. More and improved roads made locations that were once remote suddenly accessible. Sandy beaches, wooded lots, and protected bays soon became locations of choice.

Cabin architecture varied depending on budget, skill, and personal taste. Log construction was common, but most cabins built during the 1920s and ’30s were clapboard. Intended for summer use only, these early cabins weren’t insulated. Whatever their architecture or construction material, cabins are a reflection of their owners. For some people, it’s simply about getting away. A cabin might be a retired RV on blocks or an impossibly tiny structure nestled in the woods. Others will do anything to build as close to the water as possible, on stilts if necessary. For others, cabins are a contest—stunning, lakeside properties featuring manicured lawns, entertainment centers, and security systems.

With any cabin, the goal is to surround oneself with untamed nature. Every cabin comes with chores, however. At the start of each summer, the winter debris has to be cleared away, the doors and windows thrown open to air the rooms, the critters evicted, beds made up with fresh linens, and the dock put in. Before long and

Wilderness preservationist Ernest Oberholtzer’s “Japanese House” (circa 1920) on Rainy Lake in Koochiching County

much too soon, the nights become chilly and it’s time to take the dock out, close up the cabin, pack up, and reluctantly drive home—until next summer.

Today, leaving work demands, traffic jams, and cell phones behind to escape to the lake is ingrained in us. We go to the cabin in droves, perhaps for weeks at a time to a lake cabin that has been in the family for three or four generations. Or maybe we get away just one weekend a summer, renting a tiny one-room cabin in the woods. We get cabin fever, and the only cure is to go to the cabin.

Photographer Doug Ohman (B.A. ’84) traveled extensively throughout the state for the book Cabins of Minnesota, released by the Minnesota Historical Society Press this May. Cabins of Minnesota is the fifth in the “Minnesota Byways” series, which includes Barns of Minnesota, Churches of Minnesota, Courthouses of Minnesota, and Schoolhouses of Minnesota, all featuring Ohman’s photography.

Image Gallery: Cabin Fever Images
All photos by Doug Ohman