If you’ve ever driven through a ski town, a lakeside community, or even a 1970s subdivision with more enthusiasm than architectural oversight, you’ve probably spotted it: two sloping roof planes meeting at a peak so sharp it could slice your marshmallow stick in half. That, my friends, is the A-frame, an architectural form so simple a kindergartner can draw it, and yet so enduring it’s been sheltering humans for centuries.
This is the story of how the A-frame went from humble snow-shedder to mid-century media darling, to roadside cliché, and back again as an Instagram ready icon.
Triangles Before They Were Trendy
The A-frame’s roots are older than suburbia, polyester ski suits, or even America itself. Across the world, steeply pitched roof huts have been keeping people warm and dry for centuries. In Japan’s mountainous Shirakawa-gō region, gassho-zukuri farmhouses, named for their resemblance to “praying hands” rose to fame 300 years ago, long before anyone coined the term “mid-century modern.” These massive, thatched-roof structures were engineered to survive crushing snow loads, with pitches so steep even the most determined snowflake couldn’t linger.
Similar shapes popped up in Alpine Europe, where farmers and herders used simple triangular forms to shed snow and rain. The triangle wasn’t a style choice, it was survival math. But that shape, so practical and timeless, was sitting there in the world’s collective architectural toolbox, just waiting for someone to give it a fresh coat of modernist paint.
A Triangle Walks Into the 20th Century
Enter Rudolf Michael Schindler, an Austrian-born architect working in California. In 1934, he designs the Bennati Cabin in Lake Arrowhead, a pure modern A-frame meant for people, not livestock or firewood. It had steep sides, open interiors, and a style that whispered “I ski in wool knickers.” But the idea was ahead of its time. The Great Depression wasn’t exactly the moment Americans were shopping for chic alpine getaways.
The spark caught again in 1950 when John Carden Campbell introduced his “Leisure House,” designed to be built from standard sheets of plywood. Campbell understood that America, flush with post-war optimism and plywood production, wanted second homes they could actually afford.
His design even made an appearance at the 1951 San Francisco Arts Festival, where people could walk through it, imagine themselves sipping coffee by the fire, and then buy the kit to build it themselves.
Still, it took one more push to move the A-frame from novelty to national obsession.
In 1955, architect Andrew Geller sketched a quick A-frame for client Elizabeth Reese in Sagaponack, New York. What he built was more than a weekend house, it was a lifestyle manifesto in cedar siding and glass. Two years later, the New York Times splashed it across its real estate section, and suddenly, everyone from Cape Cod to Lake Tahoe wanted to live inside a triangle.
Geller went on to design more whimsical vacation homes, but the Reese House was the one that put the A-frame on the cultural map.
The Golden Age of A-Frames
From the late 1950s through the 1960s, A-frames were everywhere. You could find them in ski towns, dotting lake shores, and even lurking in suburban developments. Popular Mechanics ran a glowing 1961 piece titled “Why the Big Boom in A-Frames?” and the Douglas Fir Plywood Association sold ready-to-build plans.
Companies like Lindal Cedar Homes churned out prefab A-frame kits by the thousands. You could even walk into Macy’s, slap down a deposit, and buy a fully furnished vacation home (yes, in the same store where you could buy a necktie and a blender). The A-frame wasn’t just a house—it was a cultural moment, embodying post-war leisure and the belief that a weekend retreat was part of the good life.
What Made the A-Frame Special?
Part of the magic was how form and function danced together. The “roof-as-wall” design meant fewer parts, easier construction, and serious structural strength. That steep pitch laughed in the face of snowdrifts and shed rain without complaint. Inside, the soaring central space gave even a small footprint the drama of a cathedral, while lofts tucked under the peak added cozy sleeping spots.
And then there was the view. Big glass gable ends pulled the outside in. Whether “outside” was a mountain vista, a placid lake, or just your local suburban street.
The Decline of a Darling
By the mid-1970s, the A-frame had been too successful. Drive through any vacation corridor and you’d see them sprouting like mushrooms, from elegant cedar chalets to slapdash roadside knock-offs. The mystique faded. Just like when a Top 40 song has been overplayed and overplayed America simply tuned out or changed the channel.
Then came the 1973 oil crisis, and with it a new focus on energy efficiency. Those giant single-pane gable walls might look spectacular, but they leaked heat faster than you could say “inflation.” Builders pivoted toward tighter, more insulated boxes, and the A-frame boom slowed to a trickle.
The Comeback Kid
Like all good architectural characters, the A-frame bided its time. In the 2010s, fueled by Airbnb listings, Instagram influencers, and a general wave of mid-century nostalgia, triangles were back. Architects began revisiting the form with modern materials, high-performance glazing, and better insulation.
Now, you’ll find restored vintage A-frames and sleek new interpretations in the same breathless travel blogs. They’ve become shorthand for cozy escape: light a fire, make cocoa, post a photo, rake in the likes.
Where They Still Stand
If you want to see the real deal, head for ski country like Lake Tahoe, the Rockies, Vermont or lake districts like the Adirondacks or the Great Lakes. The Pacific Northwest also boasts a healthy population, often tucked into evergreen forests where they look like they’ve been there forever.
But those aren’t the only places. A-frames dot the landscape across the country in neighborhoods built in the 1960s to 1970s. I’ve even come across a few here in Florida where the practical necessity of handling snow loads is not really much of an issue.
Lessons for Today’s Restorers
For anyone lucky enough to own one, restoring an A-frame means balancing romance with building science. Those repetitive rafters can be thermal bridges, but continuous exterior insulation can make a world of difference. Roof ventilation is tricky when your wall is your roof, and big gable windows can let a lot of heat or cold in.
The window energy issues can be easily resolved with interior storm windows like Indows or by adding some energy efficient tiny, but don’t expect to find a vinyl window salesman that will replace these original beauties.
And don’t underestimate those low “kneewall” zones. They’re perfect for built-in storage that turns an awkward slope into practical space.
The Last Word
The A-frame endures because it’s honest. No complicated geometry, no fussy ornament, just two planes, a ridge, and a reason to get away from it all. In the 60s, it promised leisure and a break from the grind. Today, it’s nostalgia you can actually inhabit, as long as you’re okay with a little ladder climbing to bed.
The A-frame’s story is proof that even the simplest shapes can have the most interesting lives. And that sometimes, the best view is framed by a triangle. Personally, I love them and am looking for a cute little A-frame to call my own as a vacation home if I can land one.
Founder & Editor-in-Chief
I love old houses, working with my hands, and teaching others the excitment of doing it yourself! Everything is teachable if you only give it the chance.