"I wanted the house flooded with light," says Liz, "but the zoning board doesn't allow big cathedral windows. So we went with lots and lots of the small, narrow, double-hung windows you would have found here years ago." French doors and skylights, both frowned upon by preservationists, were another struggle. "I just kept going back to them," says Liz, explaining her eventual success.

Builder Fahrlander worked miracles on the sheds. "They were in really bad shape—some of the worst I've seen in 30 years here," he says. Wearing masks, he and his team hosed them down with bleach solution to kill mold and any diseases from the rodent remains and bear droppings left behind. Then they dug out the two feet of vermin carcasses and debris that had accumulated inside over the years and rebuilt the sheds from the inside out, reusing whatever materials they could.

For the interiors, the Curriers had a vision of a frontier house constructed with decorative and ruggedly beautiful materials. So they again consulted Fahrlander, who specializes in working with salvaged goods, then spent nights scouring the Internet for old flooring, fixtures, and doors. "Most dealers will send you samples," says Liz of working off the Web. "You just need to be focused on what you want."



The home's 300-year-old eastern heart pine floors came from farmhands' quarters on a Virginia apple orchard; its 100-year-old doors were recovered from Mexican haciendas; and its enormous ceiling trusses, from an Oregon warehouse. Luckily for the homeowners, Fahrlander knew what to expect when dealing with reclaimed building materials. "At times it was a logistical nightmare for Mike," says Liz.



So strong was the pull of the Rocky Mountains hideaway that the Curriers just finished their latest project; one where, like homesteaders before them, they bed down each night in tin-roofed sheds.
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