We did not want a building that announced itself from the road. The mesa already had a silhouette. The work was to sit inside it — to pour earth in layers the color of the cliff, to set windows as deep as the walls would allow, and to stop at twelve rooms.
Rammed earth holds temperature the way adobe does, only slower. In July the interiors stay dim and cool until late afternoon. In January the west walls take the sun and give it back after dark. Mechanical systems exist; they are not the point of the house.
Cottonwoods were already in the courtyard hollow. We kept them and built the cloister around the shade. Guests often think the fountain is old. It is not. It is a shallow stone dish, refilled from the same well as the kitchen.
If the hotel feels inevitable, that is the highest compliment we know how to take. The mesa was here. We tried not to argue with it.