“First-class Cabin,” by Hamish Bowles, was originally published in the December 1996 issue of Vogue.

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With his predilection for stars, beauties, and bodies on a heroic scale, it was perhaps inevitable that Herb Ritts would be drawn to the epic vistas of Santa Fe. In fact, the photographer discovered the area almost by accident when, five years ago, his private-jet-setting aunt, Allene LaPides, who has a local ranch, inaugurated her glamorous Santa Fe art gallery with her nephew’s “Men/Women” show. “Jack Woody, my publisher at the time, had bought a house there,” Ritts remembers, “and I just loved the feeling; something grabbed me. I felt very akin to the land.” On a “whim,” he set out to look for property. “I wanted something remote and not adobe’d out!”

What he found was a house high above the piñon-bristled plains and foothills of Santa Fe, on the side of a mountain that towers so high that its peak is sometimes veiled by mist. With its heart-stopping panoramic views shadowed by ever-changing cloudscapes out of Georgia O’Keeffe, he knew that this would be the perfect retreat from his hectic Los Angeles life.

Gradually, Ritts extended the property, last year acquiring 150 acres of forest land on the far side of the mountain. Here, on a rocky outcrop above the groves of towering ponderosa pines, a rugged ten-minute drive away from the main house, Ritts set an old chair so that he could contemplate the magnificent views. Serendipitously, an old well was discovered on the property. Because of this, Ritts began to consider the possibility of building a log cabin, a romantic retreat for himself and his friends.

After working with his mother, the interior designer Shirley Ritts, to transform the original house (Herb had envisioned minor adjustments, but his mother cantilevered the structure out on all sides to add volume, raised the ceilings, and installed her trademark spacious tiled bathrooms), Ritts went on to create, a little farther down the hill, the most glamorous pool house this side of San Simeon. It is here that Shirley Ritts sits discussing their latest collaboration.

A latter-day Anita Loos with vast, limpid eyes, a deep-chestnut pageboy, and dazzling reserves of energy, Shirley Ritts is slumped into a paisley velvet armchair, her Dietrich legs (clad in her habitual leggings and biker boots) slung insouciantly over one of the arms. She confesses that she is running on half-speed after working to get the cabin finished in time for Vogue’s “totally unrealistic” deadline. If this is half-speed, gale-force Shirley must be something to be reckoned with.