Build write-up · 5 min read

How I built Door County Found

A curated guide to a Wisconsin peninsula, built as a real product. Every place is structured data, the filters are real, and the person who keeps it current has never touched the code.

Role
The design and build; identity and editorial with my sister Elizabeth, whose idea it was
Brand
1950s–70s Upper Midwest resort ephemera, through a contemporary editorial eye
Voice
The family’s, one “why we love it” for every place
Editor
Elizabeth, through a web form
The Door County Found identity laid out flat: at left the Door County Found logo — a white lighthouse in a navy disc, gold beams spreading either side of it, the name in navy capitals above the word “found” underlined in rust script — then the headline “Found slowly, shared honestly.” and beneath it “a digital guide to Door County, Wisconsin.” At right a laptop stands open on the site’s front page — “Door County, the way we know it,” a drawn map of the peninsula, and pinned polaroids of Sister Bay, Baileys Harbor, and Jacksonport. Around it on cream paper: a folded nautical chart of the shoreline, a Baileys Harbor lighthouse postcard, a leather motel keyfob stamped “stay curious,” a fifteen-cent cherry stamp, a strip of five cloth swatches in navy, gold, rust, teal, and green, and a handwritten note reading “pack light, leave room for unexpected finds.”

My approach

  1. 01Research

    • Decades on the peninsula, in every season, in one long family document
    • The big guides list everything, so the gap was a guide that vouches
    • No AI in the recommendations: the knowledge is the product
    The problem

  2. 02Identity

    • A brand board, then a written character: refined, not rustic
    • Seven named colors, from paper to brass
    • Keys, stamps, and maps as punctuation, not wallpaper
    Why the words stay live

  3. 03Design

    • Every place answers the same questions: where, what, dogs, vegetarian
    • A card for skimming, a page for deciding
    • The dog filter, from the family’s first note
    A place, not a post

  4. 04Handover

    • Elizabeth edits through a web form, never the code
    • A save is live about two minutes later
    • A half-filled form can’t break the site
    Built for its editor

The problem

Decades of family time on the peninsula built up real knowledge of it, in every season: which places are worth the drive in February, and which in July.

That knowledge lived in heads, in a long document, and in “ask your aunt.” The big guide sites list every restaurant, whether or not anyone would send a friend there.

So the product bet is the opposite: fewer places, every one vouched for. Each opens on a “why we love it” written the way the family talks. Best perch you’ll ever have. Real goats on the roof.

A guide runs on trust, so generated imagery is never used as if it shows a real venue, dish, room, trail, or view. Invention belongs to the identity; beside a real place, the photograph is the place.

From family notes to a guide Elizabeth keeps
  1. Family notesplaces worth the drive, in every season
  2. A brand boardvintage northern Wisconsin, written down
  3. A place cardthe same questions, answered for every place
  4. A web formso Elizabeth keeps it current

A place, not a blog post

Someone planning a Saturday asks the same few questions of every place. Where is it? What is it? Can the dog come? Is there something for the vegetarian?

So every place answers them in the same order, with one paragraph in the family voice. There are 58 live today.

The index page: a count reading 58 places above a row of three cards — Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant, Analog Ice Cream & Coffee, and Barringer’s — each with its own photograph, its town and category stamped above the name, and its own row of badges.
The index, counting itself. Not one stamp on any card is typed by hand: every one renders from the record.

The card is for skimming and the place page is for deciding, and the two never disagree.

A place page for Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant: the photograph runs behind a card carrying the category and town, the name, and badges reading Found Favorite, Kid Approved, and Live Music, above a Why we love it paragraph beside a panel with the address, a directions link, and good-to-know notes on dogs and vegetarian options.
A place page: the voice on the left, the record on the right. The dog line reads “we need to check”: a policy field can hold an honest gap as well as a caveat.

The signature feature is a filter

The first note in the family document was “add where dogs are welcome.” It became the guide’s sharpest edge.

Every place carries a dog policy, with room for the caveat that matters: leashed at all times, keep them back from the edge. The dog page is built from those fields.

One omission on purpose: no lodging. That’s where every competitor fights, and skipping it keeps the guide personal and maintainable.

The Door County with your dog page: three cards each badged Dogs welcome, and under them a heading reading With caveats, 9, over the line “usually trails yes, beach no — the caveat is on each card and page.”
The dog page is a query over the records: the places where the answer is plainly yes, and the nine that come with fine print.

An identity made by hand

My sister Elizabeth and I kept landing in the same place for the look: vintage northern Wisconsin.

Written down, the character is refined rather than rustic, nostalgic without going theme park, a little kitschy, and never cute.

Words stay live. No headline, address, or button is ever baked into a picture.

The palette has seven named colors, from Paper and Ink to a Brass kept for tiny details. I think the names did more than the hex values: “Brass, tiny details only” is a rule anyone can follow.

  1. The map on a phone: filter chips reading All 57, Eat 15, Drink 10, Do 20, Art 8, Shows 4, and Dogs 11, above a map of the peninsula where every town carries its own count and a circle sized to it.

    The map, and chips that count themselves

  2. The dog guide on a phone: the headline Door County with your dog, a paragraph on how the list is checked, two polaroids of dogs named Lucia and Scout, and the start of the Dogs welcome list beneath them.

    The dog guide, polaroids intact

The identity holds up at phone size. Nothing here is a theme.

Built for its editor, not its builder

A guide is only as good as its last update, and the person who keeps this one current is Elizabeth. She isn’t a designer or a developer, and she shouldn’t have to become either.

She signs into a web form that asks the same questions every place answers, and hits save. The change is live about two minutes later, set in the identity, and she has no way to knock it off brand.

That handover is the part worth showing. The visible work was the look. The design work was a system the right person can keep alive without me, whether that’s my sister or a client’s content team.