Complex Solutions for a Simple World (Part I)

21 Wednesday Sep 2011

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Ah, the simple life: partaking of the beauty and bounty of nature. Free as a breeze.

Gary hoping for no wind as he installs the turbine

The breeze—our new Air Breeze wind turbine, that is—is neither simple nor free, as it turns out. The tower was free; friends in town happened to have an old one. Gary hurried to dig a three-foot hole before the first hard freeze and fixed the tower’s base in cement.

We knew we were in trouble as we struggled to get the next 10-foot section of this metal tripod settled onto the base, which topped out at about seven feet above ground. Heavy and unwieldy, it waved awkwardly in the air and threatened to crash before we got it settled. Gary thought better of simply trying to muscle up the next 10-foot section; he affixed a pulley rope so I could assist. The tripod had to be lifted up above the 17-foot target, then down very carefully. Gary looked awfully vulnerable even tied in as he was to the tower and ladder. We decided three of the four sections would have to be enough, and counted ourselves lucky to get that third one fixed without a major mishap.

That turned out to be the easy part. I tried to find something useful to do near, but not too near, as Gary hooked up the turbine. Ella was nervous too, and I couldn’t distract her even with a game of fetch. Eventually we discovered the turbine didn’t work, and Gary had to take it down. He was not happy. After failing to get anything more helpful than a ticket number from customer service in response to our e-mail on Monday, we drove into town Thursday to call tech support. We got someone live, but after running several tests this past Friday, we were back in town again on Monday to ship it back for repair. It will take weeks to get it back. Meanwhile, we’re losing about an hour of sunlight every week, so we ordered a second turbine and are having it delivered to my cousin Glenn, who will bring it this weekend when he comes to close up his cabin for the winter.

The complexity of the simple life didn’t escape my former colleagues. When I was planning my move, the logistics of daily life were a staple of conversation at work.

A couple of months ago in the lunchroom, Ashley asked “What about energy? You have a back-up generator, don’t you?”

I knew we had solar, but I hadn’t heard anything about a back-up generator. Now I know: we have solar panels on the roof, propane for the stove and refrigerator, propane and battery-powered lamps and, yes, a gas back-up generator. In addition to the new wind generator, Gary‘s expanding the solar array; he also bought a larger gas back-up generator. We use wood for heat.

Some of you have heard the story about the wood. Dave, the gas-delivery guy, told Gary that someone named Mel might deliver logs out our way. Mel has a phone but no e-mail; Gary has e-mail but no phone. So I called Mel from San Francisco back in July. We talked a few times about the price, delivery, and the mix of birch and spruce, settling on 75 percent birch, which burns hotter, and 25 percent larger-diameter spruce Gary could mill for lumber. Mel needed to know if he’d be able to pull in and turn his 60-foot trailer truck around on the property, so I called Dave, who had just delivered some fuel.

Ella checks out the wood delivery

“Tell Mel he’ll be able to turn around fine,” Dave told me.

Mel was happy to hear it and confirmed, “That will be $2,100 cash. We should be there Tuesday or Wednesday next week.”

“Cash? As in a check, or would that be cash-type cash?” I asked.

“Cash.”

“Oh. OK. I’ll make sure Gary will be ready for you by Tuesday.”

New woodshed under construction.

There’s an ATM in town an hour away, but no bank. It would take Gary several trips to town to withdraw that kind of money. So what else could I do? I got the cash, put it in an envelope, put the envelope in a magazine, put the magazine in another envelope, and sent it.

But wood, source of warmth and light through the ages, that’s still one of the simple things in life, right?

Here I am tossing split wood toward woodshed for stacking

Well, Gary had to build a third woodshed, which at 8-feet by 16-feet now looks to be too small by half. Every day he cuts logs with his chainsaw until it runs out of gas and then splits the wood with an axe. My job is to toss it into the truck bed, drive it to the woodshed, and stack it. It’s all ready to use–well, it will be next year, after it’s dried. This wood was just logged and is still green. Since we can’t wait until next year, we’ll use Gary’s supply of well-cured spruce to get the green birch burning.

Next time: In Part II I’ll talk about the complex simplicity of some of the other logistics of daily living: water, washing and (for those of you eagerly awaiting or wanting to avoid the topic), the whole outhouse thing.

Sights and Surprises

We went to town Monday to mail off the defective turbine; then on to the local bar/café to do some laundry and—since we were there—take a shower. There’s a whole story for another time about our experience in what is one of the least likely places for any sort of exercise in cleaning. That ordeal over, we dropped in on some of Gary’s friends. I’ve met about three percent of the town’s population now; these are wonderful people with a culture of real hospitality.

At the first home, our host warmed our coffee with whiskey—to help me warm up from the near-freezing shower. By the time I finished my second cup I was plenty warm. We stayed on for a hot and spicy bowl of chicken soup, and I noticed a Canadian Jay and several birds I didn’t recognize at the red feeders hanging just outside the kitchen window. Suddenly I realized that one of the feeders was a rib cage, maybe 18 inches long, and the other looked to be the vertebrae of the same animal, whatever it was.

The next home we visited was small even compared to ours, but our friends—Gary’s friends, my new friends—somehow found room for a banana tree, which had survived many winters in its indoor garden.

It was after 8 that evening when we got on the road to go home. Gary had told me that the sure way to see a moose was to leave the rifle at home. He did, and we did! An enormous moose cow crossed the road right in front of me. No risk of an accident, though, at the slow pace required on our little highway!

Sunrise: 7:34 am
Sunset: 8:04 pm
Weather:
High 55 ° Low 35°
Cloudy morning, sunny afternoon

Making It Home

14 Wednesday Sep 2011

Posted by Barbara in Background

≈ 1 Comment

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Alaska, moving to Alaska, off-the-grid

It’s a small cabin with sky-blue metal roofing. You don’t have to look closely to see it’s been built in installments. Gary added on to the tiny original building years ago, moving the kitchen and adding a porch. A new addition is underway; he’s building me a shower and adding storage.

After months of anticipation, I am excited to see my new home. Stepping in the front (and only) door for the first time, I find myself in a full kitchen with a sink, propane refrigerator/freezer and—to my surprise—a propane stove (I thought we only had a wood stove).

The kitchen has plenty of counter space and storage but just a tiny, faucet-less sink. On the floor next to it are two, five-gallon, covered buckets of water; two well-dinged metal pans–one a bit larger than the other–hang above them to ladle water for dishwashing or cooking or drinking. In summer months we pump water from the campground well nearby; otherwise it comes straight from the creek, and we will have to filter or boil it for most uses.

As I step into the main room, the view grabs my attention. Windows on all sides take advantage of the glorious setting, with the most dramatic being the Alaska Range to the north beyond an expanse of tundra and spruce.

Looking around the room I notice how each wall, beam, and bench, each space under a counter, table or sink, is storing something. No fewer than six fishing rods hang on the ceiling beams; boots, jackets, wet socks, tools, towels and kitchenware hang from the ceiling, on walls, over the stove, and at the tops of window frames. I see my books among the many lining the shelves along the uppermost part of the wall. Along with my books, I had mailed part of my large collection of boots ahead, and find them hiding in a small chest under the dining table. Though the table is small, Ella’s bed fits under it too. It will take me a year to discover all the art hanging on the walls and in every window and corner.

We keep huge stockpots of water on the wood-burning stove centered in the main room. Soon we will keep the fire burning throughout our waking hours, but days are warm enough now to let the morning fire die and heat water on the stove.

A long wide desk-height counter runs the full width of the cabin on the north side, with two rows of shelving underneath. I use the left side for my workspace, and Gary has the right side for his. On the wall opposite the dining table is a sink—a bathroom sink, but for want of a bathroom.

I climb six steep ladder-like steps to the bedroom loft, bumping my head on arrival. Even so, my first impression is that the room is huge. The loft shares the contours of the A-frame roof sheltering it, and its high ceiling peak makes up for the low outer edges. There are no closets; storage consists of trunks and cardboard boxes under the bed and beneath shelves built along the low walls of the room. Only the chimney coming up from the wood stove below interrupts the sense of openness.

We read long into the evening without artificial light. It used to make me crazy when, in our San Francisco apartment, I would find Gary reading in the dimmest evening light; now it seems natural to conserve when we don’t know whether tomorrow will bring sun for our generator. Last week Gary put in a lamp over the dining table, a big improvement over the propane lamp that is dim and too high for me to reach.

You can’t go home again. But when you go there for the first time, is it home yet?

My mother used to say, “It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house to make it home.”

I see all the work Gary’s done to create space for my things, to make a place for me. Knowing how much I enjoy my showers, he set out to build me one. He’s worked hard these last three months to make this a place we could call home. For a few days I did feel like a guest, unsure where things were, where they went, or even how to manage washing the dishes or bathing. But the care that shows itself in all that has been done or is planned for my comfort, for our comfort—that is the heart of a home. I still have a heap o’ livin’ to do here, but this spot of light and warmth in the wilderness is fast becoming my home.