Don't you every get bored?

This is the fourth in a series of posts that I’m writing in answer to the questions I get asked the most.

"Don't you ever get bored?"

N.E.V.E.R. NEVER. School staff meetings are boring. Driving through Saskatchewan is boring. Watching golf on television is boring. My life? Never boring.

Top 10 23 Reasons Why I Never Get Bored

(This started out as 10, but there are many, many reasons to list, more than are here!)

23. I have much to learn.

22. Every time Target ships a box to me, something is broken.

21. I make candles, jellies, and healing oils.

20. I am in a constant state of drying flower heads, herbs, and seeds for various uses.

19. Our cabin is filled with books that need to be read.

18. Our coffee is old-fashioned perk, which means that every time I want another cup of hot coffee, I have to turn on the stove to warm up the pot.

17. There are bazillions of tundra berries to be picked!

16. My backyard is an adventurer’s playground (reference the grizzly encounter the other day) and I have a 4-wheeler, boat, and snowmachine.

15, All gas to run the generator and machines from #16 has to be hauled from town, five gallons at a time.

14. When it rains, I collect the water from the rain bucket every hour or so. (it rains a lot)

13. Most of my grocery shopping is done online.

12. The indoor potty needs to be emptied and cleaned every few days.

11. It is a boating adventure to go to town just to take the trash to the dumpster.

10. I have three dogs to play with and take care of. This includes when they roll in a river otter’s toilet like Nuka did yesterday.

9. It is a well-thought out, one-hour or more project to wash dishes or take a shower (aka I have to haul water from the river and heat it on the stove).

8. I live on a world-class river filled with salmon.

7. I watch out for porcupines and grizzlies when going to the outhouse.

6. I have a hundred vegetable plants in the greenhouse that I’m trying to coax to maturity before winter hits in a couple of weeks.

5. Our raspberry plants have to be picked every couple of days.

4. I am always sewing and baking new things to sell at Saturday Market.

3. My Perfectly Posh and Younique businesses need constant attention.

2. The floor of the cabin is always dirty.

1. There is a book that needs to be written!

Don't you miss your family and friends?

This is the fifth in a series of posts that I’m writing in answer to the questions I get asked the most.

"Don't you miss your family and friends?"

Of course, but I also missed them when I lived in the Lower 48.

I did not grow up in the same state as my grandparents, or the rest of my blood relatives. We saw them on holidays, but not necessarily every year. So, when I had children, it didn’t seem odd that their grandparents lived far away. I was raised with the spirit of following my own dreams, and I did. That path is not necessarily the one that my children chose. Now that they have their own lives and families, it does not seem odd for them to be far away. It’s simply how it is.

Since April left for college in Wisconsin, 3,000 miles away, at 17, I have seen her about every 18 months. That does not mean that I do not miss her. I adore her and am extremely proud of her for following her own dreams, which have taken her around the world and back again.

Following her high school sweetheart to Michigan, Sarah is even further away from me. It was very difficult not to be by her side as she endured a long labor with my first grandchild last spring. However, I was able to spend a wonderful 11 days with them as he turned two months old in June.

My girls and I keep in touch via text, Facebook, and Facetime. Technology is available now that I could have never dreamed of using with my own grandparents. It shortens the miles and tightens my grasp.

It’s a long story, but my sister, Holly, and I have never lived in the same state, we have always known a long-distance relationship, and it works for us.

The rest of my family have always lived far away and I have little communication with them. As for my friends, we are in closer contact than I am with my own children, sorry to say. I chat with my besties, Vicki, from Texas, and Ann, from Minnesota, almost every day online. I usually see them once a year, and we have a grand time. Meanwhile, we support each other from afar.

The accessibility of the internet, and the miracle of having it at the cabin, has actually strengthened my ties with those I care most about. I chat more often with cousins and friends from high school. Through the posting of pictures, we are able to see into one another’s lives. It’s quite remarkable.

I’m sure that if I lived next door to, or even in the same town as, my grown daughters, I would drive them crazy. We would drive each other crazy. Distance has its benefits. I am able to watch them through a lens with pride as they become wives, mothers, and independent women. I am able to choose my words more carefully, and sometimes even stop them altogether, when I worry about their choices. Time and time again, they prove to me that they’ve got this, sometimes to a point where I don’t feel needed. Those are the times that I miss them the most. How ironic life is.

Absolutely, if I could do some things differently, I would have gone to visit my dad more while he was on this earth. I learned a host of lessons when he suddenly passed away almost three years ago (it’s still so fresh that tears stream down my face as I type this). I learned that it’s important to go to where people live who are important to me. They want me to meet their friends; they want their friends to meet me. They want me to see their life, the new porch they built, flowers they planted, their favorite bakery. Because of this new insight, I have not taken a “vacation” in three years. Instead, I spend those dollars and days visiting people I love, in their homes, in their lives. It has been hugely rewarding, and I thank my father for teaching me that lesson.

Aren't You Ever Frightened?

This is the fourth in a series of posts that I’m writing in answer to the questions I get asked the most.

"Aren’t you ever frightened?"

Last week I had the stomach flu. That’s bad enough when you live like 99.9% of the population, but when your “bathroom” is 50 feet up a slope slung with three ropes on the uphill side to help pull yourself up, it’s a whole new ballgame. Pictures don’t do it justice. Those tree roots are the only things keeping the walk from being akin to walking up a metal slide on the playground, in the rain, with no rails to hold on to.

It’s not at all like slipping out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. I have to get dressed, go down the ladder to the downstairs of the cabin, find the lantern, put on my shoes and gloves (those ropes are super prickly – not meant for bare hands), scoot the deaf dog out from in front of the door, walk around

two corners on the porch to the back of the cabin, and then up the hill of terror.

One bless’ed night last week, I was up there at 1am in the almost dark, battery-operated, green, Coleman lantern in hand. As I stumbled up the hill (I’m not very sure-footed in the daylight, much less in the dark while holding a swinging globe that blinds me every time I look down at it.), I held my breath until I was finally sitting on the pale blue, fly-poop spotted, insulation ring that provides a sort of seat between the sitter and the plywood hole.

I’m really open for any ideas out there to make this seat easier to clean while still repelling frost. There can be no ice-cube, porcelain or hard plastic surfaces to which my semi-warm, bare ass would freeze in January when it’s 40 below. By the way, did you know that poop will actually freeze as it comes out of your butthole? No kidding!

Anyway, back to my story. It was 1am, I finished my business quickly and ambled back down the hill, around the cabin, up the ladder, and into bed. Ten minutes later, the urge came again.

“Damn it!”

Back down the ladder, shoes and gloves on, out the door, around the cabin, up the hill to the outhouse just in time. Determined not to continue this trek to and fro for the rest of the night, or morning, or whatever the hell time it was, in between bouts sitting on the bless’ed hole, I walked up and down the eight-foot board walk at the outhouse. I even jumped up and down trying to get everything shaken down and out. While I was out there in the wilderness with only that glowing lantern to defend myself, I heard twigs crag, bushes rustle, and owls hoot. 

I was a little spooked and started to think about the Jack London short stories that I was reading, where everyone always dies in the end either from exposure, starvation, or being eaten by wolves. The saving grace in his stories is always the fire to keep the hungry beasts at bay. So, I stood out there on those planks and swung my lantern ‘round and ‘round in between bathroom breaks. By the time it was over, I had myself worked up into a pretty good fright, and I practically flew back down that hill, my gloved hand leaving a smoke trail as it slid down the ropes at mock ten.

So, yes, there are moments when I am frightened.

Is it Worthwhile?

This is the third in a series of posts that I’m writing in answer to the questions I get asked the most.

"Is it worthwhile?"

That’s an interesting question. Is it worth my while to live off-grid in the Alaskan wilderness? All of the trouble I have to go through, and extra work involved for daily living – is the peace and solitude worth it? Wouldn’t it be easier to live in town, or at least on a road?

Let me answer this by starting with a story about last Friday. It was a cool, drizzly day – perfect for making Jelly. By noon, I was on my third batch of deep pink Fireweed Jelly when Gregg walked through the cabin door with news that he had just come from town and my Walmart prescriptions were not in the mail today. I am on life-saving blood pressure medication – five different drugs, and had taken my last day’s worth the day before.

We have a small clinic and pharmacy in Unalakleet, but they don’t take insurance and they rarely have my meds on hand, so it’s easier and more economical to order a 90-day supply at a time from Walmart in Anchorage, and they ship them to me. However, insurance won’t cover it if I refill a prescription too early, so I am in the habit of placing the order a week ahead and I usually get it in plenty of time. Usually.

Seven days prior, I had given the list to Gregg to take to town and he had called in my refills to Walmart and let them know that I was aware that my insurance had expired and to just bill the full amount to my credit card, adding that I knew it would be expensive but I would get a medical reimbursement. Done.

We don’t have cell service, or any phone service, at the cabin, and often, I only go to town every couple of weeks. So, when Walmart left me a voicemail on my cell phone the next day, it stayed out in the great abyss.

While I was stirring and timing my third batch of jelly, Gregg explained that he had called Walmart to check up on the prescriptions and they told him they had left me a message asking for permission to fill them because the total cost to my credit card would be over $200. Now, it was seven days later and they were still holding the prescriptions. He gave them the go-ahead to mail them out, but that left me with no medication for another six days or so. By day five, I hit stroke status – been there, done that and have no intention of going there again.

I finished up the water bath on my jellies, only halfway done for the day, while the drizzle outside picked up to a good, old fashioned downpour. My eyes welled up with angry tears as I pulled on my raingear, tied my beaver hat under my chin, put my phone in my pocked and strode out the door, down 40 steps to the 4-wheeler, and put it in gear. My only choice was to drive to the top of the mountain where we live to a point where I can get cell service and call the local clinic to see what they could do.

The view from my 4-wheeler as I called the clinic.

 Ann, at the front desk, knows me and knows where I live and expediently got me on the phone with the right people to get a week’s worth of my prescriptions. This had happened once before and my PA, Deborah, had had the foresight to keep a standing prescription with the local clinic for my meds so they would have them on hand. Sitting in the rain on my 4-wheeler with fog covering the distant hills and Denali pacing around me, I smiled into the phone as I leaned over on the handlebars, holding my phone inside my rainhood-covered beaver hat to keep it dry. All I had to do was get to town to pick them up before five o’clock. The clinic isn’t open on Saturdays.

So, I drove the 4-wheeler back down the mountain, walked into the cabin dripping water everywhere and called Gregg on the short-wave radio. He was working over at the lodge and I wanted to let him know that I was taking our boat to town. Nathan, the head chef, took the message for me, letting me know that Gregg was currently down on the dock helping load the guests to go to town – their trip was ending and they were taking the afternoon flight out.

I waved bye to Nali as she paced the shore and told her I’d be back soon, hit the throttle, and headed downriver, waving at Gregg on the dock as I went past the Unalakleet River Lodge. Pouring rain for the past few days, the river had risen considerably and there were a lot of logs floating down the river, creating a sort of dodge ball obstacle course to maneuver through. I was tense. I was pissed off. I was not in the mood to be doing this. I wanted to be canning jelly.

Dead in the water.

About three miles north of town, the engine stopped and I drifted over toward the reeds as I tried to restart and restart it. I checked the gas and, sure enough, the tank hooked to the motor was empty, so I switched the line over to the full tank, but the engine still wouldn’t start. No worries, I thought. The lodge boat will be by any minute and I’ll just flag them down to let Gregg know I need help – there is a short wave radio on their boat.

Meanwhile, I pumped and pumped but the gas didn’t seem to be getting through the line to the motor. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get the engine to start.

An hour ticked by. No lodge boat. “That’s weird,” I thought.

Thankful to be in cell service range, I called Leona, the mayor, because she’s the only one I know in town with a short wave radio, and that’s the only way to get in touch with Gregg at the lodge. There is no phone service at the lodge, either. Her husband, Vance, answered the phone and I could hear him radio the lodge in the background. Nathan told Vance that the lodge boat had broken down and Gregg was working on that, but he’d pass the message along that I was also stranded.

A few minutes later, a boat rounded the corner toward me – Jeff and Steve, father and son duo who run the lodge. They pulled up alongside me and Jeff stepped over into my boat and did his very best, but the fuel line just wouldn’t pump fuel to the engine, so, after securing my boat good with the anchor, we both climbed back in the boat with Steve and headed to town. Meanwhile, a different lodge boat, driven by Gregg and filled with the guests, had passed us on their way to town.

Gregg met us at the dock, but I was in no mood to chat and headed straight to his shop to get the 4-wheeler. I went around back to where we have a spare key, opened the shop, grabbed the 4-wheeler key off of the cash register, locked the front door, and hopped on the wet machine. It wouldn’t start. Dead battery? Who knows?! I walked back down to the dock to find Gregg, but he had gone back out to work on the broken down, main, lodge boat. Back at the shop, I was able to borrow one of the lodge trucks to finally drive to the clinic.

A couple of hours later, with the lodge boat fixed and prescriptions in hand, Gregg and I finally took off back up the river to where our boat was anchored. I held the boats together while he worked on getting our fuel line running, having to blow into the gas tank with his face pressed against the whole to create enough pressure to move the gas through the line initially. When he raised his face off of the tank, gas spewed everywhere because of the pressure. His glasses were dripping with gasoline and he was spitting it out of his mouth. It worked. The boat started. I drove it home while he followed me in one of the lodge boats.

I walked back into the cabin at six o’clock, took my meds, and went right back to canning. I had three more batches to go.

That day I questioned everything. I couldn’t even operate a stupid boat. Is it realistic to live out here when I rely on medication? Can I really do this? I should have followed up with Walmart sooner. I hate that stupid boat. How could I take off without checking the gas tank? Major stupid.

While I was in town, I called Walmart and explained to them about my living situation, and I had them put a note on my account that I should be contacted by email, and they should never leave me a voicemail.

So, is it worthwhile? Last Friday, I didn’t think so. Thankfully, those moments are few and far between. The extra work involved in pursuing this lifestyle (hauling water, walking to the outhouse, outdoor showers, hand-washing laundry, driving a boat in the rain to town, canning our own vegetables, picking our own berries, and on and on) is what creates the peace and solitude. For me, it’s easier to grow and can my own vegetables than to fight traffic to stop in at the grocery store on my way home from a job that’s driving me crazy. It’s worthwhile for me to pick my own berries because I know they are completely pesticide and GMO free. Water is much more valuable to me when I have to haul it up 40-some steps. It’s much more meaningful to cook up a fish dinner when I caught and smoked the fish myself.

Worthwhile. Valuable. Meaningful. Absolutely.