What Do You Do with All of Your Spare Time?

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

“What do you do with all of your spare time?”

Thankfully, both what I love to do on a daily basis and what it takes to survive off grid intersect often, running at a close parallel most of the time. Last night, I was up late watching Downton Abbey, Season 4, Disc 1, which just arrived from Netlflix. So, this morning, I lounged in bed until the sun was high overhead around 10am. I only have to tilt my head back on the pillow to look outside the window at the blue sky scattered with cottony clouds, a slight chill in the air fogging the windows on the inside, just around the corners.

Gregg has been up for a couple of hours reading trapping magazines and working Sudoku puzzles, so the coffee’s warm and sits atop the heating stove. We’ve had a hard freeze the past couple of nights and a heavy frost coats the grass and shrubs across the still river, so still that it makes me stare an extra few seconds, making sure there is still an occasional ripple. There, it’s still flowing.

I drink a couple of cups of coffee, laced generously with coconut milk, and settle in with my latest read. Sometimes, I have a “Mother Earth News” or “Cook’s Country” magazine that I’m working my way through. However, this morning, I’m in the middle of a self-published novel by Roman Acleaf, The Tundra Diary: A Didactic Alaskan Novel, about a teacher’s first year teaching in a rural Alaskan Arctic village. I can relate and it is a good reminder of things I’ve seen and done, but not written about yet – I need to get those experiences down on paper. Meanwhile, Johnny Cash is crooning on the local radio station, KNSA, “Feeling unknown and your all alone, flesh and bone, by the telephone… I was a giver. You know I’m a forgiver. Reach out and touch me.” I allow myself an hour, sometimes more, depending on the weather, in this indulgent behavior. The day awaits.

After we decide on a light breakfast consisting of thick slices of Apple Butter Bread, Gregg heads out to burn boxes down by the river and I turn my attention to the greasy stovetop and counters in the kitchen. Once they are acceptable, it’s time to move the dog beds outside to the porch for the day, where they can relax in the cool sunshine and chew on moose bones. I head down the 25 or so steps to the greenhouse, which sits on six foot poles above the low, grassy area just a few feet above the river’s edge. It feels like descending from a treehouse, stepping on the yellow leaf covered planks and looking through the bare branches hanging at eye level. There is a handrail only on the house-side of the steps so that large objects can be easily hauled up and down, to and from the cabin, like the new kitchen stove and its box that Gregg is just now adding to the burn pile.

It is 40 degrees in the greenhouse and the inside most likely didn’t feel the effects of last night’s freeze. However, the plants have stopped growing for the year, the few vegetables having remained the same size for a couple of weeks, now. It’s time to harvest. Carrots are the crop of the day. I planted about four dozen of them in various containers. The largest, 3-4 inches long, came out of the clear plastic, Black Velvet bottles that I had cut the tops off of. I planted three to a bottle and they did fairly well, but some were stunted about an inch from the surface soil and then split into several carrot fingers reaching further down into the container. I’ll have to study up on that before next spring and try again. The ones that I planted in 3-gallon planters never got bigger around than the last digit on my pinkie finger. Oh, well, after trimmed and cleaned, the summer’s yield will be one good side dish for the two of us tonight, alongside Halibut filets that I caught a few weeks ago, and some potatoes left over from the River Lodge’s end-of-season cleanup.

As set the container of semi-clean carrots to soak on the kitchen counter in a Glad plastic tub filled with river water, I grab the couple of plastic containers (empty whiskey jug and battery package) that can be reused later, two ginger ale cans for the recycling box, and the 1 ½ pound Folgers can which serves as our kitchen compost bucket, and head downstairs. With everything in its place and a good stir of the compost tub outside, it’s time to head to the garden to harvest the beets. I’m not expecting much because the stalks and leaves are only about 6-inches tall. My expectations are met with roots the size of a pen refill tube and no bulbs at all. Compost material, at best.

I picked the last of the peas and beans a couple of days ago and added them to a Thai Curry that I had made for dinner. Our biggest green tomato is smaller than a ping pong ball, cuke is small, prickly, and wonting, the Walla Walla onions not much more than the chives, peppers are non-existent, cabbages gave us leaves but no heads, and on and on. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed because I knew we got a late start this year and it was a long shot to even plant, but the summer was so exciting, watching the plants grow and nourishing them with river water, organic fertilizer, and hand-crushed egg shells.

After feeding the beets to the compost tub near the garden, I head back down the steps with some empty food and wine boxes from the trash for Gregg to add to the fire. I decide to start a box of burnable waste to reduce our trash that needs to go to town this winter. Sitting on the bottom set of steps, just outside of the greenhouse, I watch the boxes turn to ashes while Gregg throws a stick for Nuka, her favorite game. He tells me he heard a moose crashing around in the brush across the river. We get quiet and listen and he rustles some nearby branches with the stick he had been throwing for Nuka, making a sound similar to a moose scraping his antlers. Silence. I notice there are a couple of shriveled, seed-filled, Marigold pods in the flower box on the greenhouse landing, pinch them off, and search their purple-flower-neighbors (I don’t know what their called), but their seed pods are still green.  I hold the precious Marigold seeds tight in my hand as I ascend back up two levels to the cabin porch and collect any seeds ready from those flower boxes, as well. More Marigolds and some yellow daisies. I smile and take them inside where I’ll leave them to dry out on a paper towel for the day before squirreling them away in my homemade seed envelopes for safe-keeping until spring.

By noon, my hands are cold from washing the carrots outside in 33 degree water from the river. Time for another cup of coffee and spend a couple of hours writing while Gregg empties the mouse traps downstairs that he baits with dog food (he keeps the mice for trapline bait), takes a walk over to check on the River Lodge, boarded up for winter, comes back to report one grouse and his regret at not having taken his .22 with him, and settles in at the kitchen table for another round of Sudoku.

Today is quieter than most. We enjoyed having a lifelong friend of his here for a visit for the past 12 days, but he left on yesterday’s afternoon flight, bound for his home in Minnesota. The quietness of just the two of us is comfortable and welcome.

It’s already two in the afternoon. Where did the morning go? This afternoon, after we enjoy a late lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and Salt & Vinegar Lay’s, I’ll probably do some quilting before making our Halibut/Carrot/Potato dinner, after which, we’ll turn on the generator to use the internet,  listen to Sirius Radio, and maybe even watch a movie, most probably a western of some sort. Internet time is when I do most of my “work,” marketing my three online businesses, Younique (makeup), Perfectly Posh (bath & body products), and PawTree (pet supplies). That’s also when I research online teaching opportunities and send off magazine submissions. Tonight, I’ll probably also put together a baking plan for what I need to make Thursday and Friday for this Saturday’s Market in town.

What was I writing about? Oh yeah, what I do with all of my spare time!

Wheeler Crash

It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, now the razor blades on my skull and gut pain with every breath tell a different story.

It was mid-September, the first snowflakes fell a week ago, and we needed to get the broke-down 4-wheeler back to town to get it in working order before spring. It had bald tires and no brakes – neither of which I truly identified before I drove it out to the cabin in June, reeling down the switchbacks on the mountain at mock 9 and coasting to a stop, feet on the ground like a Flintstone’s brake pad, three feet before heading over the last hump into the fast running Unalakleet River. Whew!  The only place that wheeler was going was back up the hill to town and the shop to be fixed!

The tires had gone flat over the summer, of course, so we got them aired up and I headed up the hill that Wednesday morning while Gregg enjoyed an extra cup of coffee at the cabin before heading to town in the boat to meet me. He needed to keep the dogs inside so that they wouldn’t chase me to town. We had been having an unusually wet fall and the trail was covered with the yellow, birch leaves blown down in the 30 knot winds the day before.  It was truly a beautiful morning and I was ready for an adventure, or so I thought.

As I headed up the first hill, in front of the Erickson’s vacant cabin, the Wheeler was running smooth and I was looking forward to a colorful trip to town, yellow, orange, and red leaves against the evergreens of the mountainsides. My phone was tucked away in my right side raincoat pocket, ready to document the ride. I had donned my Helly Hanson rain gear for the trip, knowing the chance was great that I’d encounter some rain on the 12 mile journey, somewhere. My prescription glasses were tucked away in my left pocket and I was wearing my riding glasses – actually yellow, hunting glasses left over from when I took care of our family pheasant hunting farm in North Dakota. They wrapped around the sides of my eyes, providing wind and rain protection without having to wear full-on goggles.

As I rounded the next corner, the machine started to strain with the incline, so I leaned left, uphill, heavy on the handlebars and downshifted to 2^nd gear with a tap of my left foot. As soon as I was out of the switchback, I was wishing I had gotten a faster start, looking up the long, straight, yellow-leaf covered hill in front of me.  Just another six feet and I’d be over the worst of it, I thought to myself when the tires started spinning. Instinctively, I pressed down on the thumb throttle, but was sliding backward already, the leaves providing a sled-like ride, gravity kicking in full force. I tried both hand brakes and foot brakes at the same time. Nothing. Now, the wheels were rolling backwards; I wasn’t just sliding on leaves. I was moving so fast that I was afraid to turn around and look back, but I knew the switchback was coming quickly and the trees beyond that would put an end to this backward race. I had to jump off. I leaned right, which was more uphill at this point than left and the force of my feet pushing off of the wheeler sent it tipping the other way.

I rolled a few times, heard my head smack against something hard and landed on my back, head downhill. My eyes opened to the green and yellow leaf canopy gently shaking in the breeze. Everything hurt, but the left side of my head and ribs had taken the brunt of the fall. I held my left arm tight to my ribs, and felt my head with my right hand, while I worked my way to my feet. No blood. That was good, but a knot the size of a lemon was quickly rising above my left ear. Every step jarred my ribs, which felt like they were going to burst out of my body. I stumbled the couple hundred yards back down the hill, past the overturned Polaris, through the woods to our cabin, moaning with every move. Gregg heard me coming and ran down the steps to meet me, just a few short steps from the boat, which would provide our bumpy, ambulance ride to the clinic in town, eight miles downriver.

Broken ribs, a broken windshield, and a very sore noggin seem like a small price to pay for an accident that could have been much worse.

Today, three days later, I have a funny sensation on my head like there’s a knife blade there with a scab forming around it. I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without my back hurting. Any range of motion with my right arm makes my ribs snap, crackle, and pop. I can’t bend over or it feels like my insides will break right through my skin and fall out on the floor. Forget laughing. I’m pretty sure I’d die if I sneezed. More bruises show up every day.

The good news is that I can make it back and forth to the outhouse on my own. I can get up and down the stairs to the bedroom loft. Gregg is a very attentive nursemaid. I’ve got puppies to snuggle with. Most of all, I’m alive.

The Spirit of The Man

I’d watched enough outback Alaska shows and read enough books about bush life in Alaska to know. I’d done my homework. I was 48 years old. I’d been around the block. Half a dozen times. I could hunt, catch, and clean wild game and fish. I could bake bread, use an iron skillet, and wash with nearly no water. I loved dogs, gardens, and the smell of wood smoke. I was prepared. Or so I thought. I was ready to meet my Mountain Man.

“Dances with Wolverines,” he was aptly named by locals.

I’d never met anyone like Gregg.  I could never have imagined anyone like Gregg.

I have a traditional education, Bachelors in English, Masters in English Education, plenty of graduate hours, and dreams of a PhD. Gregg has a high school diploma and a year of trade school, I think. However, I have never met a more well read man -deep thinker, philosopher, adventurer. I’ve never seen a larger, more well-used library in anyone’s house as I saw in his self-built cabin, eight miles upriver from the nearest year-round neighbor. The walls were lined with books, large and small, and music, CDs and cassettes, of all genres. A crossword puzzle book lay open on the kitchen table amidst the kerosene lantern, empty coffee cup and an ashtray filled with cigar ends.

Having spent more than 30 years in rural Alaska, his life has surely been rough and rugged, with an edge of deprivation, yet long stretches, several months even, completely alone in the wilderness which gifted him with time to read, observe, think, and write. Endlessly. Boundlessly. Ad infinitum. He has now spent more of his life in the Alaskan bush than in the Minnesotan civilization of his youth. He has come safely through the last, true, great wilderness of the Americas and emerged truly self-sufficient, because he has learned how to guard both body and soul, while filling dozens of spiral notebooks with his daily observations of the natural world around him and his place in it.

“The only thing of value is time,” he says with all seriousness.

For a man of 61, his strength is a constant surprise to the college-age fishing guides down at the Unalakleet River Lodge, where he works in the summers. Both the frat boys and the seasoned naturalists definitely hold Gregg in high regard, with a respect that is unmatched by anything I’ve ever seen. He’s also considered somewhat of an Alaskan novelty by the guests, earning their admiration through stories of wild animal encounters too unbelievable to be made up. In Alaska, more than anywhere else I’ve ever been, true, raw, physical strength has a much greater appeal than the strength of world-class athletes. Here, physical strength is an absolute necessity, whether it’s packing out 500 pounds of game meat a number of miles through uncut brush or pushing a beached boat 15 feet back into the water, through heavy, wet sand, during an extremely low tide. There are no choices to be made in these situations. The tasks have to be completed, and it is in that manner that physical strength is all wrapped in grit and character and hard-won knowledge.

The depth of Gregg’s spirit lies not in the immense library of adventure and survival books he has accumulated over the years, mostly through second hand stores and online sales. It doesn’t come from the daily crosswords and Sudoku puzzles that he’s constantly trying to improve his completion times on. The intensity of his life force does not come from brute strength, sheer nerve, or even absolute willpower. It is something less tangible, a sort of inborn, deep empathy for this kind of life, something akin to a perpetual identification that originates from a deep and satisfying contentment which is derived only when there is absolute freedom of thought and action.

“You just keep me around to carry heavy things,” he jokes.

There might be more to that truism than its obvious literal meaning. It’s his endless smile and love of life, balanced carefully with realism that really helps me carry the heavy things. The burdens in my heart and soul. It is the easiest thing in the world for me to love Gregg. His patience with my learning curve, devotion to making my life easier, and easy laugh all work together to make me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. How he ever came to love me is a mystery that I hope I never fully understand. What we have together is a blessing and I am proud to call him my husband.

Squirreling Away

We woke up yesterday morning under fire. It didn’t quite sound like hail hitting the metal roof above our heads; it was too inconsistent for that. The bangs and pings were too heavy to be rain or buckshot scatter (I heard the latter hit the roof many times when I was caretaking a North Dakota pheasant hunting farm and the hunters were shooting too close to the house.). I stepped out on the porch to have a look.

Bang! Again it hit the tin roof. A fat, grey squirrel. He had us in his crosshairs. Actually, he didn’t care that the house was in his way as he carried on his business 30 feet above the roof, firmly perched on the limb of a pine. He was picking green cones as fast as he could and throwing them down to the ground below. Our roof just happened to be in the way, but since it has a fairly steep slope to it, the cones were eventually dropping to the ground.

Clang! Every two to ten seconds, depending on the bounty in front of him, he continued to toss them, his back to the house, throwing the cones underhand behind him, looking not unlike myself when I’m pulling out the dead stalks from last year in preparation for tilling the garden in the spring. Unbelievably human-like.

Ouch! One stuck me on my right cheek as I stood on the porch watching. Back inside,  I rubbed the sore spot on my cheek as we joked over coffee about going out and gathering them all up before he came down the tree. No worries. We left him to his work, undisturbed. By the end of the day, there wasn’t a pine cone anywhere.

Later that day, as I started canning vegetables from the garden, it occurred to me that I was acting just like the squirrel by squirreling away the summer’s bounty before winter hits. I have felt the irrepressible need to gather and save, canning and freezing, as much produce as possible, remembering the strong desire last winter for crunchy pickles and blueberry pie, before I had a garden and had missed berry-picking because of my job as a teacher.

This year, living a full and meaningful life is my number one job. That means gathering as much as I can from the land and water, leaving little to waste. I’ve been berry-picking several times this summer, collecting Tundra blueberries, Arctic blackberries, Low-bush Cranberries, and Salmonberries. The bounty is truly more than one can imagine. I’ll go back out at least one more time for Crans and Blacks. The Salmons are done and the Blues are on their way out, starting to turn to mush from the few nights of frost we have had. However, the frost only makes the Crans and Blacks sweeter, so I’m on a mission!

I also gathered Fireweed flowers this year, enough to make over 60 half-pints of jelly, Gregg’s favorite. That was some definite work, but the reward is so great – being able to share it with others. It’s so remarkable to me that it is so simple to make the jelly – just flowers, water, sugar, pectin, and a tad lemon juice. When the Fireweed came into full bloom this year, I was still waiting for my canning jars to arrive from Target. That turned into an all out fiasco as they do not pack things well for shipping and several cases of jars that I received had one broken. What a mess! However, they sent me dozens of free jars, so I can’t complain. What I did have to do was pick the Fireweed when it was ready, though. So, I went ahead and made the Fireweed Tea – flowers steeped in boiling water and then strained through a cloth. I froze the tea until my jars came in, which actually made the canning part go very smooth, as smooth as it can go when only making five half-pints at a time. For some reason, I’ve never been able to increase the batch size on Fireweed Jelly and be successful. It just doesn’t set up and I end up with Fireweed Syrup, which does make a pretty bangin’ cocktail! So, about 14 batches later, I had the jelly all canned.

While I was waiting for the Fireweed to come in to season, big, yellow dandelion fields were plentiful and I learned that dandelion oil can be used to treat eczema, psoriasis, and just nasty, ole dry skin. I simply dried the flowers, filled quart jars 2/3 full with flowers and then filled them with olive oil. I put the jars out on the grill side table, where they could get plenty of sun, for a month. After I strained the oil through a cloth, it was ready to use. Gregg battles a patch of irritated exzema on the outside of his right leg, between his knee and ankle. He’s been putting my dandelion oil on it morning and night for a couple of months now, and it’s actually getting better!

Meanwhile, our raspberries, started just four years ago with only four stalks, have spread over a six by 20 foot space and produced about a gallon of berries this year, up from a scant handful just last year. We have eaten, shared and frozen those. I like to freeze all berries, those that are not eaten fresh, because freezing them breaks down their cell walls, making them juicier (and I think, sweeter). They are better to make jams and sauces with, and make beautiful baked goods when used frozen. Be sure to toss them in flour first before adding them to your batter – this keeps them from sinking to the bottom of the muffin or cake.

We have four rhubarb plants, multiplied from two last year. However, the stalks are small, not quite as big around as a pencil and much more green than red. However, even with that lean harvest, I managed to freeze two quart bags of chopped rhubarb, which will be delicious in a winter fruit crisp, when Vitamins C and D are hard to come by. I spied some wild rhubarb this spring up on the tundra. I’ll be sure to forage some of that next year, as well.

The garden is a different story. The wild land around us puts my tended garden to shame. The challenge is the cold soil, permafrost not being more than a foot or so down.

My cabbage plants, both in the garden and the greenhouse, never produced heads, but there were lots of bright green leaves that canned perfectly, looking more like spinach than cabbage, but I figure that means there are more vitamins and minerals in them and so will taste especially good sautéed in bacon fat and topped with some of that sweet and spicy Thai Chili Sauce that I canned today.

The radishes just bolted in the garden, never producing an actual radish worth eating.  The mustard greens did much the same thing, only producing enough greens for one meal. Green beans apparently don’t like the cold soil and the plants never got more than a foot high and I think I harvested three beans, total, off of a dozen plants. My beets look like they are only going to give me greens, as well.

On the flip side, my peas absolutely love the cold ground and long hours of sunshine that make up a Bering Sea summer! I’ll be planting a lot more of those next year. Those sweet green peas bear no resemblance to either canned or frozen peas from the store. I put them in everything from omelets to rice, and even made a bacon and pea salad that was to-die-for! Not enough to can, but next year…

The kale is enjoying it’s garden spot, too, though slow growing and I think I planted it a bit too late – best to get it started indoors next year! But, it will provide a nice, late fall salad when we start craving fresh produce after that first snowfall.

The greenhouse is another story all together. However, even thought I started my seeds indoors in March, they didn’t get sufficient sunshine and heat to really do much before they moved into the greenhouse, which didn’t happen until mid-June since Gregg just built it this year. Currently, as of the second week of September, I have two grape-sized green tomatoes (they are not grape tomatoes), hard as melons but doing their best. The rest of the fifty-some tomato plants have set flowers but aren’t going to have enough time to see them through to fruit. We probably have about two weeks left until we consistently freeze every night. We’ve nurtured the babies through a week or so of early frost last week by burning several homemade, bees wax container candles overnight to keep it at about 35 inside the greenhouse, barely avoiding the frost. My cukes are in the same situation. The Walla Walla onions didn’t get bigger than my thumbnail, but the green beans in the greenhouse are doing well. I’ve had enough for a couple of meals so far, but not enough to can. I’ll be planting more of those next year, too. The peppers, green and jalapeno, didn’t get seeds in the ground until July – waiting for soil to arrive (I’ll get to that in a minute), so they aren’t even going to get big enough to make flowers. I should get a dozen and a half carrots – they actually did well planted three to a 1.75 liter whiskey bottle that I cut the top off of and drilled holes in for drainage. We have plenty of those, so I used a half dozen to see how the carrots would do, knowing they wouldn’t grow in the cold garden soil.

Potting soil seems like a pretty easy thing to get in the summer. Not here. Not in Unalakleet, on the Bering Sea coast where everything has to be flown in or barged in on the few barges that land on our beach each summer. We don’t have a dock for barges, so they just beach themselves at low tide, unload, and wait for high tide to move back out into the ocean again. Air cargo is fairly reliable, depending on weather (rain, snow, fog, ice, and wind – there are a lot of year-round variables). However, it is not unusual for items to be shipped, let’s say from Amazon, and get to the Anchorage airport where they sit for up to 10 days before being loaded and sent on out to Unalakleet. I have had my shipments from Amazon and Target simply get lost at least a dozen times in the past year. I’ve had at least that many shipments get damaged in transit and automatically sent back to the retailer. I’ve had at least that many again arrive damaged. It’s a crapshoot, but the alternative to paying $9 for a 20 pound bag of potting soil from Target is to pay $60 for that same bag at our local AC store. It’s not a difficult choice. Nonetheless, when I ordered 10 bags and it took six weeks for them to get here, my greenhouse planting took quite a hit this year. The good news is that I’m all set for soil next spring! So, even if the greenhouse and garden didn’t provide much this year, I’ve learned an incredible amount by trial and error. Meanwhile, it looks like we’ll be eating meat and berries this winter. Oh well, it’s good enough for the bears!

So, I think about that squirrel yesterday morning, loading up his pantry for winter, and I smile as I stir my Lemon Ginger Marmalade made from leftover lemons and ginger from the Unalakleet River Lodge. Since they are only about a quarter of a mile through the woods from us, when they close down for the year, which happened last week, they give us all of their leftover fresh produce. That’s the only time of the year that there is ever a fresh lemon in this cabin. I have two left and I think those will become a pound cake tomorrow. It also provided us with the makings for canned asparagus, brussel sprouts, and Sprout Kraut, so our pantry isn’t too bare.

Thankfully, I have a wonderfully adept mountain man, slash husband, who takes care of the meat end of things. This week, we are going fishing for salmon and maybe even set a trot line for burbot. I’ll smoke and can the salmon and pickle the burbot (much like pickled herring). Then, he leaves Saturday to go moose hunting. That will fill our freezer for the winter. We’ll grind some up into hamburger and sausage, cut out roasts, ribs, steaks, and stew meat, and send some of the meat to Alaska Sausage in Anchorage and have them make up some Jalapeno Hot Dogs (the size of bratwurst) – the most delicious thing ever on a cold, January night.

Yep, we’re all busy squirreling away for the winter. I’m glad to see the industrious, little squirrel hard at work like the rest of us. That makes me smile, knowing the chances are good that I’ll see him next spring, a little thinner perhaps, unlike myself. (grin)