Out of the Pot and Into the Fire

Introduction

When I was a child, I would stand on the side porch of our suburban home and look down the hill past the developing landscape to the expanses of farmland that stretched out beyond.

I wished I had been born in a barn.

My Aunt would occasionally throw us into the back of her station wagon and haul us off to go for a hike, explore a mine, or go camping. These adventures instilled in me a love of nature.

I went on to spend most of my life living in the suburbs, the idea of having a home in the mountains or country always in the back of my mind.

Then I met a person who shared my dreams – my husband. Together we made them come true.

  Following are the stories of my family’s journey from a temperate place of perpetual rain, manicured lawns and HOA’s to a land of baking summers, frigid winters, wild animals, wild neighbors, a driveway from hell – and the best adventures of our lives.

 After we sold our house in suburbia in the spring of 2017 and pulled onto the road towing our twenty-foot travel trailer, we didn’t know where we would end up by the end of that summer but we figured (rightly) that adventure awaited us on the open road and beyond.

Here’s our story.

……………………….

The Road

We are a married couple with a sixteen-year-old son and two cats. We want a dog but for now we have the neighbor’s.

Life in the Puget Sound region where we were living was getting frenetic and overcrowded so we sold our house in the spring of 2017, bought a travel trailer, and hit the road. We felt squeezed out like too much jelly on a sandwich so we set out to find a new slice of paradise in the rural regions of Washington state.

The national forest and anywhere else we were allowed to camp became our home for four months as we cruised the real estate websites for property. In September we found a few acres of land near the Idaho and Canadian borders in eastern Washington that was just right.

It was three-and-a-half miles from the nearest Walmart and tucked into the foothills of the Huckleberry Mountain Range. At the time, there was one neighbor nearby with nothing else between us and the surrounding mountains. The property was undeveloped and had been unoccupied for seventy years.

Settling In

Moving onto raw land means you’re on your own. You become the engineer, contractor, electrician, and if something breaks, repairman for everything you depend on to live. We had to figure some things out.

At first, we got our water from the city standpipe then found out they close it in the winter. Luckily, by that time, we’d discovered natural springs on our property. For power we used a gas generator.  The following autumn, we installed solar and it’s been a love/hate relationship ever since.

We initially used a WiFi hot spot for the Internet but it became us vs the Google data pig.  The neighbors let us use their connection until we got into a fight and they changed their password.

We could only get online from my husband’s spot in our bed anyway, and only if it wasn’t raining. We eventually had three huge trees cut down to get a line of sight to a tower for Internet.

A person once suggested that having an Internet connection disqualified us as living off grid. Nonsense. Show me a person who lives off-grid who doesn’t rely on some sort of  technology such as solar and I’ll show you an exception.

A New Way Of Life

In addition to the logistics of setting up “shop”, we had to adjust to a different mindset. Hardiness is respected in these parts and the local government pamphlet opens with the words “Welcome to the Wild West” and urges the reader to “get used to it”.

We were fresh from a lifetime of living in the suburbs and afraid to touch a gas-powered chainsaw let alone make a go of living amongst the trees and the turkeys. We wondered what we had gotten ourselves into but we were too excited to be new landowners to let any reservations get in our way.

Our First Year

After the honeymoon period, winter barreled in with a seriousness that slapped all thoughts of anything but survival out of our consciousnesses. The neighbors had warned us of sub-zero temperatures and snow drifts as high as the eves on a house. It wasn’t far from the truth.

The weather turned cold and wet and we found ourselves ill-prepared for reality. Our water pipes froze and our worldly possessions disappeared under three feet of snow. Some things we didn’t find until spring.

As the temperatures plummeted toward zero, my son and I went to stay in an emergency shelter while my husband hunkered down at the property with our cats. I worried constantly about him but we visited often. I would take dishes back with me to the shelter to clean and straighten things out while I was there.

Three months later we moved back while it was still frigid. We were low on money and propane. Keeping warm was a challenge with frost and ice gaining a foothold inside our trailer by the day.

I would grab whatever I could find and obsessively fill small crevices and holes where cold air was entering to cut the chill. Our central heating system was inefficient so we used a small indoor heater to keep us comfortable until spring.

We sometimes cooked or made coffee over a fire. I would hunch over my homemade rocket stove in the cold and wet while my husband built his pit fire. I remember feeling miserable and hopeless as I struggled to get the stove lit in the freezing rain and snow.

The harsh winter had taken a toll and my outlook had become very bleak like the weather.  There would be many challenges ahead before the days began to warm.

Spring, then summer arrived and we discovered a billion new bug species. I took up slingshot while trying to shoot down yellow jacket nests and we discovered ticks, or rather – they discovered us.  Ticks and Sticks.

The grass grew up to our waists with stickers everywhere. They would lodge themselves into our clothes and our cats fur like tiny barbed arrows and we had to push them through rather than pull them back out or risk destroying the cloth in the process. We had to carefully cut them out of the cats fur when it got badly matted (better to have a veterinarian do this).

Sweltering heat made that summer one of the longest I’ve ever experienced but we had things in the works.

We tilled rock-hard soil and planted a garden using old barbed-wire left behind on the property for a fence. We put a handle on a pickax head we found in the farmer’s dump on our hillside and used it to chip away at the bedrock underlying the spring. I cleaned up a seventy-year-old can opener when ours broke and it worked fine.

We did whatever we could to pass the time and keep our chins up.

Thank you to my husband for helping me to get through it all. When I was at my worst, he would hold my face in his hands, look at me and say “Good things Baby, good things”.

Moving Forward

It’s a year later and we have the solar power system, generators, a large shed, and a nicer RV (until we finally build a home). We have a fireplace to warm ourselves by and we have each other.

The following stories and poems aren’t meant to show others how to live off-grid as we still don’t know how but welcome and enjoy. 🙂

Country Critters

As I lay in my bunk in the tiny cabin I built, cradling my blow torch, I can hear the four-footed neighborhood alarm system going off for the fourth time this evening. The barking sounds like it’s coming from someone’s property up the hill – where the dog doesn’t live.

The patrol is free-range (completely unsupervised), and is collectively known as Crust and Willie. They are a large breed of dog apparently good for keeping predators away from farm animals. Indeed, a cougar attacked the owner’s goats a couple of years ago: Cougar.

Strangely enough, Willie is the female. Add in their four puppies and another two neighborhood dogs and the “If It Moves – Bark” security package is pretty much fail-safe.

Our cats handle pest control although the dogs are still here. We see more of their victims than them during the summer months. If I don’t almost step on the morning rodent on the kitchen floor, I might have to rescue a live one. Walk in any one direction outside and you’ll  run into a small animal in varying states of, well – wholeness – before you reach your destination.

These discoveries break my heart yet it is how things are. If I find a still-alive catch, I relocate it if it looks like the creature has a chance. When necessary, my empathetic husband will put a quick end to them although he is not without a morbid sense of humor.

A couple of years ago he came at me, brandishing the head of a squirrel he’d found. Holding it so close to my face I had to do the cross-eyed thingy to see it, he mused about the “gruesomely cartoonish look of surprise” on its face then mumbled something about a “finger puppet”. I forgave him.

The cats stop by from time to time for food that doesn’t move and a petting before setting off to wherever it is that they go although for cheap entertainment I trained one of our security cameras on their cabin: Building A Cabin For The Cats.

Lest I forget the ridiculous collection of birds who live at the house down the road. When we drive by, they act like we’re there to bust them as all manner of water and land fowl and their friends explode in a feather bomb from the yard with the two plastic wading pools.

But here, tonight, I settle into my bunk in the tranquil cabin, my husband trailing an hour or two behind. I pull my sleeping bag up around my ears and as soon as I hear the unmistakable high-pitched whine of the first fool mosquito, I grab the torch, turn the dial to “on”, and pull the trigger. If fires are allowed and it’s cold, I finish the thought by lighting the fireplace.

Goodnight (sound of dog baying …. again…).

Tiny Cabin In The Woods (Behind our Shed)

Do you like to fall asleep to the sound of rain or a blizzard raging outside – from just inside the windowpane of a tiny cabin tucked amongst some trees on a mountainside?

What makes us gravitate to those sorts of settings?

My husband and I pick a video off of Youtube every night at bedtime that features such a scene. Imagining yourself warm and safe, wrapped in blankets in bed next to a fire is an invitation to sleep. The worse the storm, the better.

One evening after discussing this fascination, I decided to make it for real and set out to build a tiny cabin to sleep in when it storms.

I found a suitable spot behind our shed in a small clearing to throw it together in a day or two. Like the Cabin For The Cats, it took a little longer but I really like how it turned out.

Made of pallets rather than logs as we get most of our wood from a business downtown in almost limitless quantities, it looks decently impressive, mostly on the inside.

My idea was first, to make a simple A-frame but I didn’t have the right pieces to do it so I redesigned with what I had. I used the thicker pieces for the frame, of course, and filled in the blank spots with the slats from the pallets.

I installed our homemade propane canister fireplace to finish it.

The porch came last.

Have a look, rather than me try to describe it. I’m actually proud of myself!

The Dump

As we wait at the gate, an angel stands off to our right – welcoming us. She is flanked by two frogs. A light beckons us forward past a tin man and a cowboy as we enter. We are stopped and asked one question before being told which direction to go.

This isn’t St. Peter, these aren’t the pearly gates, and this is not an account of an acid trip. We’re at the dump. Thankfully, we aren’t banned from this place – yet.

The frogs are ceramic and came from the home of the cashier. The angel appears to be cement. She’s missing her hands but who needs those when you have wings? The other two figures are fashioned out of tin cans. Everything but the frogs came from the trash.

Together, they are an unlikely accent to the nondescript building with the drive-on scale in front. Here, incoming customers weigh their vehicles with their trash before discarding it then pay for the difference on their way out.

We make the pilgrimage when our truck’s bed reaches overflowing and if it’s winter – when we can get her down the driveway. Neither of us like to drive Bridgette through the snow but my husband takes garbage duty seriously.

Like a commercial farmer, he’ll scour The Farmer’s Almanac, monitor the weather reports and eyeball the shrinking drifts until he’s satisfied with the amount of bare ground peeking through. Then it’s time.

I woke up this morning to the announcement that this is garbage day. I put my boots on while my husband stomps the trash flat then help him secure the load with a spider net. During the drive, I make sure the wind doesn’t cause us a yard sale going 55mph.

Once at the dump and after having been told where to go, I spot while my husband backs the truck up to the pit.

The pit is a long, rectangular cement trench where people discard their broken tables, bulging garbage bags, plastic plants, shoes, clothes, small appliances, and paintings. If you can walk out of the front doors of Walmart with it – you can find it here.

While the old farmer’s dump we discovered on our hillside was comprised of made-to-last objects mixed with later-era disposable items, the artifacts lying in this enclosure are all throwaway. Human behavior, however, remains constant. We once saw the remains of a huge rear projection TV with the words “This is for your boyfriend!” spray painted across the shattered face.

While my husband hefts the bags into the chasm, I see bald eagles hovering over a hill of old tires. Their presence here, as with the angel,  seems incongruent with the air of brokenness and waste.

There are drop-off spots for used oil and scrap metal. Recycling is downtown. I wonder to myself, where does all of this stuff go, then we’re done and back in the truck.

Feeling like new, we roll up to the cashier’s window, now going out rather than in. We pay as the Tin Man and The Cowboy smile blankly at us and we pull out.

As we round a corner, I look into the rear-view mirror and swear I see the angel wave goodbye. Then I remember that she doesn’t have any hands.

Waiting For The Plow.

Once again I find myself waiting on the street for someone to arrive. At least it’s a beautiful morning and I can feel the sun on my head. Here it is, freezing cold, and I can feel heat from a gigantic fusion reactor over ninety-million miles away.

What if it was a million closer or farther away? Still, the heat’s not warm enough yet to melt the tons of dirty, compacted snow that line the sides of the road and cover our driveway.

That’s why I’m waiting for the snow plow driver.

Our street sign disappeared long ago so I made a handmade sign and screwed it to a tree, but you can only see it from one direction. That’s why I meet new arrivals at the street rather than have to tell them such things as “go left at the waterfowl”.

The walk down was typical. Two dogs, two cows, one turkey, and a party of ducks and geese greeted me and everyone had something to say.

The birds are the loudest and the racket continues while I wait.

This snowfall was a doozy. Our mountain goat (car), finally bottomed out on three feet of snow compacted underneath her this morning. It’s hard to get traction when your wheels aren’t touching the ground.

My husband spent the better part of an hour shoveling before I woke up. We really need to get mechanized. I was still in bed when I heard the door slam followed by footsteps rushing away: a sure sign something was amiss.

I got up and looked at the security cameras; nothing. Then I backed it up and sure enough – there was my husband – storming out of the driveway and down the hill with our large blue shovel.

He must be stuck.

I grabbed some coffee and my boots (not necessarily in that order), found two mismatched gloves, and headed out just in time to see the car pulling into the home stretch. Then it drifted effortlessly off the side and into a drift.

“Chains”, I thought.

I went to the shed and rummaged through the car supplies and found them. About a half an hour later,  chains on, my husband pulled into the parking spot.

Time to find someone to plow. Usually our neighbor does it but just two days earlier, his machine went to the shop for repair. Our turn.

The people of eastern Washington know how to drive through the snow so there is no dearth of people with old trucks, plow attachments, and skills. Within a half hour, someone was on the way – or so I thought. Some wires got crossed so my first trip to the main road was a test run.

Later…

Now it’s afternoon and I’m back at the road only now I’m in the shade and entering the many stages of boredom. I made two snow sculptures, checked the mail, cleaned off the mailbox, worked on my blog, played soccer with a few chunks of snow and am now getting cold.

I look up and down the drag again: no one. I could be working on the cabin. I text and let the driver know I’m heading back up until I hear he’s leaving. Then there he is. I climb in, give him directions then hop out to walk up to eat and get warm.

As I sit here tonight typing, I wonder to myself if he got his truck out of the ditch? Perhaps tomorrow we’ll make it to the store?

It Happened Again

It’s 10:51 am and I just finished some microwaved potatoes and gravy from last night’s dinner. Got a bunch of paperwork done this morning also because I have plenty of time today.

Only problem is this; my husband just got back from town and practically busted in the door exclaiming “Is this Thanksgiving?”

Ooops.

Last time we did this we celebrated a week too early. Happy Thanksgiving?

Time to run to Safeway. Hoping there are some turkeys left.

I Didn’t Know You Could Eat That

I see the purple bunches of berries hiding behind the pokey, holly-like leaves every summer. I walk past them without a thought, thinking “most likely poisonous”.

For five years I’ve never given Oregon Grapes so much as a second glance – until my husband picked up a fifteen-dollar book on local edibles. Now when we go out, he’s always on the alert and you’d be amazed at what you’re missing if you live near the woods.

Everywhere we’ve always walked, hiked, gardened, and just been – there are tons of wild plants you can eat, use as a medicine or make tea out of.

Dandelions, Bear Berries, Cat Tails, Rose Hips, Oregon Grapes, Miner’s Lettuce…you could walk outside with a bottle of dressing and have a salad within minutes and within a hundred feet of your front door.

Last week we grabbed some containers and scoured the hillsides of our property for Oregon Grapes. The berries are a deep purple and grow in bunches – like grapes. They’re bitter and will need sugar to make into jam – or jelly.

When we got back to the RV, we spilled our bags out like Trick or Treaters to see who’d picked the most. A trip to the store for a large pot, some pectin, and jars was all we needed to prepare for The Jam Making or The Making Of The Jam – or jelly.

This was a first for both of us but it was my husband’s project. We had several recipes floating around, some slightly contradictory and all of them missing important information such as “when or do you squish the berries before or after boiling them?” and some other “holes” we had to fill in.

My husband did most of the work but I stuck my nose in a couple of times when asked for an opinion. Together we managed to not mess it up and some guessing later, he had the mixture in the containers and ready to can or jar.

The jarring or canning part has to be done carefully but after following the directions from five different publications, we had Oregon Grape Jelly or Jam. The jars have to cool for about twenty-four hours for the contents to set and for the lid to seal.

Then came the first taste: good. No, better than good: excellent!

We’ve spent the past week discovering new ways to enjoy the stuff. Corn bread with melted butter and Oregon Grape Jam or Jelly, peanut butter and Oregon Grape Jam or Jelly sandwiches, cheese and crackers with a dab of Oregon Grape Jam or Jelly.

I’m sold but is it jam or jelly and canning or jarring?

Next – Rose Hips Tea.

Modern Day Horse Care

It’s a hot July afternoon and my husband and I have just dropped our truck Bridgette off for another “makeover” at our local mechanic.

As we walk up the street past a State Patrol vehicle waiting for maintenance, a stream of expletives erupts from the rear wall of the shop. We turn and look back at the edifice, then at each other appreciatively.

Not every mechanic has this kind of passion.

As we speculate about the nature of the injury, another volley punches a hole through the distant sounds of traffic coming from the main thoroughfare. We glance around and are thankful we’re back a couple of blocks.

This must be a doozy. Strangely, we find the barrage reassuring.

While a lot of people buy a new vehicle when faced with larger car repairs, we fix what we already have rather than buy a whole new can of worms from the lot down the street.

We figure about a third of our beloved 1986 Ford F-250 (Bridgette), and the Durango (The Mountain Goat), is still original. At least we know what’s under their hoods and who did the work.

Bridgette’s “curb” appeal is increasing with her years but it comes at a price. Think of Aunt Alice needing a hip replacement. You wouldn’t spare a dime although her personality hasn’t aged as well. The comparison assures me I’m going to hell as I feel I may have offended the truck.

We’ll be expecting “the call” after Bridgette is inspected but thinking of automobiles as indispensable modern day horses eases the impact. The usual presence of law enforcement vehicles outside the shop also helps; they appear to have a government contract for maintenance.

We climb into the Durango and head out, knowing Bridgette is in good hands. Besides, we think; if it’s good enough for the State Patrol, it’s good enough for her.

Three-Thousand-Five Hundred Gallons Of More Work

Summertime in a smallish rural town (but big enough for a Walmart)…

You enter the store from the hot tarmac that is the parking lot and find yourself in the seasonal section. Being the beginning of summer, it’s a week or two too early for the Christmas display but the school supplies are already flying onto the shelves.

You scan each isle, hoping it’s not too late. Then you see it: the last pool – and it’s a biggun’. Fourteen feet across and exactly forty-eight inches deep. “Big enough”, you think.

Someone turns casually into the isle. You possessively lean against the box then turn around to put it into your shopping cart: now the pool is too big.

You’re here because last year’s record-breaking heat wave reduced your life to the bottom level on the hierarchy of needs: not melting. Since then, a body of water close by during the summer months is mandatory.

The folks at Walmart agree. The pools – boxed behind scenes of families splashing in impossibly blue water – sold well – with only one left.

It looks perfect for the job until checkout where the price, the call for assistance, then the visual of the rear of the car sagging as they load it hits you.

“What have I done?” you think. But it’s only the beginning.

Water is generally measured by the gallon but I catch myself calculating man-hours, equipment, blood, and sweat for each unit.

The old pool.

One gallon equals one hour of filtering, ten minutes of debugging, ten-seconds of chemical treatment, and two-minutes of vacuuming for every one minute of pleasurable use. Add some random number in for the unforeseen month it takes you to level the ground by hand before setting up.

It took us two tries and one draining to get the behemoth level enough to be stable. By that time, the spring water we were “plugged” into was no longer flowing down the hill so we had to pump day in and out for a week to get the damned thing full.

Then came the filter and after-market heating system a huge pool will require in order to be habitable.

Two months after purchasing the largest above-ground pool we’ve ever owned, it sits, largely unused, luring in any insect with wings, while I sit in my air conditioned RV typing a blog post.

Graduation Day

I wake up at 5:30a.m. in the meowing…uh, morning to meowing.

One of our cats – the one who wears black- is pacing the bed on my side, sorrowfully trilling. Either the cat dish is empty or he wants to be petted while he eats, as per protocol The List .

For his sake, I find myself hoping the former is the case.

I slide out of bed and shrug on my robe to find the dish and water are full with him waiting at the door. I  open it and he gazes out and doesn’t move so I gently “usher” him out and down the steps so he can go and do – whatever.

Since I’m up, I shuffle the three feet from the front door to the kitchen to make a chicken sandwich. The rotisserie bird is encased in the world’s loudest resealable cellophane bag which is also impenetrable until I’m done with it. The bag will no longer be resealable.

After struggling to put the sandwich together in the faint super-early morning light, I sit down to eat. I open my mouth…

“Meow????” – now from his perch directly outside my husband’s “office” window near my spot.

Did I mention the cats have their own way in and out of the house?

I put the sandwich down, open the front door of the RV and call him. He calls back – from his perch outside the window and doesn’t move. Two more tries and he’s found his way back inside where I dutifully pet him while he eats.

The sandwich sits, untouched.

For those who mock me, go ahead. I lost my dignity long ago when it comes to cats. Have at it.

Did I mention this is our child’s graduation day? I hear my husband sneezing in the bedroom and I have a runny nose. We have three Covid tests left in the medicine cabinet and three people.

Twenty minutes later: negative all around. Time to get dressed.

Good job kid!

Note: Just got back from graduation…pictures to go through…will post later.

Once again: good job kid!!!!!

 

The California Mine

We were on our last legs as we trudged through two feet of snow over the last quarter-mile stretch back to the car. “One more bend and we’re there” my husband called back encouragingly as I slipped and fell again, my muscles fatigued.

Why were we doing this? The mine we had just purchased.

My coat was stuffed with rocks I hoped contained some gold. As I rolled onto my stomach and tried to brace myself to get up, I felt like a villain from a movie who’s greed becomes their downfall. You know the type: the character who feverishly claws gold coins and diamonds into their hats and pockets while fleeing a collapsing temple only to be crushed by a four-hundred-pound gold nugget.

Maybe my gold nugget is waiting for me back at the mine.

We were there that day to scope out the patented mineral claim that includes The California Mine, the Bachelor Claim, the Arizona Fraction and 45 acres of rugged terrain. The claims were worked mainly between 1900 and 1902 with some ventures in between; but it’s been closed since 1935.

We won’t be setting foot into any entrances and will be going back after the snow melts to walk the place and mark anything that looks remotely dangerous. Next, we’ll sample the tailings and build some sort of access to the mine with the help of a friend with some heavy equipment.

We’ll probably camp there often over the summer and bring back loads of just tailings to process. We should have some of them assayed. Depending on how all of this goes, we’ll have a mining consultant have a look at the place. All of our next steps will depend on the ones before them.

Our ultimate goal is to enjoy our property in it’s natural state but we sure as heck didn’t buy a patented mining claim to look at the trees grow. We may or may not build a house there because of the high elevation. Someone lives just down the county road on the way and has a power box installed so it’s not totally out of the question. It would be infinitely easier to work the place as backyard prospectors if it was our backyard – but the snow…

Aside from the economic potential, this place is turning out to have one hell of a history as a producer and investment in its heyday. The back story spans over 100 years, as we’ve discovered it so far, and will appear in my next post.

We made it back to the car (obviously) and drove home, enthusiastically discussing various possibilities for the beautiful hill we now owned. We’ll be sorting through our backpacks in preparation for future trips.

In addition to piecing together the mine’s history, we’ll research the regulations that apply. The consultant will be the ultimate expert and advisor when that time comes. We do things by the book and we have no plans to plunder the environment. The main ore body is most likely cleaned out and the mine is reported to be flooded. We only want to pick through the leftovers, which, at 26oz. of gold per ton for some specimens from crosscuts that were brought up through the main shaft, shouldn’t be too shabby.

This place will keep us busy for awhile.