Tag Archives: backcountry

Cabin Life – #49

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It’s Thanksgiving week, and there’s no snow on the ground.  There’ve been some heavy frosts, and I’ve had to scrape my windshield most days in the last week.  Right now there’s a heavy frost covering the apple trees and the sun is coming up over Whiteface.  I really wish my camera battery was charged.

When I was growing up, I had a running bet with my grandfather that there would be snow on the ground Thanksgiving morning.  We always hosted dinner, sometimes with more than twenty people, but Grandpa would always walk in and give me five bucks and not say anything to me.  I would grin and pocket the money, happy in my ability to predict the weather.  Of course, most years, there was already snow on the ground before Thanksgiving, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that I had a pretty good streak of winning that bet.

And then one year when I was ten or eleven or twelve, I woke up Turkey Day morning to the sight of no snow.  I had what should be described as a very easy childhood, and I assumed that Grandpa would ask for his money, but not really demand it.  I did not know Grandpa as well as I thought.

He came walking in the side door of our house on Fifth Ave in Gloversville.  There were a few steps to walk up into the kitchen, and when he crested the third step and saw me, I inherently learned the phrase “sh*t-eating grin.”  It was a very clear lesson.  He was getting his five bucks and he was going to enjoy every single second of it.

Grandpa was, by any definition, “old school.”  He had a large leather recliner, everyone else got the couch or the floor or a folding chair.  And it was his remote.  His and his alone.  We stayed at the dinner table until plates were clean.  There was absolutely no wrasslin’ in the house.  But he was gruff in a way that told you how much he cared about  you.  Just don’t tick him off.

As I grew up, and even after he passed away, I got to know Grandpa better.  He would have liked that I was living out here.  There’s no way he would do it, but I’m sure that he would have some stories and old woods tricks to share to help me along.  I remember the way he smiled, and his eyes would get all squinty.  It’s a trait that I inherited, and when I smile I usually think about him, which just makes me smile more.

 

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Cabin Life – #48

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A reader recently asked me what a normal day out at the cabin was like.  Unfortunately, most of my days consist of getting up, going to work, and coming home to go to bed.  But on the weekends and when I’m not working, I’ve settled into a nice routine mixed with plenty of different chores.  No, not chores.  Activities.

Pico or Ed usually wake me up on the weekend, so I get to sleep in until about six.  After ignoring them for an indeterminate amount of time, I relent and get their food.  Then Pico and I take a walk up the Right Trail to the Upper Camp.  I check the log cabin that’s another quarter mile or so into the woods.  I live in the middle of nowhere, and Upper Camp is even closer to the center of the middle of nowhere.

Upper Camp was built by the previous owners and is a pretty big log cabin.  Not huge, but more than twice the size of my place.  When people see it, they ask why I don’t live there instead of in my little shack.  First, there’s no way I could get someone to plow it.  Going to Upper Camp is at least three-quarters of a mile from the road.  Second, because it is so big, I would need a lot more wood to heat it.  And the main reason is that Upper Camp is the “weekend getaway” for my landlord.

After I make sure no windows are broken and no trees have come down on the place, Pico and I bushwhack off to the east towards the Left Trail.  Sometimes we go a little further into the woods and partway up the hill out back, but mostly we just cut through to the Upper Field.  This is essentially a big, brush-covered extension of my yard.  If I’m lazy (Pico never is) then we just head back to my cabin.  Otherwise we’ll make our way to the Left Trail and then head back down.

Once we’re back at the cabin, I grab a large pot and go to the little stream.  I put the pot on the wood stove to get some moisture in the air.  I also recently started keeping the tea kettle on the wood stove, which seems like something I should have started doing a year ago.  I’m still learning how to do this whole off the grid thing.

Then I’ll usually take the chainsaw and head off to cut some dead trees.  I buck them up into manageable pieces so I can carry them back to the yard.  I like to block them up and split the logs right then, so my pile of wood for next winter gets bigger all year long.  Sometimes I’ll go work on the trails that haven’t been used much (most of them), I’ll go clear brush and try to open the trail a little bit.

I guess mostly though, my life off the grid is a lot like most people’s.  I have to wash dishes and brush pets and bring wood in for the stove.  I cook and sweep and do yard work.  Sure, I have to put in more than the usual effort due to the lack of running water, but other than that, I’m pretty normal.  You know, normal for a guy with no running water.

Cabin Life – # 47

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There’s big fat flakes of snow slowing drifting down out of the sky.  I just threw a few logs in the wood stove and the small waft of smoke that escaped is mixing with the aroma of the black beans I’m simmering on the stove.  It’s a nice night to be out here in the cabin.

Ed’s curled up next to the computer and his tail is leisurely hitting the back of my hand.  Herbie’s asleep and snoring on the foot stool near the woodstove while Pico is contentedly laying on the bed.  The temperature is supposed to go up a little in the next few days, but for now, it feels like winter.  If it does warm up, it will be a nice treat.

My parents came up this weekend to help stack the wood in the shed.  Four cords are in there, along with the other four stacked outside under tarps.  It’s nice to be all set with heat for the winter, bringing a deserved sense of satisfaction in having taken care of that one aspect.  When you live in nature, like most Adirondackers, you try to control what you can, knowing that you can’t control it all.  No one knows what type of winter it will be, but we can get ready the best we know how, and in the spring take pride in the fact that we made through another one.

As I watch the candle light flicker against the wood paneled walls, I can’t help but think about the path that brought me here.  Fighting depression, anxiety, stress, and self-loathing, I ended up in this little shack in the middle of nowhere.  I have no neighbors but wild animals.  I have to go outside to use the “bathroom.”  I force myself to have contact with the outside world, otherwise I’d be a little afraid of what I might do or become.  I do not want to be the Unabomber.

I do want a simpler life though.  No life is free from stress, but ensuring that there’s a fire going is usually the biggest worry of the day.  That, and the temperature of the seat in the outhouse.  That’s a big concern.  I once heard someone say that depression is like a train that comes barrleing along, and the only thing you can do is hold on as best you can.  I think that’s an apt metaphor, and one I relate to well.  The nice thing about being out here is that I haven’t heard that train whistle in a long time.  And I now have the confidence to know that I will be able to hold on the next time it comes around.  Trust me, that’s a stress reliever if I ever knew one.

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Cabin Life – #46

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There’s snow flying around in the air.  It’s been snowing on and off all day, with some sticking to my car this morning, but there’s none on the ground.  I noticed the slightly silvery coloring of the pines and hemlocks from snow sticking to the branches, though.  I’m glad it’s not sticking on the ground yet, but it won’t be long, and even though it’s been cold, we’ve been lucky that the snow didn’t start flying a week or two ago.

They say that this is the remnants of Hurricane Sandy, which at the cabin turned out to be a whole lot of nothing.  We had a wind storm last winter where I could hear trees coming down with a fair amount of regularity, but this past Monday night didn’t add up to much.  There was one branch down on my road, so it turned out I didn’t need to bring my chainsaw with me.  But I guess it’s good that I was prepared to cut my road clear to get to work.  Or maybe it’s not good.  I don’t know.

The one thing that struck me about Sandy was that everyone was preparing for the worst.  They were prepared to not have power for days or even weeks.  And I realized that the phrase “Oh no, the power might go out” really doesn’t enter my day-to-day conversations any more.  I bought some extra food just in case Sandy became another Ice Storm like in 1998.  That storm is my reference for everything now.  I always say to myself that I better be prepared for these storms just in case it’s another Ice Storm.

I have nothing but sympathy for those who were actually affected by the storm.  I can’t imagine being stuck in New York City with no power.  But for the northern Adirondacks, it was just another storm with lots of rain and not so bad winds.  I wasn’t that worried about it for the obvious reason that power outages don’t affect me.  Just one more way in which my life is simpler out here.  And it’s one more way in which this type of life is easier to handle.

Cabin Life – #45

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The silence out here can be both comforting and disconcerting.  It’s not that there’s no noise, because there can be a lot.  But often, it’s just the wind in the trees.

There was one neighborhood in Jacksonville where I heard sirens every night.  For two years.  A woman had her purse snatched in broad daylight, and she was a cop.  I heard gun shots a few times and more domestic diputes than I care to remember.  I heard kids crying for hours on end and guys blasting rap at four in the morning.  There was a lot of noise in that place.  The apartment I got after that one was a few blocks from the ocean and on Sunday mornings, when everyone else was at church and Pico and I played firsbee, I could clearly hear the rolling sound of the ocean.

But out here, I’ve never heard sirens.  I saw flashing lights one time, when the fire department came to put out my chimney fire, but that’s it.  Occasionally I can hear a big-rig downshifting on Route 3, but even that is a quiet rumble in the distance.

I have one flashilight that is amazing.  This thing is basically a light saber.  After dark, before I let Pico out, I go out first and scan the fields with the big light to see what animals are hanging around.  Usually there’s a bunch of deer (nine the other night) and that’s it.  I let the screen door slam and they take off into the upper field, where Pico won’t see them and give chase.

Last night though, I went out and checked around.  About halfway up the Upper Field, I saw a set of eyes glowing green in the dark.  I waited and scanned around, thinking I would see some other eyes to confirm that it was just some deer, but no other eyes showed up.  I slammed the screen door and watched the eyes.  They didn’t move at the sound.  As I stood there in my slippers watching the eyes, they watched me back.

And then a thought entered my mind.  What if this was the bear that I’ve seen so many signs of?  There’s almost never just one deer hanging out by itself, and the non-plussed attitude displayed at the sound of the door slamming made me think that maybe it was the bear.  He was too far away for me to see clearly, but it was clear that he was not taking off just because some door closed.  But when I slammed the door again, the head came up and I caught a good glimpse of a doe standing near the upper edge of the field.

My tensions relaxed, I went and got Pico, comfortable in the fact that the deer was far enough away that Pico wouldn’t take off after it, and that it was not a bear.  When Pico’s tags jingled, the deer took to the woods.  I could hear the low bass vibrations of it bounding away.  Pico sniffed around and I watched with the light saber pointed not directly at him, but off to the side.  I don’t want to blind him.

It was quiet and calm, with only an infrequent rustle of leaves to fill the void.  And then I heard the low bass vibrations of a moving animal.  I shined around and saw no eyes, but the upper field hasn’t been mowed in years and the shrubs are getting big, providing great cover for whatever it was I was hearing.  The sound grew louder and I looked at Pico to see where he was.  He was at least a hundred yards away with no clue about what was running through the field.  I couldn’t tell where it was coming from or what direction it was heading, but my immediate thought was “bear.”

I glanced at the clueless Pico once again and just then six set of eyes came into view.  It was a doe and two fawns, apparently hidden in my first inspection of the field, taking off in the opposite direction.  I relaxed then and shut off the light.  I could see Pico trotting back towards the cabin in the moonlight.  Just then a shreik came out of the night.  It took my brain a moment to process that it was an owl, and it scared me.  Bad.  Stupid owl.

Cabin Life – #44

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The nights are longer and cooler and the daily high temperatures are lower than the summer lows.  I’m glad for the solar lights strung around the cabin.  They cast a pleasant blueish glow without being blinding.  Wearing a headlamp literally all time last winter really got old, and it’s nice to be able to see without one.  Now I can find my glass of Maker’s Mark without burning batteries.

Ed got another mouse last night.  He can never get them during normal waking hours, only in the middle of the night.  So, after work, I didn’t do anything that could be called “chores” or “work” or anything like that.  I sat on the boulder that serves as my front step and played guitar.  I let all the animals out to enjoy the warmth of the afternoon sun.  Pico ate grass and layed around, Ed went out hunting, and Herbie was somewhere doing whatever it is fat cats do.

Soaking up what may be the last of the warm days for the year is as precious to me as almost anything else.  I like every aspect of fall, especially those little nuggets of warmth and sunshine that make random appearances throughout the season.  But they also remind me that the time for getting the cabin totally ready for winter is at hand.  Firewood is going into the shed, the lights are strung up and the chimney is cleaned and ready to go.  It’s gotten pretty cold on a few nights, but I needed to get a new chimney brush and clean it before getting a fire going.

Cleaning the chimeny is hands down my least favorite activity that living out here requires.  I don’t mind walking to the outhouse or having to haul jugs of water in.  But I really dislike cleaning the chimney.  I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m also not a fan.  The roof isn’t very high or steep, but climbing up there is always an annoyance.  And of course, I inevitably forget something down on the ground, so it’s never just a one climb chore.

Then, once I’m up there, the process of actually sweeping the chimney begins.  Handling the two sections of fiberglass pole that wave twelve feet in the air above my head is not hard, but also not pleasant.  I shove the brush end down until it’s inside the woodstove, then pull it all the way back out.   Even though it’s not a long chimney, I usually break a sweat doing this process three or four times.  And on top of all this, Pico is on the ground barking at me and trying to climb the ladder.  If he ever figures it out, I’m going to be in real trouble.

But I think I’m lucky in that the chimney is the only chore I really despise doing.  Checking on the Upper Camp and clearing the trails gives me a lot of satisfaction, plus Pico can come along on those treks.  I like living out here.  And I do like that I have to work at it.

Cabin Life – #43

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I had a great trip to South Carolina last weekend for a friend’s wedding.  Shorts and flip flops all day was a nice change from the jeans and sweatshirts our weather has required.  And for some reason, this trip has caused me to think a lot about what it means to live off the grid.  Maybe it was all that time spent on planes breathing recycled air.  I’m not sure, but I do know that I consider myself off the grid with no running water, electricity or even indoor plumbing.  But I have cell phone service and my blog has a Facebook page.  How off the grid is that?

As I think about shaping my experience, which in the near future means buying land and starting to build my own cabin off the grid, I’ve begun to wonder if living off the grid means giving up modern ammenities.  Should you be able to drive right to your house, or hike in?  Can you live on a major road and listen to traffic all day, or do you have to be isolated?  Can you buy imported foods or do you have to suffer a life without Guiness?

I’ll tell you one thing:  there is no way that I am spending the rest of my life without indoor plumbing. I don’t think off the grid means no hot water for showers, but is it too much to ask to have a hot tub?  What about a wood-fired hot tub that only burns wood taken from my land?  Is that still off the grid?

One of the things I’ve learned in this whole experience is that I don’t mind living simply.  I know now that I can live without a lot of things that many people consider neccesities.  I’ve often read about other people who live off the grid, but seem to give up nothing.  They have every modern convenience, along with a room full of deep-cycle batteries that everntually become hazardous waste.  I don’t know if that’s right or wrong, and I think it’s up to each person who decides to live this way.

I know what I want out of living a somewhat unconnected existence.  I like being able to keep in touch with friends and family and don’t want to be disengaged in that way.  What it means to me is that I try to be as self-suficent as possible, while not becoming the Unabomber.  I want to get some land that can provide the logs for a small cabin, one that will have a nice bathroom with hot water.  I want to raise most of my own food and rely on wood, solar and wind for the meager electric and heating needs I will have.  I also want a hot tub.  I’ve always wanted a hot tub.

Cabin Life – #41

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The nights and days are cool, the leaves are bright and the fire wood is getting stacked in the shed.  The field is turning brown, even with the fall rain, and neither of the streams are running.  It hasn’t really been that cold, but it is coming.

Ed crashed around last night, and I thought he was going to have a mouse.  He didn’t, but it wasn’t from lack of trying.  There was a mouse turd on the table though, so the mice are definitely trying to move in for the winter.  I checked the small hole in the floor where the sink drains out and the steel wool was gone.  I shoved some more in there to try and keep them out.  I don’t have anything against mice per se, but I don’t want them in my food or on my bed or on my table.  Or in my cabin, actually.

I think it’s going to be a rough winter.  Seems like it’s much colder than it was at this time last year.  I’ve got myself set up better for this winter with solar lights and radio, and the cabin is a lot cleaner than when I moved in.  There’s less furniture and more room.  The animals are happy here and so am I.

But the weather is worrying me. I cut and split wood well into October last year with nothing more than a light flannel on and no need for a jacket.  I took a ride on the four wheeler today and my hands were stiff for a while.  It’s not looking good for those of us who were hoping for a late start to winter.

Don’t get me wrong, I like winter.  I like to ski and snowshoe and enjoy the general quietness.  But an early winter means burning more wood, plowing the driveway more and spending a lot more time in long johns.  Nothing against any of those things, I just wish they would start when I want them to.  Like in December.  Oh, and the snow should be gone by the first day of spring.  That’s not too much to ask, is it?  I’m afraid this year it will be.

Cabin Life – #38

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Pico was just digging in the ground, making a cool spot to lie down in.  After the rain we got last night, the disturbed ground had a nice, earthy smell to it.  A week ago, it would have been just dust, floating up into my face and choking me.  Now it smells good.

This is my favorite time of year.  The leaves are starting to change color and it’s not due to the drought this time.  There are bright yellows and orangeish-reds.  Most of the trees are still green but that just makes the few that are changing really stand out.  They look striking even though I have to see them through red, scratchy eyes most of the time.

The road is covered with dead leaves that blow around on the dry days.  The good news is that since there are dry days now, it also means that there must be wet days.  The rain we’ve gotten isn’t making up for the summer yet, but at least it is raining once in a while.  We needed the water, but it’s also nice to get a free car wash now and then too.

I’ve always liked fall the best, and after this ridiculously hot and dry summer, the cool nights and warm days are a huge relief.  Just cool enough for a long sleeve shirt at night.  The mosquitoes are starting to die down and there’s a noticeable difference in the amount of daylight we’re getting.  I’ve seen some geese heading south and even with no water, the few apples that made it are ripening up.  I guess that’s what I like about fall.  All of the above.

Cabin Life – #36

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It’s dry.  Too dry.  I dug a hole the other day and it was like digging in a sand box.  A foot down and the dirt was still bone dry.  I only remember one other drought like this, when I was at Paul Smiths.  Doc Kudish pointed out to me that the leaves on the trees were actually wilting.  The same thing is happening now, and there’s even a few that are starting to change color.  And it’s not because it’s been cool out.

Both of the spring-fed streams that run through the property are dry because the water table has dropped so low.  There are no blueberries, which is a shame because wild blueberries are hands-down one of the greatest foods known to man.  We did get some rain earlier this week, and it was much needed, but it’s not enough to make up for what we haven’t gotten over the course of the summer.

There haven’t been as many fires this year though.  In 2002 there was more than three hundred and twenty fires all over the Adirondacks.  I was listening to NCPR one day and they had a story about a huge fire out west that had burned thousands of acres and hundreds of millions of dollars of property.  They then switched to local news.  The story was that there was a seven acre fire threatening a lean-to. 

We’ve got it pretty good compared to a lot of the country.  Almost seven million acres burned.  It’s hard to believe that the acreage burned nation wide is the same as the entire Adirondack Park.  Just imagine if about one-third of New York State was on fire.  Luckily it’s not, and I guess that’s something to be happy about, even during this drought.