Tag Archives: nature

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 – #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 -#37

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I love lying in the hammock.  There’s a cold beer on the upright log next to me and Pico is lying on the other side.  Shamelessly, I use Pico as a push off to swing the hammock.  He weighs enough to absorb the push, and seems to be content with the petting.  Luckily he hasn’t attempted to join me in the hammock yet.

There are a couple of spider silks strung between two branches, and the afternoon light is glinting off of them.  When the light breeze blows, they disappear and then reappear as a shimmer in the middle of nothingness.  I can’t see where the silks tie into the leaves, but the suspended middle of the strings is visible more often than not.

Even when I’m not tired, the hammock seems to lull me into a state of pure apathy.  Especially with the heat we’ve had this summer, the feel of the breeze encompassing my whole body is very relieving.  Whatever book I’m reading inevitably ends up on the ground, and I have no qualms about spending an hour in semi-consciousness while hanging out in the hammock.  Even Pico seems to relax when he’s there, only getting up to chase a red squirrel or chipmunk up one of the pine trees.  He hasn’t gotten hit by a pinecone yet, but it’s not for a lack of trying on the squirrel’s part.

I push off of Pico again and run my hand lightly down his back as the hammock swings away.  It’s a small price to pay for having such a reliable and useful partner.  Lying in the hammock not only relaxes me, but brings back lots of memories from growing up.  My grandparents had a summer camp on the Sacandaga Reservoir, near Vandenberg’s Point.  The camp was set up on a hill, but it was just a short walk down to the beach. 

They had a flight of wooden stairs that went down from the camp through the blueberry bushes.  Halfway down the stairs, there was no railing on the right side, and that’s where the big, classic, white cotton hammock hung.  It was low enough to the ground that an adult could put their foot down and push off.  I just belly flopped onto the thing, shoved my arm through the netting and pushed off of one of the big knotty roots with my hand. 

It was one of my favorite things about spending time at camp.  The place was pretty close to home, so we would go up there a lot.  There was no hammock at home, though, and the one at camp always seemed special.  Maybe it’s because I shared it with so many of the important people in my life, but I don’t think I got lazy when I lay in that particular hammock.  I just got happy.

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.

Cabin Life – #32

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The baby osprey are getting big.  They poke their heads up above the lip of the nest and look down on us.  The chatter they make is for food, though, not because I’m standing about twenty feet below their nest.  The people and the cars and the bikes don’t seem to bother this particular family. 

Their nest is built on top of an electric pole right behind the entrance booth of the campground.  It’s about three feet across, sits right on the electric feed for the whole park.  It stinks pretty bad right now, as there hasn’t been any rain to wash the area in and below the nest.  The shrubs and pavement are splattered white but amazingly no one has gotten hit.

The osprey are a big attraction along the road, with three nests.  But the ones at the booth are my favorite.  Watching them circle around with a bullhead in their talons they seem so graceful.  It’s another story when they are getting chased and harassed by birds one tenth their size.  I’ve seen the osprey running from little red-winged blackbirds and even the great blue heron has chased them off a few times.

It’s great to be able to watch a bird daily, just going about its life.  Lot’s of people ask if they are eagles, but once they get a good look at the birds, it’s apparent even with the similar white heads that they are not.  And while it would be great to have eagles nesting right there, the osprey are good enough company.

Cabin Life – #24

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I’m sitting on a picnic table on the shore of Lake Champlain. Valcour Island is in front of me, the sun is shining and the birds are chirping. Tonight is the calm before the storm so to speak, as the campground opens tomorrow.

Paved roads, electricity and hot showers are now plentiful, as is the wildlife. There are three osprey nests within a half mile of my new cabin, and of course, the raccoons are around a lot. Pico has been marking the yard, and that’s keeping them away for now, but the cats still aren’t going outside.

Opening the campground is nice, getting the place cleaned up. Last year at this time, the entire site was under at least three feet of water. I know, because we needed kayaks and boats to get in here and check on the place. We didn’t open until the middle of July last year due to the epic flooding of the spring. And only a little over a month later, we were shut down for a week because of Hurricane Irene. In between those two events, it was a drought.

I finally found my bird book, and am really looking forward to learning the different birds. Less than forty miles away, the cabin birds are on their own for the summer. But the differences are stark. The only birds I’ve seen that I had out at the cabin are robins. But I’ve also seen the osprey, sea gulls, a bald eagle and some sparrows.

It’s good to be back to work, and the fact that I still get to be outside surrounded by wildlife (yes, I do mean campers as well as wild animals) is just superb.

Cabin Life – #23

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Life is definitely easier out here now.  Most of the trees are leafing out, flowers are blooming and the woodstove has been idle for almost two weeks.  And tonight I’ll be having fiddleheads sautéed with garlic.

The work season has begun, and I’ll be starting off the season on trail crew again.  After a week or so of clearing trails, I’ll be moving out to the campground I work at.  There’s some positives and negatives to this:  I live at work, I don’t have the freedom that the cabin offers me, but there’s indoor plumbing and the commute is great.

 But I’ve also discovered that as the weather has gotten better, I’ve become more excited to get the cabin ready for next winter.  The outhouse has already been moved, but I have more plans in store.  Build a shed for the generator and get a solar panel and battery for electricity next year.  The solar panel won’t provide a ton of electricity, but it should be enough so that I don’t have to have to walk around in a headlamp for five months of the year.  And honestly, I won’t run the generator unless I have to use some power tools or something like that.

I’m also looking forward to some of the conveniences that I’ll have at the campground.  After months of considering what it is that I miss most, being able to take a hot shower at home whenever I want is the biggest thing.  It’s not that I haven’t been bathing, but the shower at the gym sucked, and my friend’s showers were always open to me, but it still meant driving somewhere.  I can’t wait to come home after a long day of work and take a shower. 

It’s definitely a time of transition, but one thing has become clear to me.  After bouncing around apartments during college, and living inJacksonville, and living in a house where a double homicide was committed, I have some peace.  It’s less than four hundred square feet and a lot of people wouldn’t even stay here for a night, but I call it home.

Cabin Life – #22

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Big fat flakes of snow are blowing around outside.  They seems to hover just before hitting the ground, then linger there for a few moments until they are just a plain old drop of water or two on a blade of brown grass.

Its nights like last night that make me wish I had a better camera.  The sliver of moon was visible in short glimpses through dark and gray, wispy clouds.  The kind of shot that your eye can see, but that my cheap digital camera would capture as a small blurry light in an otherwise black screen.  No hint of clouds, no depth to the picture, and most importantly, no sense of the natural beauty that my own eyes can see.

I don’t get upset when I can’t get these shots with my camera.  Most of the time it’s enough just to witness the scene, but I do desire to share some of these moments.  Like last week when two does leisurely walked through the yard.  The only non-blurry shot I got of them was one where the deer is walking directly away from me.  Not a great picture to share (close your eyes and visualize it…).

A lot of the scenes that excited me so much during the winter are now kind of common place.  Like the chickadees coming to the bird feeders.  It’s still great to watch the little birds up close so much, but I don’t tip-toe over to the big window with my camera every time they show up anymore.  When the turkeys woke me up last week, I looked, saw what was out there and then went back to bed.

But, after six months, this place has lost none of it’s charm, and I have lost none of my amazement at the opportunities to wonder in nature that living out here provides.

Cabin Life – #20

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With no TV or internet to distract me, I spend a lot of time thinking.  Just thinking.  One of the things I’ve been thinking about lately is how crippled I used to be by my depression.  I also think a lot about the sea change in my own personality and life since I sought out treatment.

My therapist in Jacksonville was good, she was no Freud or anything like that, but I didn’t really need someone to tell me that all my problems were somehow related to sex.  A cigar is just a cigar.  I needed someone to unload my problems on.  During our first session, she asked what I wanted out of the therapy.  I told her I wanted to say what was making me angry (always a strong byproduct of my depression) and that I needed an independent person to tell me when I was right to be upset and when I was being a baby.  I can’t begin to describe the weight that was lifted as I gained some perspective on my feelings.

I heard an interview with a famous person the other day, and she said that her depression was never gone, but it felt like a train that was coming, and all you could do was hop on and hope that you survived the ride.  I couldn’t agree more.  It’s not that I don’t get depressed anymore or that a couple years of therapy was a magic pill.  But the lows are a lot more shallow and the train is easier to hold on to.

I’ve always found solace in nature, which is why I’ve basically spent my life outdoors.  The sounds, smells, and colors of the woods are very soothing, and I can honestly say that I have never been depressed during a hike or camping trip.  Going through therapy and addressing my issues led me to the conclusion that if I was happiest outside, then I needed to spend as much time in nature as I could.  Hence my leaving Florida to come back to the Adirondacks.  It’s my way of making my lifestyle my therapy.

The other major thing I learned in therapy was that I was really exceedingly normal.  I am open to discussing my problems because I think that many people suffer day to day from mental demons or whatever you want to call it, and I hope that others can buck the stigma of needing to talk to a therapist.  It took me about five sessions to realize that I had nothing to be ashamed of.  But as I sat in the waiting room twice a week, I saw dozens of people come in and immediately put their eyes to the ground out of shame.  I noticed it because I was one of them for a while.  And how silly, to be ashamed of seeing a therapist when you know for an absolute fact that I am also there to see a therapist.

As I sit here writing this, the snow is falling again, and there’s about an inch on the ground.  It started raining around four this morning, and changed to snow sometime after I fell back to sleep.  The new porch roof did well in the rain, and the new floor makes the porch feel much, much larger.  It’s a gray and dreary day, cold, windy and wet.  And I couldn’t be happier.