Tag Archives: woodstove

Cabin Life – #50

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Snow
The tea kettle is warming up on the stove so I can have the first of many, many cups of tea today.  There’s cough drop wrappers strewn about the table and all of my handkerchiefs are in the laundry basket.  I hate being sick.

The worst part about this particular cold is that I finally took a day off from work and had to spend it lying on the couch doing nothing.  It was a beautiful day yesterday, with the first real snow of the year settling on the ground.  Being in a snow belt, I got a few more inches than most people and if there was any possibility of being able to breathe through my nose, I would have loved to go out for my first cross-country ski of the year.

But instead, I stayed inside and read, did a little shoveling and basically just drifted in and out of consciousness all day.  It was nice to look out the window at the winter scene that is my yard, though.  The pale blue sky played against the blinding whiteness of six inches of snow.  The sun created sparkles all over, always changing as the trees swayed in the wind.  This is my favorite part of winter.

It was about this time last year that I started writing the Cabin Life series, and believe it or not, this is the fiftieth essay I’ve written about living off the grid in this little cabin.  I’ve talked about the weather and birds, family and depression, difficulties and joys.  The outhouse, Upper Camp and Pico.  I like writing this way, about whatever happens to pop into my mind when I sit down at the computer.  I like that I have to wear a headlamp to write on my laptop.

After over a year, I do not regret moving out here.  I miss hot showers.  And on days like yesterday, it would have been nice to lie around and watch whatever nonsense was on TV.  Other than that, I don’t miss anything I used to have.  I lived in a nice two bedroom townhouse three blocks from the ocean when I left Jacksonville.  I liked being near the beach, but feel that the only thing I really gave up was the stress and endless hours of work necessary to afford that life.  I worked two jobs for five straight years.  I know lots of other people have done this, but I don’t have kids or a mortgage.  I did it to keep up with the Jones’, so to speak.  And after simplifying my life and wants and needs, I realize that I don’t care what the Jones’ are up to.  The best part is that I won’t ever again care what they are up to.

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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 – #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 – #30

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I was slapping myself stupid trying to get all the mosquitoes.  There was a nice breeze coming off the lake and the fire was helping keep them down a little, but I was still getting eaten alive. 

I threw another piece of wood on the fire.  It was some leftover wood from last year’s hurricane that had blown down during the storm.  The red pines that came down around here were huge old trees, but growing in sand a lot them just tipped over.

Back in the cabin, the woodstove hasn’t been used in months.  I think back to all the winter nights when I really would have liked to see the fire.  But my stove doesn’t have any glass in it, just a big black box.  A little bit of light is nice when the sun goes down at five in the afternoon.

Most nights this summer have too hot to bother with a fire, even outside. The heat coming off the fire mixed with the stagnant humid air is just not too enjoyable.  The only thing making up for it is the late evening swims to cool off before bed.  And that’s a far cry from getting up three times a night to stoke the fire.

Snow Last Night

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We got a dusting of snow last night.  First time in a couple of weeks that there has been snow on the ground…  Kind of nice to hear that little crunch under my boots again.

Laying in the sun yesterday

 

 

Ed. That's it, just Ed.

 

 

Herbie coming down off the roof

 

 

 

 

 

Cabin Life – #15

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Pico and I went snow shoeing for probably the last time today.  I wanted to get out before all the snow is gone, and I think there’ll be enough left to ski on tomorrow.  But the snow is going fast, almost as fast as it came.

In the last two weeks, I’ve gotten about two feet of snow out at the cabin.

Black Capped Chickadee

The plow guy had to come three times in four days, after having been out here only three times in the last three months.  But now it’s about fifty degrees, and the forecast calls for warm for the rest of the week.  It’s starting to look like winter might really be over.

I missed this part of the Adirondack spring last year, as I was still living in Florida.  I missed opening the windows and letting that clean-smelling breeze roll through the house.  I missed seeing people’s super white arms emerging from t-shirts for the first time in months.  I just plain missed the change in the seasons.

Jacksonville, FL is far enough north that there is kind of a “winter,” where it does get cold for a couple of months.  The palm trees stay green and you might need a hat and gloves in the morning, but that’s about all you get out of the change of seasons.  There’s really only two seasons:  Hot, and not as hot.

The lady bugs have been proliferating around and on the big window.  I keep catching glimpses of them out of the corner of my eye, and thinking that someone is coming up the driveway, but that’s not really all that likely.  Now that it’s warm, the snow is melting, and there are brown patches of dead grass peeking out, I can’t help but feel some sort of satisfaction.  Back in October, I thought that living off the grid for the winter would be a huge challenge.

It has been.  But not one that has broken or defeated me.  If anything, I am stronger, both mentally and physically, than when I moved out here.  This winter was an experiment in self-reliance.  Not that I haven’t gotten help along the way, but being way out here is something that you have to experience to truly understand.

And really, isn’t life all about the experience?

Cabin Life – #14

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A rusty screen door in the wind.  That was the sound I heard earlier outside.  But the sound was coming from the woods, far from any door, or even any human-built structure.  I wondered what it was, but the big MagLite didn’t provide any insight, and the most likely culprit was some tree creaking in the breeze.

The snow has started again, and it looks like the next couple of days will be spent shoveling and digging out.  I really don’t mind.  It’s good

Snowy Birch

exercise, outside, with tangible benefits.  I’ve always loved running the snow-blower and driving a plow truck, and shoveling is something that I’ve gained a renewed appreciation for.  Two storms ago, I shoveled an area big enough to park a few cars in.  The plow guy was impressed, and that’s a pretty big compliment.

One thing that I’ve always loved about living in the Adirondacks is that people come together when they really need to.  When there’s no emergency or major event going on, I’m sure that neighbors have their regular squabbles, but when the fit hits the shan, people here look out for each other.

A few weeks ago, my plow guy got stuck in the driveway and it took us a while to dig out his truck.  The next plow was on him as thanks.  The time after that, we had a big storm, and he hadn’t heard from me, so he came up to plow the driveway and make sure I wasn’t stuck in here.  He said he was glad when he didn’t see my truck.

It was the same thing last spring.  There were massive floods all over the North Country and my first three days of work were spent filling sand bags.  We dropped them off all over town, to the city hall, motels along the lake, and at people’s houses.  Most of the day, it was just a bunch of us state workers who had gotten corralled into the job.  But soon after school got out each day, a stream of parents and kids would come into the town garage and ask what needed to be done.  They brought us food and coffee, as well as fresh hands and arms.  Filling, tying and loading a couple hundred thousand sand bags gets tiring.

But you know what, it’s not just in times of hardship that the people come together up here.  Winter Carnival is one of the greatest parties you could imagine.  An entire town celebrating the successful fight against cabin fever with a parade, concerts, and yes, even a Women’s Frying Pan Toss.  Carnival is great.

The feeling this type of camaraderie creates is one of belonging to a community.  Whatever their petty differences, people do what they can to help each other out, and in the process forget about the nonsense that most of us consume our lives with.  If I had a neighbor and heard a creaky door sound day after day, I’d probably get upset after a while, and would eventually sneak over there and hit the hinges with WD-40.  But since the sound was coming from a tree, I’ll just let it go.  Having such a simple existence in this cabin has made letting the stupid things go a lot easier.

Snow’s going fast

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The snow is melting fast.  It’s been warm and sunny or warm and rainy for a couple of days.  Early spring this year apparently.