Firsthand: Reports from the Field
The author recounts her years of living as a self-described "wilderness mother" in British Columbia.
October/November 2003
By Deanna Kawatski
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The Ningunsaw homestead, summer 2002.
Photos from the collection of Natalia and Deanna Kawatski
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Our Wilderness Homestead Revisited
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Between 1991 and 1996, Deanna Kawatski wrote regularly for MOTHER EARTH NEWS, sharing her homesteading wisdom and experiences. Deanna spent almost 15 years as a self-described "wilderness mother," in British Columbia, living in a log cabin inaccessible by road and 120 miles from the nearest town. Deanna and her husband, Jay, lived without electricity, grew their own food and even delivered their first child, Natalia, by themselves. When Jay and Deanna separated, Deanna and their two children moved to a more populous part of British Columbia. Last August, she and Natalia made a trip north to visit their former home. —MOTHER
Why am I going? What can I possibly achieve by visiting the wilderness homestead my children and I left 10 years ago?
To get there, my daughter, Natalia, and I endure a 22-hour bus marathon from Shuswap Lake to Kitwanga, the northernmost Greyhound bus stop in northwestern British Columbia. Natalia was born and lived her first 12 years north of Kitwanga, in the woods to which we now travel.
Natalia isn't only visiting our past; she's also staking a claim for her future. She intends to spend regular intervals living in her childhood home. Since our departure, a decade ago, a series of renters have drifted through our old homestead, but it has been empty for more than a year. Now it is August and the height of bear season. We have no idea what we will find when we hike in.
We catch a ride the remaining 120 miles north of Kitwanga and are dropped off at an old logging site. Grabbing my gear and hopping from the truck, I scarcely recognize my surroundings. Time has healed the old clear-cut wound, and a profusion of birch, poplar, alder and pine trees populate what I remember as a moonscape.
The minute the truck rumbles away my heart lurches as the tall grass ahead parts and something rushes directly towards us. I blink my eyes at the sight of an exquisite red fox. Nat and I freeze, mesmerized. He bounds closer and closer until he is near enough to touch. His enormous ears are perked, and his bright, brown eyes study us with an uncanny intensity. As though trying to entice us to play, he lopes around us in a circle.
The fox is in no hurry to leave, and as Nat rearranges her pack for the hike, he performs his full repertoire of tricks. With all of my years in the bush I have never been this close to a wild fox; I can't keep my eyes off him. He scratches his ear for a bit, then drags his butt along the ground. He sinks to the clover-covered ground, rests his head on his paws and stares at me long and hard. I feel honored by his presence. Even with the string of jingle bells I tie around my ankles to alert bears of our presence, he lingers. As we hoist our packs and set out, the fox dances along behind us; when I glance back again he is gone.
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