Firsthand: Reports from the Field
(Page 2 of 5)
October/November 2003
By Deanna Kawatski
We fall into a rhythm walking the two miles to where our trail plunges 400 feet into the valley. Worming our way through the lush growth, we notice frequent signs of bears. Both black bears and grizzlies inhabit this region and can be aggressive when surprised. We announce our presence by singing with vigor, "I love to go a'wandering ... " and " I gave my love a cherry that has no stone ... " Here and there huge footprints mark the mud. I grow a bit uneasy.
RELATED CONTENT
From planning your home to laying out garden beds, long-time homesteader Steve Maxwell offers advic...
Whether you have 40 rural acres or an urban container garden, everyone can discover the art of home...
Heritage breeds are a great option for those with a small acreage. The breeds are hardy and versati...
The Good Life as lived by one young family in the British Columbia Kootenay Mountains....
For many land-hungry homesteaders, Alaska has always been the "last frontier": the one area where p...
A breeze blows the bugs away as we clamber down the hill through the trees and thimbleberry bushes. Memories of many past hikes with my small children come to mind. "Wait for me!" rings in my ears from long ago. Now, I struggle to keep up with Nat. On the final 200-foot, ligament-snapping slope, I quiver from the exertion and with anticipation of what we will find at the bottom. Nat calls back to me through a screen of silver poplar: "I see smoke!"
"Wait for me!" I holler. Negotiating the last stretch of the hill, I obtain a clear view of the parcel of wilderness that consumed 13 years of my life.
Surprised, I spot Joe, an old family friend who sometimes checks on the place. He's waiting for us in the front yard, spry at 66 in his T-shirt, sweat pants and gumboots; we greet each other warmly.
I survey the collapsed fence along the hill and chunks of bark strewn in front of the house. My heart sinks at the signs of neglect. The stovepipe at the back of the spruce-log house is askew; the back door is blocked by cottonwood saplings. When we lived here, we took pride in tending the house and garden. I see that wild crimson elderberries have taken up residence in front of the kitchen where pansies and forget-me-pots once bloomed.
Twisting the burl-wood doorknob, we enter the kitchen. Everything looks smaller than I remember—and dingy. I feel like I have outgrown this place.
When I moved to the bush in 1979, Jay, my former husband, had begun construction on a 12-by-16-foot cabin with a sleeping loft (not big enough to change your mind in, we always said). We lived there for five and a half years while we worked on a 21-by-34-foot, two-story log addition. Log construction was the only option, given how far we were from civilization, so we cut all our own logs. We began to live in the larger house in 1985, just after our son, Ben, was born, although we worked more years to complete the structure.
In a corner of the kitchen, Joe has rigged up a mousetrap, using a bucket, string and peanut-butter-smeared can. "I caught 30 last night," he says.
Page:
<< Previous 1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
Next >>
