Wilderness Living in British Columbia

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Aerial view of the homestead where the Kawatskis practice their brand of wilderness living.
Aerial view of the homestead where the Kawatskis practice their brand of wilderness living.
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Jay and Deanna Kawatski. Jay, the
Jay and Deanna Kawatski. Jay, the "wild hermit," originally hailed from Wisconsin. 
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Jay prepares a rabbit hide for tanning. Son Ben never lacks distractions in the workshop
Jay prepares a rabbit hide for tanning. Son Ben never lacks distractions in the workshop
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A wider view. The Kawatski homestead is located near Bob Quinn Lake in British Columbia.
A wider view. The Kawatski homestead is located near Bob Quinn Lake in British Columbia.
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Deanna cooks for the family on a cast-iron stove.
Deanna cooks for the family on a cast-iron stove.
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Jay carries grain bundles tied to the handle of his shovel.
Jay carries grain bundles tied to the handle of his shovel.
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The Kawatski's root cellar  overflows with carrots, potatoes, and turnips.
The Kawatski's root cellar  overflows with carrots, potatoes, and turnips.
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Jay and Deanna would shoot only one moose per year, and used every part of it. This is their moose leg couch.
Jay and Deanna would shoot only one moose per year, and used every part of it. This is their moose leg couch.
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Natalia looking out her bedroom window.
Natalia looking out her bedroom window.

Tucked away among the mountains in a northern corner of British Columbia, a hand-hewn log home sits like a speck of propriety in the wilderness. Despite the logs, it’s quite an elegant home with its dormer peaks and big windows looking down from a clearing on a hillside to the neat vegetable garden below. But just beyond the tidy house and clearing, the wild roses, columbine, and yarrow scramble over the hillside in summer. And in the neat garden itself, a creek frolics like a truant through the straight rows of hardworking cabbages and potatoes and onions and carrots.

Across a field, a blond, bearded man–my husband, Jay–drives a gaggle of crabby geese toward a fresh patch of horsetails. I am nearby, harvesting rhubarb with my eleven-year-old daughter while my young son looks on. This is no hobby for us. It is our way of life, and has been for the past seven years. My family and I live 120 miles from the nearest town.

I wasn’t born to wilderness living; I adopted it. I grew up in Kamloops, British Columbia, went to the university there, and then spent eight years seeing the world, mostly large cities like London, Berlin, and Paris. I tried hard to adapt to big-city life. In London, I was a nanny for twin boys. In Berlin, I had a job building harpsichords. I drank tea with the proud Afghanis before the Soviet invasion, and visited India, where I saw the human spirit soar above famine and poverty.

Short, intense bouts of tree-planting in British Columbia financed most of my wanderings abroad. It was a schizophrenic existence. One month I would be dressed in lace, sipping cafe au lait at a fancy sidewalk cafe in Paris. The next month, I was standing on some obscure Canadian mountainside, with my clothes caked in dirt and a mattock in my hand, planting trees for tomorrow.

But my serious move to wilderness life began in 1978, when the B.C. Forest Service hired me to be the first female lookout attendant at the Bob Quinn fire tower 120 miles north of Stewart, a tiny town near the Alaskan border. The prospect of spending three months alone on a mountaintop terrified me, but I needed the money. I also had enough solitary pursuits–writing, yoga, and reading–to keep me busy. I intended to explore my surroundings as much as possible. Wanting a little company, I acquired a husky pup in Stewart.

  • Published on Aug 1, 1991
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