Remote living in Alaska - How Long?

Now that we are in our early 60's, friends and colleagues ask us more often “what will you do when you are older?”  

Cutting dead Spruce

This is a fair question for anybody, in any location.  In our case, we live a physically active life in which our health determines the amount of firewood and food we produce, as well as things like a medical license to fly to and from home or the stamina to drive a snowmachine 7.5 hours cross country to retrieve a sled load of supplies.

Fortunately, we are both in fine health: no medicines, no chronic or acute ailments, but I don't take this for granted.  Many people we know in their 50's and 60's take daily pills for pain, anxiety, depression, shots for arthritis, and have undertaken surgery for joints, ligaments, eyes, and spine.  The only person I know older than me taking NO medicines is my 78 year old aunt, who controlled incipient diabetes with diet, exercise, and clearly, lots of will power.  We realize that unexpected health problems derail many people's best laid plans.

So I demur when I hear from readers who say that they plan to move up to Alaska and live like us “when they retire” or when people start a physically challenging business at age 60, or even buy a bigger home than they had when they raised kids.  I hope that those decisions work out.    

Our approach to “aging in place” , such as it is, is to contemplate what can we do NOW to reduce effort when we are 70 or older.  What tools, equipment, construction, plantings and time commitments CAUSE or SAVE wear and tear on aging people, structures, and machines?  We want to SHED the former.  EMBRACE the latter.   

Some of this is as simple as doing a cost/benefit analysis, just as we do in business.  “Do we want to do this task by hand, by ourselves, or with tools or with the help of other people?  Or is xxx a bad idea altogether?”  

Hauling supplies

My husband has been a serial entrepreneur who has started some businesses that worked for decades and others that “seemed like a good idea at the time” only to turn out to be far more time consuming and far less lucrative than he anticipated.  He kissed that time and money goodbye and moved onto other things.  Life is like that, too. There are some things we have done already that will yield GREAT benefits in the future (like planting perennial food crops and building with steep, snow shedding roofs).  Other decisions or lack of attention caused problems or delayed solutions (like (a) not paying attention to a builder who constructed a plywood food shed flat on the ground, without treated lumber or elevated footings.  (b) not planting fruit trees sooner and protecting them better). 

 

 Below are some of the aspects of living remotely that are likely to get harder as we get older, and for which we either have or have not yet figured out alternatives to enjoy living out here longer.  

WINTER CHORES:  Shoveling, snowmachining, and flying

Roof raking

I can understand why many northerners flee south, part time or full time when they reach a certain age.  Winter chores are tougher than most summer ones.  

Shoveling:  We have 9 buildings.  The main ones all have 45 degree roofs that shed snow easily.  No problem.    The 33 degree roofs need more attention, especially after wet snow or sleet which can build up to a dangerously heavy load.  Reaching overhead to shovel off roofs is exhausting to me NOW!   I pity people with flat roofs (or more roof space) in cold climates.  For the future, I wonder if we might steepen the shallower roofs (what an expensive “do-over”) or if we can figure out easier ways to access the tops of the roofs.  So far, we have experimented with rope as a sort of windshield wiper of light roof snow.  Feasible.  We also plan to screw in  bolts and a chain to hold a ladder in place on the high side of shallow roofs, to push off snow with a snow rake.

Shoveling out the fire pit

Snowshoeing and snowmachining:  Because the snowmachines we bought (Bearcat 660) have narrow skis and low bellies, they tend to tip over or get stuck in deep, soft snow, especially on angled terrain but are fine on firm snow.  Therefore, we have to pat out the paths we want in snowshoes after every deep snowfall.  This may be good exercise now, but I don't want to have to do this to walk to the outhouse and chicken coop  all winter when I am 70.   I would like to buy a snowmachine better suited to the grooming we need – either riding high and light or plowing through soft snow.   

Supply Runs:   Even in cities, winter driving hazards can be challenging as people age.  We are alert to our transportation issues, too.  Winter maintenance of the plane involves snowmachine grooming (and regrooming after each snowfall) a landing strip on the lake ice, sweeping snow off the wings and fuselage all winter, preheating the plane before departure, and tying and covering the plane on return.  (in short winter daylight).  Shopping by snowmachine, across country and two rivers, the route is 42 miles and 3.25 hours one way, on short, cold days in January – to about the first week of March, when the rivers are safely frozen and the snow route across bogs and lakes is firm and not slushy or soft.  Winter temperatures and transportation wear down both machine parts and people.    

Applying our cost/benefit calculations, we analyzed whether to buy a beefier snowmachine (about $12,000) or hire a professional snowmachine hauler to deliver supplies (that we have pre-ordered and pre-positioned for him) once or twice each winter.  The latter won.  Roger's machine is much more powerful than ours and can haul 2 sleds, carrying 3-4 times as much as Bryan can haul on one long day's trip.  So this saves time, gasoline, wear and tear on the machine and my husband, so he can spend his time on other endeavors (like shoveling!).  I am sure that our machine would have died an ignoble death somewhere along the route by now, rather than limping along on local projects.  Heck, we know of two people with strong and expensive machines that had to buy new transmissions two winters ago because of terrible (icy hard?) conditions.   

Flying:  Another cost/benefit analysis resulted in leaving our plane in town with our airplane mechanic during the winter.  If we need only one air taxi trip, this decision is cheaper than changing out the undercarriage from floats to skis and back again.  If we need two trips, it is about break even.  On the one hand we lose the spontaneity of flight on spectacularly clear winter days.  On the other, we shed all the work and worry that accompanies an unhangared plane and landing strip on an icy lake during and after storms of wind, snow, and sleet in Alaska. 

SUMMER CHORES:

Gardening:  Gardening is emotionally and physically satisfying but the first several days of constant bending over to transplant hundreds of seedlings is getting uncomfortable now.  Five gallon buckets of water hauled here and there will start to feel heavier and heavier, as will stringing together five hoses from lake pump uphill to the back gardens once or twice a week.  At the end of the season, dragging heavy tarp loads of fallen birch leaves to mulch each garden and fruit tree/bush could become burdensome.  I can envision hiring seasonal help twice a year to help with beginning and end of season tasks for gardening as well as fuel production (below).  We have done a good job of planting many low maintenance edible perennials (like berries, apple trees and cherry bushes, mint, horseradish, rhubarb, sorrel, and asparagus).  Also, our raised bed gardens will keep getting higher as we add to the soil.  I plan to add a triangular seat/table on the corner of each raised bed for resting tools... or me.  We also placed 50 gallon water drums close to each garden.  I sewed a fabric bag that hangs over my neck to hold a plastic bin for berry collection, so I can use both hands and not have to bend down to a bowl on the ground.  Each year we figure out little improvements like these.  I find this sort of practical creativity fun to think about.    

Tree cutting:  Bryan labors throughout the year cutting down trees, limbing and bucking them, lifting them in and out of the deep ATV trailer (or I do that on the lower and open sided winter sled), splitting them, and filling the wood corral with about 11 cords of logs.  Chainsaws have a very uneven weight distribution. The work inordinately impacts one's non-dominant shoulder/back.  Bryan's left shoulder tends to stay sore for several months in the autumn, so that is unsustainable.   This year, he decided to stop after one tank of gas.  Next year, he is going to use my little, lighter 20 inch chain saw for limbing.  Both should save his shoulder.  In the future, it might be useful to hire short term help.  Unskilled labor could load and unload the ATV at the wood splitter. Skilled help could cull the trees.   Still there is a lot that has to happen before cutting, like paths to trees and culling the surrounding devil's club.  I am not sure what we will do about that in our dotage, but we are becoming more attentive to placing our winter snowmachine paths near trees we plan to cut. 

Tower Climb

High work:  I feel nervous when Bryan climbs up to our roof tops on ladders that I am supporting as best I can on uneven terrain at the base.  He wears rapeling gear to climb the 120 foot power tower to adjust antennae and change out dated equipment, but surely there will be some point when such tasks are better handed off to someone more agile.  For this spring, I plan to (have Bryan) attach eye bolts on the logs below the roof wide enough to “enclose” the ladder with a length of chain for his spring cleaning of the chimney.  

As my father says (he may be quoting Bette Davis), “Aging is not for sissies.”  I hope that we can prepare ourselves with prudence and creativity for the challenges that will befall us.   I know that we will still be suprised.  But at least I hope that we will not chastise ourselves for ignoring something obvious that we could indeed plan for.

December: Rain, Snowmachines, and Lame Holiday Crafts

Believe it or not, December began with RAIN!  A “Pineapple Express” weather system brought a stream of warm, damp wind up from Hawaii, slammed into the tall mountains along the Alaska coast and caused all sorts of havoc, including historic records for rain, plus ice (and car crashes) and landslides (and loss of homes and people).  A mess.

Here, we were spared any damage, but temps rose to the mid-30s and the hard rain pelted some snow off roofs and hardened (finally) the soft snow in the yard.  The surface was no longer pillowy soft and smooth but looked like a patchwork of lightly melted marshmallows.  Over the course of the month the temperatures plummeted to -10F, and then jumped back up to the +30s.  These dramatic shifts felt like the weather version of bumper pool.

When the snow paths firmed up from the rain, we decided to groom them into wider, smoother, and harder surfaces.  This entails dragging a passive groomer (looks like a horizontal fence with angled iron bars) behind the snowmachine.

Two conditions delayed the task: 1) the snowmachine skis were coated in lumpy layers of ice and  2) the snow that had been sheltered from rain beneath the vehicle remained deep (several feet) and soft, between higher and harder paths pelted by rain.  So, we toted a sled of supplies and got to work.  First, we tipped the machine over on its side to melt the ice with a heat gun (like a hand hair dryer), powered by the generator and  scraped the ice off with a garden spade and a screwdriver.  When we tried to power out of position, the heavy rear treads predictably sank into the soft center snow.  Plan B:  we tied a strap around the base of a spruce tree ahead of us and I ratcheted the tow strap as Bryan climbed, a few inches at a time, out of the soft hole and up onto harder snow.  Then, he was able to whiz around the property and for about four miles into the woods, smoothing paths and widening curves, for pleasant afternoons of cross country skiing and walking.

For a month, our internet and telephone connectivity were inconveniently haphazard.   Apparently, one of our service providers had installed some upgrade for customers on the grid, but the old equipment they sold us to install several years ago is not compliant.  They gave us a 90% discount to turn off the service until spring, when can upgrade, too.  

Living remotely means that we have lots of back ups and work-arounds.  This is true for communications, too.  So this month, we could reliably make phone calls from the unheated power shed, but not from the warm cabin.  If I wanted to call my 89 year old dad, I had to bundle up and call from there.  It was worse for Bryan, whose business has been busier than he expected this time of year, with 5 or 6 business calls each morning.  He dressed up in his quilted Carhartts, bunny boots, glove liners, hat, and balaclava, standing among power tools and beekeeping supplies, hoping that the other guy didn't want a Zoom visual feed as they discussed business services.  Then “Mr. Popsicle” would return to the cabin, for some hot tea and a sweet treat.        

My husband and I are not big on decorating for holidays, but this year I was encouraged by a crafty friend who gave me a bag full of buttons, bows, and Christmas lights and told me to “DO SOMETHING” with them.  My arts and crafts instincts are sadly lacking, but I dutifully looked through Pinterest photos.

My evaluation:  pictures on Pinterest look A LOT BETTER than my lame attempts.  I decorated a “Charlie Brown tree” of spruce bows I wired together and decorated with Betty's lights, bows, and bullet casings (hey – they are shiny), topped with a flimsy branch star.  Then I assembled a tree like decoration of mason jar rings, green flannel, and buttons.  Frankly, everything looked like something my children made in elementary school.  They wouldn't win any blue ribbons, but I must admit that I really enjoyed the process, and the results made me chuckle.  That was not a bad outcome during a month when our world sorely needed laughter.

Next crafts project:  I am thinking of making earrings from the bullet casings, maybe with washers for some dingle-dangle appeal.  Stay tuned.  

Alaska November: Snow, Food, Predators

November temperatures varied from the +30s F to below 0 F. During surprisingly warm periods in the upper 20's F, a 25 hour storm dropped 3 feet of snow over the weekend of Nov 7/8, and then again over Thanksgiving weekend. (So I made a big batch of snow ice cream each time) Because of the soft, light snow, we lumbered about in the yard in awkward snowshoes almost all month, patting out paths, shoveling out doorways at the coop, outhouse, and greenhouse, and digging out the burn barrel.

Snow shoes don't skate along the top of soft snow. They spread out one's weight so a large area is pressed down, after which you lift the snowshoe up over the next two feet of snow and press down again. This is tiring – like climbing a stairmaster in a gym. I feel the exercise at the top insides of my thighs. A clear work out! We widened each path four snowshoes wide to provide a firm surface for the snowmachines, but the temperatures remained so high (20s and even 30s) that the upper layers never hardened up for our (admittedly old and heavy) machines. After they got stuck twice, we ignored them and continued to strap on the snowshoes for the rest of the month. (“Why fight a...xxx?” I think about this every season.) 

The mostly windless and temperature stable days and nights retained the pretty white layer above black branches and angled tree trunks. I find this so beautiful. But this also meant that the roofs retained their load of snow, too. Fortunately, half of our buildings have 45 degree roofs (1”:1” rise), so they shed snow easily. But the 30-33 degree roofs (1”:3” rise) needed some early attention to slough off the heavy load of precipitation. I found a website that helps one calculate the increasing weights of fresh, settled, wet snow and ice over a given expanse of roof. Yikes! A two foot snow dump can weigh 15,000 lbs on a 20 x 12 roof! I pity the families and work crews attending to the surprisingly shallow roofs I spy throughout this part of Alaska. Sure, flatter is cheaper to build, but... 20 years of maintenance?

Silence and Solitude at a Remote Home

Contemplating kairns on bench at lake

After living in the silence and solitude of our pretty little cabin in the woods, I find trips to towns something of an assault on my senses, so I routinely go four months without seeing anyone other than my husband, and sometimes six months without a flight to a town.  Bryan says that at home, if we want to hear a human noise, we have to make it.  We enjoy the quiet – no hum of electric appliances, no whiz of passing cars or blaring horns.  Instead, we hear the wind in the trees, the slap of water on the dock, the effortful wing work of a raven overhead. 

Some people find this quietude deafening.  One friend looked forward to “getting away” to a remote cabin but discovered that she needed to turn on her radio the whole time to fill the void.  A few of our visitors have talked constantly – perhaps they found the silence unnerving.

One disconcerting aspect of silence is the company of one's own thoughts.  Maybe we rely on various forms of entertainment to keep them at bay.  The first summer I painted and stained all of our buildings, I found my mind drifting toward topics of regret and recrimination.  At first, I, too, pulled out a DVD player and watched old Perry Mason episodes, in which, of course, all muddled conflicts are wrapped up neatly in 50 minutes.  Toward the end of that summer, it occurred to me that perhaps I SHOULD contemplate those issues that were bothering me, to resolve them in some way, rather than evade them.  I apologized to three people and, voila!, I learned that my misdoings bothered me more than the other people.  This allowed me to go a bit easier on myself and to avoid some mistakes of he past.  Silence helped me do this. 

Solitude puts the onus of entertainment on you.  Obviously, this can involve passive forms, like listening to music or playing games or watching TV.  My general impression is that the rural people I know tend to have more creative, productive, and outdoor hobbies than many of my urban acquaintances.  Military spouses are also exemplars of  embracing “making do” when alone for extended periods.  

Silent winter walk

Now that so many people are isolated, and social interactions are so limited, I can understand why extroverts, in particular, may find the constraints so emotionally challenging.  I have become more introverted, myself, since living in the boonies.  Some of the experiences and insights I have gained from silence and solitude are almost spiritual, especially those gained from a walk in the woods, or a kayak around the lake watching ducks teaching their fledglings how to fly and dive. These are not pleasures I sought much in the city, but ones I savor now.  I hope that readers find some peace and contentment, or creativity and productivity, from intentional choices they can make in their isolation, too.   

Freeze Up at an Alaska Cabin

Freeze up is a brief and dramatic transition.

The first snow always makes me feel like we have suddenly switched from a color movie with sound to a silent black and white one.  The only colors remaining in view are the yellow needles of the tamarack (larch) trees and a few glistening red cranberries dangling from denuded branches.  The only sounds are of wind,  snow sloughing off our steep roofs and lake water freezing. 

First snow in the front yard

The first sunny day after any snowfall is gorgeous, with the diamond-like glints of snow crystals, reflected light, and the complicated geometry of sun and shadow formed by trees and the lumpy terrain of snow coated ground cover.

October 25 featured a full day and night of wet, soggy snow, in mid-30s F temperatures, coating the yard and topping the stumps with 6 inches.  Early the next morning, Bryan heard branches cracking and snapping under the weight.