Our so-called conversion to an off-the-gird lifestyle began in August, 2003, shortly after we arrived in Palmer. Pete drove up to a metal gate that was hanging off its hinges, hopped out of the car, and opened it. I sat quietly, and replaced my preconceived mental image with the real thing. I'd envisioned a single cabin and clean environs. I saw four cabins and rotting wood piles.
We walked up the driveway, entered the side door of the main cabin, and stepped into the kitchen. There was a sink full of dirty dishes, and in the middle of the floor, a leaky chainsaw and climbing ropes. We peered into the living room and bed, books, and a pair of dirty jeans.
"We can't stay, much less live here!" Pete said.
"Sure we can! All the place needs is a bit of cleaning up!" I responded.
"A bit?"
"You're the one who's opposed to our spending our winter in our bus," I said.
"There has to be something else around," Pete said.
"Well, here we'll have a roof over our heads!" I said.
We both grew quiet because we'd reached the end of the proverbial road, the proverb in question being this: Many travel the Alaska Highway three times. They come here, leave, and then return for good. We were in this number. We'd left Alaska in 1989, went Outside, got overeducated, and were now returning for good. In 2003, shortly after Pete accepted a teaching job at nearby Mat Su College, we sold our place in Butte, Montana. We then tied our six kayaks, a canoe, and five bicycles to an old school bus, fastened our refurbished canvas canoe on top of pickup truck, and hitched the truck to the bus. My romantic ideas of traveling by bus were soon squelched. The vehicle ran on expensive regular as opposed to (then) cheap diesel fuel, so side trips were out. And the interior of The Tin Can was too hot during the day and too cold at night. We'd neglected to put screens on the windows, so we were eaten alive by mosquitoes. It took us 14 days to get to the Mat Su Valley. Once here, we parked the bus in the yard of one of Pete's colleagues, and clandestine camped off a seldom-traveled back road.
Our frayed tempers were further frayed by weather and circumstance. We'd pulled into Palmer at the onset of the Alaska Monsoon season. The edges of the landscape were softened by a rainy haze and the once firm ground squished underfoot. In no time at all, our tent interior took on the odors of sodden dogs, dirty socks, and unwashed down sleeping bags. This, what I called quasi car camping, bore no relationship to bicycle camping, which I'd done for years. Pete said that if I wanted, I could set up our bivvy tent, and move in there. But, he added, I'd have to make room for Rainbow, our younger, more squirrelly dog.
"I'll take Bootleg."
"Like hell you will," he said.
There we were. Arguing about an idea that was utter nonsense.
We'd also arrived during an unforeseen housing boom, which had sent home costs skyrocketing. And because the supply of renters exceeded number of places available, landlords were being selective. We soon learned that the rental ads which read "No Dogs" meant "No Dogs." We tried to downplay the fact that 17-year-old Bootleg was incontinent, and that two- year-old Rainbow was a barker, but to no avail. The first two property owners we called hung up on us, and the third asked for a $2,000 security deposit.
We hung out in Pete's office because it was warm, dry and had a phone. But by day five of our house-hunting endeavors, we were disconsolate. A colleague of Pete's took pity on us, and suggested that we drive over to Vagabond Blues (the local coffee shop) and talk with Laura, the counter clerk. This was good advice. She gave us a name and a phone number. Pete talked for a long time with Mike Cull, and when he hung up, a smile of relief crossed his face. Mike, Pete said, had said that his place was for rent. He was busy, but could get together with us in a few day's time. In the meantime, we could stay in the second cabin.
Pete said that the junk-filled 16 x 24 log room would do for the interim, but not for the long haul. Cleaning and refurbishing the inside of four unfinished cabins would takeway more time and money that we had on hand. Plus, the place was off-the-grid, meaning that that there was no conventional electrical source. I was, by now, leaning towards staying. The task of making the place habitable was daunting. At the same time, it was a worthy challenge. I liked doing hard, physical labor, and there was plenty of this to be had. Wood needed to be piled up and stacked, garbage needed to be hauled out, and cedar fence rails needed to be put back in place. I also believed that Mike would eventually compensate for this, by making us an offer that we could not refuse.
We cleared a space for ourselves, and resumed house hunting. A week later, Mike appeared, wearing a well-worn wool vest, and a two-sizes-too-small Vietnam Veterans ball cap. I liked him. His handshake was firm and his smile warm. He said that the place had previously been owned by a fellow who wanted to start a lama trekking business, hence the well-worn cedar fencing, cabins, and outbuildings. A divorce had forced him to sell and he subsequently moved elsewhere.
Mike, who once himself was a member of the Bagwan community--a large 1980's communal sect that for a time was located in Antelope, Oregon--bought the 2.5 acre parcel, thinking that it would eventually serve as a meeting place for like-minded individuals. He remained for a year and (among other things) had a bathroom with running water installed in the kitchen, in hopes that his soon-to-be bride Wanda would move in with him. She refused, telling him that she (who was in her late 50s) was "too old to rough it." Mike then moved with her to Wasilla, where they were renting a place.
Mike needed a reliable renter to tend to the place over the winter months. (His current renter, who was a bush pilot, was having marital problems.) We committed to staying for the winter, and Mike agreed that this money would go towards the purchase price, should he decide to sell and we decide to buy.
Pete had, early on, said that there was one drawback to our buying the place and it was that our sole electric source would be a gas generator, which he called "an expensive, inefficient and noisy form of power." I looked at him askance because I'd never before thought about where electricity came from. In fact, what I knew about such things could be summarized like this: a company sent power to one's place via wires on poles. You flipped on a switch and lights went on. You flipped the same switch off, and the lights went off. Your power went out if say, there was an ice storm or you failed to pay your bill.
Pete, who has always been more astute about such matters than I, said that if we were to continue to live at the place I'd named Squalor Holler, we'd have to get on-the-grid. So he contacted The Matanuska Electric Company (MEA) and learned that grant money was available: in order to have power put in, we'd have to get a majority vote from our neighbors. Pete went door-to-door, and took an informal poll. The vote was five dwellings for power, and six against. The question then surfaced again; should we, or should we not resume looking for another place to live? After considerable discussion, we agreed to wait until spring, and see if prices dropped. In the meantime, we'd pretend that we were Forest Service cabin caretakers, and that our job was to make sure the place was tended to over the winter.
We had to be vigilant about keeping the old, leaky woodstove going during our first winter, so as to keep the pipes from freezing. We also had to shovel our driveway by hand because there were no plow guys in our area. And our main cabin, which was partially insulated, was cold and drafty. But the hiking and cross-country skiing were to our liking. We could be out for an entire day and never see a single soul. And we were surrounded by the Chugach and Talkeetna Ranges. We also lived on the edge of the Matanuska Moose Range, which meant that on any given day, moose would wander up onto our property. One morning I heard noise outside, and opened the kitchen door. I'd expected to see Jehovah Witnesses, but instead was treated to the sight of a mother moose and her two calves.
Come spring, Mike, who by now had decided to sell and wanted us to buy, made us what Pete called a "fair" offer. He sweetened the deal by turning us on to his "energy guru" friend George Menard. George and Pete, hit it off immediately, and began talking about inverters, batteries, and solar panels. By the time George left, Pete was convinced that we could have an alternative energy system that would provide our south facing house with enough energy to provide lighting, and run our two lap top computers.
We bought the place, figuring that if we made improvements, we could sell it. Over the next two years, Pete purchased and put up four solar panels and a wind turbine, which made us less reliant on the gas generator. I had to part with the high energy appliances, the blow dryer hair, microwave, and toaster included, but my giving up these luxury items in exchange for a cleaner and overall, less costly power source was a small price to pay.
We began to see the importance of doing more with less. When we went places, we carpooled. We acquired three Icelandic horses, three chickens, and three goats, and began composting their manure. Composting lead to organic gardening. And Pete took up beekeeping. At some point we stopped talking about moving elsewhere. But I knew that we were committed to staying put when six months ago Pete did a second informal poll. This time, he hoped to convince our neighbors to remain off-the-grid. I was relieved to hear that the majority said that they would not want to have it any other way.