It's Been a (Persistently) Cold Winter

At right, Mac the Dog models the very latest in frost bite protection

Not that I am whingeing or anything, but this winter has been cold in a stubborn sort of way. Since the Great Winter Rain of Thanksgiving, we have had very few days above - 15 , and quite a number of days in the -30 to -40 range.

I knew it was a bad time to go Outside and leave the house and critters, but circumstances were such that I had little choice (no, this was not a trip to white beaches and turquoise seas). Despite the best and valiant efforts of the neighbors who tend to my place when I travel, I returned to frozen drains and frozen dogs.

The drains, although somewhat expensive to thaw, were at least remedied within 24 hours, and I now have a fully functioning system, albeit with a cracked 2-inch pipe from washing machine to main drain, but since I live in a post 'n pad simple box - with all of its pipes insulated and accessible under the house - this is a relatively inexpensive summertime fix. In the meantime, grey water leaks out when I do laundry and harmlessly forms a glacier on the gravel pad.

The frost-bitten dog is proving to be more challenging, however. In 20+ years of having sled and other assorted dogs, all of whom have lived outside when I travel, I never had a dog get frost bite, not even on their most sensitive naughty bits.

Until now. Inexplicably, upon arrival home, I found Mac the Dog with an alarming frost- bitten patch the size of a quarter on his side: fur gone, big necrotic cratered patch. And it's been growing daily.

Well, the obvious solution is to keep the dog indoors, and yes, he is indoors as much as possible, but this is a dog that drinks water by the buckets, and needs complete (and I mean complete) privacy in order to do his business. In his simple doggie brain, this translates into: "I can barely pee on a leash, and I most certainly cannot poop on a leash." Without the freedom to bury himself deep in the woods and deep in the snow, he really cant do anything at all. He also requires at least five to ten minutes of twirling in circles before he can settle down to toilet.

Ten to 15 minutes at minus 30, with no fur over a frost-bitten patch equals more dead skin and no healing. After two days of trying to protect it with salve and such like, the quarter has grown to a fifty-cent piece. And the side of a dog is proving to be a tricky place to affix any type of bandage, medication or cold protection.

The polar-fleece dog coat? Ripped off in minutes and left in the snow somewhere.

The vet-wrap rib-cage vest over salve, cotton balls, gauze and adhesive tape? Scratched off within 30 seconds, and half ingested, before I had even returned the vet items to their box.

So, this morning, I devised the frost-bite singlet, as modeled above. First, three layers of polar fleece protecting the frost bite - affixed with duct tape to the surrounding fur - then, the T-shirt, to prevent scratching and chewing, and to provide additional warmth. I am hoping the legs of the T-shirt, and the snug fit by additional application of duct tape will prevent him from wiggling out of the garment.

He's on a half-hour trial out in the dog pen now - as the coming week has meetings and other work-related obligations that will require him to be outside (although in a dog house with lots of straw) for some portion of the day. But in the wee hours of the morning I awake with visions of out-of-control lesions eating into the ribcage of Mac the Dog.

Who would have thought that a completely frozen drain system would prove to be easier to fix than a frost-bitten dog? Yet another thing learned*.

* along with the valuable arctic plumbing fact that while a steady drip through water pipes prevents freeze-up, a steady trickle, as from a toilet tank that was stealthily running, into a drain creates freeze-up. Lo, for the price of a $2o replacement toilet valve, there went $400 in thawing costs.

Yet More Reasons Why I Live Here

and not there...

1) The dog races. It's hard to find a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than munching ham sandwiches watching the sprint races on a warm, sunny blue-sky day. And where else but Alaska would sled dogs be treated as centerfolds? This morning found my SO pouring over the FDNM's cheesecake photo-spread of Hans Gatt's winning Yukon Quest team as if it were a Playboy magazine he had surreptitiously hidden beneath the bed.

2) Taco King. Yes, my blogmate has already noted this authentic (and authentically cheap) Mexican restaurant. It deserves mention again. Because after a day at the dog races, I then went on to savor a south-of-the-border dinner with a friend, prior to going to...

3) Fairbanks Shakespeare Theater's production of the The Tempest. Not only it is a treat to be able to go to productions in the Empress Theater (one of the very few old buildings still left in strip mall Squarebanks), but it is not hyperbole to say that FST is rare treasure, not just here, but anywhere in the US. Their sets are always minimal, clever and evocative, and their stagings (with one notable exception, at least for me, of Richard the III set unfortunately in Nazi Germany) witty, bright and polished. This run is no exception. Ariel deserves special mention for his fantastic body paint and green contact lenses, as does the incorporation of the band Good Daze to provide both the mood setting for Prospera's island, and some lively musical interludes throughout the play.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Its February, when the light returns, and it is not such a stretch to envision green trees, gardens and near 24-hour daylight. Everything looks good in February - except inside the house, where once again the returning sun illuminates the incredible scrim of wood ash, dog fur, and other detritus I have been nesting in these past four months. But even so, dogs, the Bard and a darn good adobada - how can it be anything but all good?

'Tis the Season

For decorating the tree. For me, Christmas starts just about a week before Thanksgiving. I don't subscribe to the Walmart way of looking at the world, which is to say that Christmas stuff should go on display after the goblins of Halloween have been put away. Well, I do confess to lighting my Xmas lights around my front door and along the driveway right about the end of October, but that is mostly due to practicality...a way to see the moose waiting in ambush when I schlep home in the dark at 4:00 PM.

But, even without the Big Box store way of things, I have always felt that living in Fairbanks is pretty much like being in Narnia under the White Witch- where it was always winter - except that we do have Christmas. And we have a lot of Christmas.

Although for quite a number of years I put up a classic Alaska tree (all the better to showcase one's ornaments) - of late I have been buying the excellent (and relatively cheap) trees at Alaska Feed. Except that this source of cheap trees is no longer known to just a few, and if one wants to get a half-way decent tree, one has to rush off and select it sometime in the first week of December. This year, I did wait til three days ago, but the trees were getting picked over.

So, perforce, my tree is up and in the process of being decorated. It's an exhausting task - necessitating many pauses and rests in the easy chair by the fire - with a cup of real* eggnog at my elbow and three snoring dogs at my feet.

Come to think of it, maybe its all the eggnog refreshment stops that are exhausting, not so much the stringing of the lights and the placement of the Christmas pickle (no explanation of this needed for readers of German heritage), the sparkly Christmas stars, the cat-in-the-jack box, or, my most treasured ornament: the squid ball (a clear glass ball filled with squid beaks sold in Point Aransas as a fund raiser for the local sea life lab).

Every year, I sort of drag my feet initially about getting a tree, but each time after I haul out the Christmas totes and unpack the many boxes of ornaments collected over the years (each with its own story) its worth it. And taking the time to load the tree so full of these memories that it practically tips over (it doesn't help that I never seem to be able to get the darn thing straight in the tree strand), is wholly enjoyable. It never fails but that I come across a little chotka that jiggles loose some long-forgotten episode of a Christmas past.

Some seasoned readers of this blog may remember the Tannenbomb of last year - where my tree croaked brown dead less than a week after purchase. Ah, this year I babied this conifer. Whisked it out of the store and into the pre-heated, toasty cab of my truck. Practically constructed a hermetically sealed corridor from truck to front door so there never was opportunity for freezing shock. Sawed off a hefty chunk of its stump, and plumped it into molasses-laden water. This time, I did it up right, and I am pleased to report the tree is drinking thirstily - having sucked up a gallon of water since last night.

Now, its back to work. Time to hang the stuffed cow-in-a-parka ornament....

*not the sugar-ladened stuff sold in the dairy section of Freddie's. Nope, this one is one dozen raw eggs, a pound of powdered sugar, two quarts of heavy cream and at least a fifth of whiskey or rum to "cook" those eggs, or more like, the imbiber.

Seasonality

Forswearing originality and a bit belatedly, here is the list of things that I am thankful for:

That...

...this Thanksgiving, I have a friend who is going to professional cooking school, and wanted, nay, begged, to do all the cooking for our communal dinner (dessert pictured at right).

...I didn't lose my dog on Thanksgiving Day. Oh, he went missing for a couple of hours - spooked by a dog team on the Goldstream trails - but he found his way home.

... of the 22 dogs I have had over the last 22 years, I have lost none of them, thus being spared the horror of repeatedly calling the pound, putting up signs, combing the trails, roads and woods, and facing many months of wondering what really happened to my dog.

... despite all my crazy athletic antics over the past 20 years, my knees, hips and ankles are still intact and functioning, and I can ski jor with my dogs.

...I have yet to burn down my house, despite a few close calls with creosote and,

....I have a huge stack of dry spruce to keep the chill at bay.

...they invented LED Christmas lights.

...I live in the Goldstream Valley and can ski whenever I want among trees covered in snow or hoar frost, on afternoons that are every shade of the palest yellow, orange and rose.

...I have not-so-new extended family that has not only taken me in, but has given me incentive to learn their language. Ma'shii cho, shalak naii.

...Apple makes a "shuffle".

...I have the opportunity to experience aspects of Interior Alaska that many often do not, even if at times it has been chaotic, unsettling and, a few times, downright scary.

...'Dweller passed on the wireless headphones - those might just have saved a budding relationship.

...I have a job, home and lifestyle that has turned out to be exactly what fits me.

...I live in Fairbanks, because even though it gets a lot of shit for being the stripmall arm pit of Alaska, it has everything I need, and it is only one small airplane hop or trail ride away from hundreds of miles of remote country.

...I have a core of solid friends who are particularly adept (especially Dweller) at pulling my fat out of the fire. Thereby enabling me to do some crazy-ass things.

....twenty years ago, I accepted an old Singer sewing machine from a very elderly lady; this sewing machine is still working for me, so that I can quilt, sew beaver hats, and otherwise keep myself occupied through long, dark winters, and finally,

that health insurance pays for happy lights, thereby enabling me to really enjoy this time of year without fatal leg chewing.

There's a New Rooster on the Block

And no, I don't mean Parnell.

Lil Roo- a reasonably handsome red and white aracuna rooster - arrived this morning. He replaces Mr. Roo, who died from too much of the good life back in early June.

After living rooster-less for nearly two months, I discovered that a) hens are boring and b) I really missed the sound of a rooster - especially greeting me when I staggered home from a pub crawl somewhere south of midnight. No idea if my neighbors missed the 3 AM rooster calls, but since at least two of them have chickens, including several roosters, I didn't bother to poll the neighborhood on whether or not I should get a replacement.

So today Lil Roo arrived in a pet carrier - donated by an acquaintance who discovered that 50% of her sexed layers are roosters, not hens. For those new to chix tech-speak, "sexed" birds means those that supposedly had their gender determined prior to sale as layers, not, as one might suppose, birds with high sex drives.

Despite the prospect of being the only rooster in a yard of seven hens, Lil Roo had to be shaken out of his pet carrier. He is a young rooster and sized up next to the more robust older hens, quite small. He quickly realized this. Trotting around on the very tips of his toes, he began stretching his neck up and out as far as he could in a vain attempt to enlarge and enhance his size (a trait that male chickens share with their human counterparts).

Ah, but to no avail. Lil Roo failed to impress. The red hens moved in to make sure it was their pecking order that got established. After the dust from the chicken scrum settled, Lil Roo's feathers were decidedly ruffled, and quite a few of them pulled.

Attila the Hen moves in for the kill

Now, several hours later, the chicken cacophony has died down. A few minutes ago I went out to make sure it wasn't because Lil Roo was battered, bleeding and about to be dispatched by his harem. I found him quietly pecking in the small corner of the coop allowed him by the ladies, who were contentedly back to scratching for bugs and dust bathing. But Lil Roo is still on the short leash - every time he gets an amorous glint in his eye and makes overtures to one of the hens, he is severely trounced and forced back into his corner. What's a horny roo to do?

Not Quite the Information Super Highway

It's more like a trail

Dateline: In the vil

Pictured at right is the internet connection that I am currently working on. One might call it a little bit ghetto – but the .22 rifle tucked in the corner makes it indisputably vil.

As noted a number of blogs ago, quite a bit of my absence from FBH these past months has been because of writer’s block, but a lot of it is due to having found a second home somewhere north of the ‘Banks in the vil.

There is always plenty to do – swimming in the river, cutting meat, baking up treats with kids, keeping enough food on the table for an extended family – especially those who are working on building a home nearby – and generally just keeping on top of all the tasks that are part of daily life. Not much different than life as a cabin dweller – houses are small, most heat with wood, and there is no indoor plumbing in any private home. For a shower and the luxury of a flush toilet, a hike to the washeteria is required (except when the hot water boiler fails – which has been a reoccurring event of late).

One significant difference, though, is that when you realize (as I did last night) that you forgot to include a power strip, internet and printer cables with the new computer just ordered, well, there is no jumping in the truck and driving over to Computer Cache to pick up the missing parts. Nope, what one does instead is to call a buddy in town – in this case my blog mate – and ask for these things to be put on the plane. Of course, this requires friends willing to run around town doing errands and taking purchases out to East Ramp. ‘Dweller not only was willing to do the errands, she went to no less than three places to complete the shopping list – an effort that earns her at least two peartinis.

Alas – although she made freight before the mid-afternoon cut off for the afternoon flight – an excess of bypass, freight and passengers meant my little box of computer necessaries got bumped. They might make the morning flight, or they might not*. That too is the way of things out here. In the meantime, instead of spending the evening setting up a new computer at Tribal, I guess I’ll go swimming or take the kids for a bike ride. Bummer.

*After nearly a year of shipping groceries and freight out to friends in the vil, I have discovered that marking all boxes “CHILL” gets them out on the very next flight, because the bush taxi companies have limited refrigerated storage. I neglected to pass on this tip to ‘Dweller.

Cardboard Condo

But what will happen when the rain comes?

A few weekends back, on one of the first truly warm and sunny ones of this spring, I happened to swing by our local thrift store the dumpsters across from the University. There was a full scrum in progress as people rooted and poked and ferreted out treasures from the bins, which were piled sky high with a winter's worth of refuse and goodies.

My first hint that I should not have left the digital camera home came when I approached the transfer station on University Avenue only to find traffic slowed to a crawl in the right hand lane as cars and trucks queued to make the turn. Within, all was madness - dumpster divers mobbing loaded trucks even before their wheels ceased turning. Heads were bobbing around deep within the towering piles of junk, and clothes, cushions, and what all were being flung with wild abandon at the recycle platform (I use the word recycle loosely, because more and more the platform is just a plein air trash heap).

In the midst of all this chaos, parked over to the side, was the Cardboard Condo - the latest creation of one of the transfer station's more colorful, persistent and creative characters. The Prophet, as some call him, was comfortably sitting under an awning of cardboard, much as one often sees retirees resting in the shade of their scroll-out awning at the end of a long day of navigating the 35-foot land yacht.

This was the first time I encountered the Prophet's latest construction project. Since then, I have watched with interest, as no doubt many Squarebanksans have, as the Cardboard Condo develops into the Cardboard Train: a series of shopping carts filled with cardboard boxes and pieces that he wheels up and down University Avenue. The train appears to be getting longer and longer, but its longevity, either as art or as shelter, is tied to the current dry spell we are enjoying.

Certainly more durable was the willow wicket period he went through several years back. Then he fashioned a quite elaborate bent willow receptacle that he put on wheels and used to collect the odd bits and pieces with which he furnishes his digs in the woods behind the transfer station.

My personal moniker for him is Burlap Man, born of a time, oh, about 10 years ago, when he wore a burlap serape-like affair and burlap boots - even in the coldest weather. He is given to Biblical utterances and rantings - and can become agitated and aggressive if one approaches a dumpster that he has claimed as his own.

As in any place, there are untold stories in the woods of Fairbanks. Once upon a time a young child froze to death in a tent. It wasn't madness nor poverty that drove the parents to live in a tent on the edge of the city within a stone's throw of shelter, food and warmth. It was arrogance, hubris and self-aggrandizement - the conviction of a particular man that he had the skills and wherewithal to live off the land in a canvas tent through a harsh Fairbanks winter.

The irony is that, of course, now he does, and has been doing so for well over a decade.

Flic's Essential List for 45 Below

The speckled dog contemplates re-enacting the Cremation of Sam McGee

Temperatures below -35 tend to bring out the hoarder in me. This past week, when I have been forced out of my wood-stove heated lair, I scurry around in the ice fog gathering up more and more of what I perceive I might need, should the News Minus’ predictions of -50and -60 materialize*. This includes, but is not limited to the following:

(1) brand new truck battery – since the old one has proven itself unreliable at temps below -35. Note that the new battery is in the hall, not in the truck, waiting for a) the time when the truck does not start, such as the night before, or b) the weather warms up to a more suitable temperature, oh say, -20, for working outdoors.

(10+) bottles of HEET, power-steering fluid, motor oil and antifreeze – purchased every time I am at Fred’s or an auto parts store as I recently was (see above), because I cant ever remember if I have enough at home. Indeed, I do, enough to supply a pit at NASCAR.

(4) pounds of assorted coffee beans – because there is nothing worse than being stuck at home with a dead truck, extreme temperatures, and no coffee.

(4)(minimum) bottles of wine, (1) bottle rum and (1) bottle whisky – because there is nothing worse than being stuck at home with a dead truck, extreme temperatures, and no booze (do any of us wonder why Alaska has one of the highest alcoholism rates in the nation??)

(12+)(at least) unread books covering a vast range of subjects – from the profane to the just outright silly.

(5) old jigsaw puzzles smuggled from my parents’ home last trip East – to while away the long, cold nights.

(2) heat lamp bulbs for the chicken coop. No matter how much I enjoy my chickens, they are not moving into the house should their heat lamp bulb burn out, and they wont survive in their coop without one in these temperatures.

(1) TV series (third season of Deadwood in this case), borrowed from my blogmate.

(4) old, really trite movies that are held in reserve for the night when I just cant read, blog, or puzzle any longer.

(1) fully charged calling card – to natter daily with various village friends who are battened down under even colder temperatures. Listening to people in places where the last plane was days ago, the snow machines wont start, and fuel oil is starting to look scarce is a darn good way to feel like it’s pretty warm and safe here in town.

(3) 50# bags of dog food, (1) reserve jar of tropical fish food, (1) reserve 40# bag of black oil sunflower seed, (1) reserve 50# bag of chix scratch, and (3) suet blocks for birds – wouldn’t want any of the critters to go hungry.

It also goes without saying that the freezer is stuffed with food – moose, fish, vegetables, and berries; spring would long be here before provisions ran low. Last night I concocted a wicked good batch of chowder – made with garden potatoes, razor clams from CabinDweller and her S.O. and dry fish from my upriver friends. A fine wine from the Wine of the Month club at Goldstream General Store (the result of Christmas largesse from blogmate and S.O.) completed the feed.

You know, without sufficient exercise turtles will expand to fill and indeed overflow their shells. I know this because I spent 20 years of my life with a red-eared turtle in the family, and Big Turtle, as she was affectionately called, lived high on the hog dining on bluefish, sea bass and trout. Despite daily crawling around on the floor, her appetites outpaced her exercise regime. As a result, she could not pull head, tail and all four legs into her shell at once - a serious survival disadvantage for a turtle.

I am hoping, and trying through daily dog walks in the Valley, that I do not do the same and expand to fill my house before this cold snap ends.

*it should be noted that so far the coldest I have had at my place is -45, but my friend in NP has had -55, to say nothing of the essentially 60 below weather my village friends upriver are enjoying enduring.

Tannenbum

T'is nearly the night before Christmas and my tree is dead.

Not slightly brittle, dry and a bit musty, but dead.

Dead: ornaments dragging on the floor and falling off branches which droop and sag. Dead: the softly shurring tinkling, winkling noise as needles shower gently to the floor every time we so much as breathe on it. Dead: its unhealthy and somber shade of brown.

At least I am supposing that is its current color, as I refuse to turn up the lights to really inspect it. Suffice that the Ghost of Tree Past haunts me every time I look over to its corner - I don't need further proof of its deadness exposed in the harsh glare of a full-spectrum light.

This is the second year in a row that my Christmas tree is thoroughly dead even before Christmas Eve.

One might suppose that maybe I went to a bum tannenbaum purveyor, or that I bought it too early. Or put it too close to the woodstove. All excellent questions. And the answer to every one of those is nope, nope, and nope.

Because my blogmate and her S.O. got a tree from the very same place, nearly ten days earlier than mine and have parked theirs right in front of their monitor, and across the room from their wood stove, and, you guessed it, their tree is alive, luscious and vibrantly green.

"Perhaps you did not love it enough", opines CabinDweller's S.O. I laugh manically and throw an ornament (that has rolled off a limp limb) at her head. Didn't love it enough???

Man, I babied that sucker. I didn't make the mistake I did last year - which was to shove it under the dog box and give it a chilly, if not downright freezing, ride home.

Nope, not this time, not this tree. I left the truck engine running while I went and made my choice, so the cab was a cozy 60 degrees or so. It rode up front swathed in its plastic tree bag like some petty Jersey don that ran afoul of Little Nicky Scarfo. Once home, I whisked it into the house, cut several inches off its stump and plopped it immediately into the tree stand filled with fresh water laced with "Keeps-It-Green" (extends tree life! retards needle drop! exclaims the label).

I knew I was in trouble when even before I had finished decorating the tree, the tree had stopped drinking water (retards needle drop! reduces fire hazard!). And I was right. Twelve days later it is deader than dead.

Now I have had real "real" trees (as opposed to the Charlie Brown Alaska trees we all love for their ease in decoration) for several years. Sometimes I have bought them in the first week of December, and one memorable year, I left the tree up til Valentine's Day (though that was due to sloth rather than an especially vigorous tree). Never have I had trees die within two weeks of purchase, except for the past two years.

Which is when I started using "Keeps-it-Green".....hmmmmm.

Goodbye, CabinDwelling

Goodbye, Outhouse

Running water. Pooping indoors. A toilet seat that is not blue foam. A counter top that is not a 30 year-old piece of plywood.

No more stringing Christmas tree lights from the dwelling to the outhouse so visitors can find the facilities in dark. (They're like runway lights for the intoxicated.)

It has taken almost a month to work on the older, strangely built house and accomplish the move, hence the near absence of updating this thing. A month and unanticipated truck loads of crap. How did I go from a 15 box limit of personal goods a few years ago to eleventy five truck loads?

But... here it is. My last post as an official CabinDwelling-type person. Flic and I have discussed this, and it is kind of prompting a blogger identity crisis on my part. Hot showers at home, laundry at home, indoor toilet ... I mean, how posh can a CabinDweller get?

Above right: No more bargaining over who has the chore of knocking down the inevitable poop cone.

No more hauling water from the water wagon in the five gallon blue jugs. We've given most of them to a friend who just moved in to a dry cabin nearby.

The old Goldstream Valley house we purchased has a well with pretty good water, so we're not going to be forced to haul water in one of those 300 gallon plastic tanks you see in the back of folk's pickup trucks. Speaking of hauling water ...

Goodbye Subaru
To amplify this whole identity crisis, my Soob up and died last week. Francesca the aged Loyale, rounding the 235,000 mile mark, went to the great lot in the sky. It's like she knew that we were moving to an actual house, even if it's an old outside-Fairbanks-city-limits-we-don't-need-no-stinking-building-codes house, and she said, "Nope. That's not a driveway I care to sit in."

Goodbye, Random Animal Parts Wired to Trees
Yes, this is a strange one. At the final cabin, we kept finding antlers (caribou, moose) wired to trees. Antlers as decor are one thing - in small doses - but on several occasions, I'd be out walking on the property quite a ways from any building or structure and there would be a set of antlers wired to a tree. And I'd think, "What the hell? Where's the context?"

So far, I haven't found a single set of antlers in the new yard.

Of course, who can forget the whole animal head in tree thing? Our site got more traffic over the animal head thing than from the recent boost from She Who I Am Mighty Tired of Talking About.

Goodbye, slop bucket. No more near misses on the over flow thing; and since this was a chore I agreed to take on as mine in order to convince the S.O. to live in a dry cabin, well, yay. No more lugging the thing out away from the house, trying very hard not to splash on myself.

Goodbye, carpenter ants. Have fun consuming that cabin from the ground up. I'm not going to miss the annual weeklong population explosion, hatching, or whatever the hell it was that manifested as an ant party inside the house.

So, what to do? What moniker, what nom de plume, shall I adopt? Ex-CabinDweller doesn't have a good ring to it.

Not that we've gone totally yuppie or anything. We're still down in the bottom of the Goldstream Valley, plumbing the depths of thermometer, or thermometers, (since they all read different anyway.) But I confess, there is a small part of me that is going to miss the dry cabin lifestyle; it was a good, cheap way to live. Although, the simple life is anything but simple. It's a whole lot more work.

Musings on the CabinDwelling Lifestyle, Part XI: The Slop Bucket

This will come as no shock to my Alaskan readers, particularly those residing in the 99709, that I live in a cabin without running water. No sewer, no water lines, no flush toilet, no fire hydrants ... bupkus.

It's not a big deal, really, because a great number of us residing outside of the city limits of Squarebanks are in this situation. And out in the Bush, plenty of people don't have running water still - and it is not by choice.

The lack of big city water and affiliated technologies is solved in a couple of ways:

• Outhouse
• Wet wipes or Purel
  
• The slop bucket

For those of you unfortunate-enough-to-live-elsewhere, the slop bucket sits under your kitchen sink. Plumbing from the sink, not being connnected to anything, drains into a handy five-gallon bucket. (Dumping a small amount of bleach in it when empty helps keep, uh, gunk from growing in it too badly.) When it gets near full, one awkwardly carries it outside trying not to spill any on oneself, to a location removed from the house and dumps it.

It's not a bad bit of exercise.

This is my chore in our household, because I promised to eventually move to a place with running water if we could just live cheap for a few years in a cabin. As further incentive, I agreed that dumping the slop bucket was my chore.

Emphasis on near full. One of the more unpleasant household disasters is to forget to check the bucket before dumping one's dish water. Suddenly you're mopping up some nasty stuff that's been in the bucket for days getting gunky. It's been over two year since I forgot to check the bucket first. I truly thought I'd get out of the CabinDwelling lifestyle without it ever happening again.

Until this weekend.

Above right: The 'gray water system'. A slop bucket disaster, after I'd freaked out and mopped up the 'gray water'.

No Longer a Grasshopper

That's right, I'm a freaking ant.

No more of that waiting until late fall to sort the firewood situation. Nope. At right, the woodpile as it now sits in the top of the driveway.

Flic was giving me some guff about how I'd been neglecting my blogular duties of late. In my defense, I just spent a week hauling firewood.

Tell you what though - we are living in what those who like to use the ten cent words might call a "paradigm shift." Fuel oil is crazy expensive. The majority of homes built here in the last three decades were built on the premise of forever cheap oil and the "we don't need no stinking building codes" mentality.

Suddenly, our decades held notions about fuel efficiency, conservation and house size are being challenged by the realities of our pocketbooks. And it is even shaking out in the wood market. Suddenly, the prospect of a wood stove is looking mighty attractive to people. Rod's Saw Shop was so busy with would-be woodcutters that when I called about buying a refurbished saw, I was told they hadn't had time to refurbish any; they had 300 saws they were working on for people. Independent operators are now selling wood for over $300 a cord. I was paying $175 last winter.

It is having ramifications in the housing market. Despite what we're being told in the media about the housing market, I'm seeing a lot of homes for sale out here in the Valley. And as I've houseshopped this year, I've been keeping in mind that the bigger the house, the more I have to spend to heat it. I've also not bothered with far out places I might have considered when gas was $1.30 (only a few years ago.)

Gone Fishing

The usual excuse: I've been busy.

Lately, it was dipnetting, that most Squarebanksian of activities. The fishing had slowed down, but following the simple advice of "keep your net in the water" helps.

It wears out a 38 year-old body, though. I swear, an enterprising massage therapist could set up a table right by the landing site or in the campground, and make a killing. I'd have paid for one and gladly.

Somewhere on the Lower Yukon

No plumbing? No problem. Here's an example of the great ingenuity that abounds in bush Alaska: a five gallon bucket, some copper tubing and a Coleman burner hooked up to a conventionally plumbed bathtub and shower. Just read the instructions first, and mind the shower curtain!

Another Cabin Dwelling Mystery Explained

OK - so to be precise, I don't live in a cabin anymore - because nearly eight years ago I moved on up and got plumbing (although I didn't move on up to the hills, so I still freeze my bottom off down here in the Valley). Still, in important ways I remain closer to cabin-dwelling than not - one only has to tour my little enclave of Alaska-Appalachia to figure that out - from the press plate-roofed woodshed, to the chicken coop made of dumpster-salvaged wood and scraps.

But whether in cabin or plumbed "bungalow" (a quaint term for the rectangular T-11 box I currently reside in), I have always gardened - and I have always had a lot of containers planted with flowers and veggies. And every single year, they have been dug in by little red rats (aka red squirrels). At first, I assumed they were squirreling stuff away in the planters - so I looked for little caches of sunflower seeds.

None to be found.

Then I assumed they were eating the plant roots - nope, generally what plants didn't get dug out by the little bastards survived. Finally last week, I found out what it is red rats are after in the planters ... salt.

Salt from the liquid fertilizers, salts from the water. As I sat on my deck reading, I watched this particular fellow go from container to container, digging below the soil line and licking (and at times chewing) at the salt line left from years of watering and fertilizing plants. It didn't miss a one, and at every one, it dug in to get to the evaporation line.

Easy enough to fix in coming summers. And no, I don't use .22. They just come back. I tend to prevention rather than intervention. Besides flushing containers to wash out the salts is better for the plants anyway.

And now for something completely different...

...Chickens


Never doubt that I have some things to add to the latest offering from CabinDweller. Kudos to same for the top drawer and simple web research (nothing legislative staffers or gung ho enviros couldn't have done as well when preparing for and lobbying for this energy rebate deal) that points out some significant omissions in the current proffer of solutions to the great crude energy juggernaut* that is about to roll over us all.

But sometimes it is simply necessary to ignore these shibboleths and just take time to, well, take in chickens.


Chicken-watching: its the new Lexapro for this blogger.


Frequently, the end of the work day finds me sitting in my chicken coop with a glass of wine (or coffee if the evening's plans call for energetic efforts in garden, chopping wood, or socializing), watching chickens.


There is something supremely peaceful, nay zen-like, in observing these birds go about their avian business. There is the highly energetic scratching and shuffling, looking for bugs, grubs and other tasty treats. There is the favored dust pit in coop corner where the hens battle it out for the chance to get down and dirty, and then there is just the simple contemplation of a species born bipedal with no additional means to obtain food except by pecking. Of course, this is true of all birds, but somehow it has intrigued me most with chickens; perhaps this is the outcome of just too much wine in the coop.

Chickens do not deserve their reputation as being very stupid. That is true of the "bred to be dead" Cornish Cross meat birds, who waddle around like mini T-Rexs on steroids, but not true of layers, or your basic barn yard run chicken. Chickens have personalities and they are quite engaging. Then again, perhaps this particular paen to chickens could also be attributed to too much wine, then and now.

Regardless, I do think that sitting with the chickens (not to be confused with running with the bulls or dancing with the wolves) beats Lexapro hands down. Its cheaper, there are no side effects, and no withdrawal. Best of all, there's fresh eggs, and a ready and willing recycle team for weeds, veggies past their prime, stale bread and other leftovers.

* coined by the Brits during their empiric occupation of India; derived from the Sanskrit Jagannatha , one of the many names of Krishna, and referencing the multi-ton chariots carrying statues of Krishna that at times crushed festival participants.

It's a Dog's Life

Or, why I live in Alaska

This is Miss H----. Not being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, she is eager to be sitting the truck (because even in her sled dog brain, truck = go somewhere fun), but she is also very worried, because trucks are scary things, especially truck roofs - she is quite certain they can fall in and crush a dog.

It being a fine Interior mid-summer morning, the brown dogs (2) and I headed to our favorite hiking spot just a bit before noon. Despite late night plans to get an early start, that, also in typical midsummer Alaskan fashion didn't happen either, or maybe it is just that when you have sun nearly 24, getting going at just about noon is an early start in the AM.

Anyhoos, here is why I live in Alaska.

Just 3o miles north of town, and one can head out and overlook hills that go on and on and on. And if one squinches up their eyes, one could almost mistake these for the Blue Ridge mountains of Appalachia - and think this must of been sorta what it was like, oh, a hundred years ago before exurbs piled upon suburbs; before cloverleaves and interstates, before big box junk and Burger Kings and mountaintop removal.

Today's count of critters in a four-hour span? Three dogs (two of them mine), five other humans, six if you count me, and one bear. Oh, the bear wasn't in his tracks when I came across them, but they were spanking fresh tracks. If there was one thing useful I learned from my stint with he-who-shall-not-be-named, it was how to track animals and how to tell just how fresh the tracks are. These were fresh. Very fresh. Dogs and I decided to choose an alternate route - better for us, better for bear.

Brown dogs and I were happily home and drinking coffee and chewing flip chips (I leave the asute reader to sort out who was doing what) when the afternoon thunder storms hit - safely off the ridgelines. Excellent timing too, as the home-made rainwater tank (salvaged wood from the dumpster, lined with a blue tarp - natch - holds 300 gallons) had been drained dry this AM doing minimal sustenance watering of the garden (at $0.10/gallon, tanked water is not watering the garden this year!). Now garden is good and soaked, rain tank is filled, and brown dogs are happy and tired.

Only bummer in the day so far was discovery of the aftermath of a fish fight in the fish tank; one was down and rudderless with its tail bitten off... so it was the green net of death for that one.

Why, Why, Why?????

Or...it seemed like a great idea at the time

Write it off to too many Margaritas or something - but about a month and a half ago I got a bug up my nether regions to paint my kitchen, dining room and hall (which all share a contiguous ceiling -thus requiring an all-or-nothing approach). I was tired of staring at the soot-stained walls (thanks to a wood stove that tends to back draft in moderately cold temperatures) and thought new wall colors in shades of bright orange, yellow, and sun-drenched golden browns (a shade alluringly called Spanish Hollow) would be the perfect offset to next year's guaranteed winter blahs.

It wouldn't be nothing but a thang, I figured, after looking at how much of my wall space was taken up by doors, windows, built-in book case, stove, fridge and kitchen cabinets.

Unfortunately, I neglected to look upwards. Because, after I spent all day yesterday washing the bleeding walls and ceiling, and all day today painting just the ceiling, it finally dawned on me that this "no big thang" amounted to painting half of my house's ceiling space. Have I ever mentioned that washing/painting ceilings is the job I hate most in the world?

A job that I confidently stupidly predicted I could do comfortably in four days - from break down, through prep, to putting back all my stuff in my cheerful new space - is now looking lucky to be done in eight days.

But the beauty of living alone is that frankly, I got no one but myself to blame for this particular cluster/F, because of course now that the house is torn apart, the ceiling is half painted, and over a hundred dollars worth of paint purchased, I am on a one-way ticket in this little junket.

Shoot me if I ever again think that just brightening up the walls would be a weekend job!

Coping With Another Seasonal DisorderOtherwise Known as Summer

I have full onset MAD, aka 'manic affective disorder.'

Who, really, other than that dedicated Ish (or maybe your weather isn't as nice down there yet) can stand to sit indoors and write about life right now? There are potatos to be got in the ground, old decrepit garden beds which-were-probably-grow-ops-back-in-the-day that need to be turned into growable space, chicken coops to be constructed, crap to haul out of the yard... oh, and there is drinking beer in the sun. One can't remain dedicated to the "Honey Do" list without a bit of reward.

I'm here, I'm running around like a maniac trying to get projects done... just like most of Squarebanks. There wasn't even room to park your pickup by the reuse area at the local transfer station Sunday afternoon.

Break Up - When Supposedly Tough Alaskans Finally Crack

As a group, Fairbanksans are among those Alaskans most likely to go on at length about how badass we are. It's the whole we-are-so-tough-for-living-in-the-40-below thing, a more potent form of the "We live in Alaska, therefore we are special" mindset."

Does any other state navel gaze so much? Do Coloradans refer to themselves constantly? Do all their online arguments end up with at least one participant referring to what Real Ohioans do or don't do?

There is a cottage industry of sorts based solely on how 'special' we are for our wilderburbian lifestyle - ranging from moose poop jewelry to the cartloads of books written by Alaskans about Alaskan living. Big Oil plays to it in the propaganda they produce to keep us in check. (And can you believe they're trottting out that b.s. argument that drilling the Refuge will lower the price at the gas pump?)

I will not deny engaging in such ... typically Alaskan behavior at times myself. Many a post has been devoted to chronicling the unique aspects of the cabindwelling life, i.e. the poopsicle, blue tarps and the challenges of a serious red squirrel infestation.

(To which: see the photo above. The location of my woodpile became a pond about two weeks ago. Upon my return to Squarebanks, I had the pleasure of wading out into the pond to retrieve what wood was left to chuck it out to higher, drier ground.) That'll teach me to select a site for the woodpile based on its proximity to the driveway as a pickup truck full of spruce idles there.

Whoops, disgressing.

But there is an equal and opposite reaction, my friends, come break up time. Suddenly, a community all to happy to point to the thermometer and pose for a television film crew in January is getting all unhinged about the late, and somewhat coolish spring. It's like all weather fortitude falls apart as soon as we can see summer within spitting distance.

Speaking of which, I saw my first mosquito a few nights ago. Such is my devotion to the authorial enterprise that I would have sat there and let it bite me to record the event, but sadly, the camera was nowhere within reach.

It's good to be back.

For Tomorrow: What the Hell is the Lege thinking?