Food, Water, Stove, Pot, Cup,
Space-blanket, Blanket, Tarp,
Rope, Machete, Satphone, GPS,
Compass, Batteries, Jumpsuit,
Life-vest, Kayak, Foot-pumps,
Anchor, Oars, Paddle, Waders.
— Reminder to myself, taped to my cabin door
FEBRUARY 6, 2001
I left Puerto Natales yesterday at dawn on the Chilean Navy patrol boat, La Yagan. Looking back as we headed down the channel, I watched the town diminish into the landscape and realized that, if all goes well, it would be the last time I’d see a town for a year. The early sun glinted off the windows and tin roofs and shaped the still-snowy peaks beyond. A rainbow arced from land to sea, and I decided to take it as a sign of good things to come. Why not? Then I turned to look northwest toward the remote wilderness where I planned to build a camp and live alone for the coming year. There I saw storm skies and wind-chopped water.
It took us ten hours to travel the hundred miles to the tip of the peninsula where the navy had decided they would leave me. While part of the crew began to ferry my supplies to shore in their small Zodiac, the others lowered my own inflatable to the rough water. Once in the boat, slapped by wind-driven 40°F spray, I noticed the navy guys were all wearing survival suits — and I wasn’t. Hmm. Not bringing one seems like a fairly important oversight in my planning. I can probably keep dry in chest waders and raincoat, but if I capsize or go over the side, I’ll be in serious trouble.
The weather continued to deteriorate, and the captain decided it was too dangerous there for his crew and me in our small boats. He moved to calmer water to drop the rest of my supplies on this tiny island where I now sit writing. Unloading took a long time. The navy guys piled my gear high on the rocks, but knowing they were in a hurry I told them to just leave the lumber I’d brought to build a cabin on the beach. It was a tough grunt wrestling the two heavy crates I’d shipped from Vancouver and the 55-gallon drums of gasoline from the inflatables up into the bushes. We finally had all the supplies ashore as dark was falling. They immediately left to seek safe haven from the building storm.
The lower beach in this small cove is covered with rocks; further up, there is grass, dense brush, and trees. Working in the dark with my headlamp for light, I laid down a semilevel platform of 2×4s and plywood in the grassy area, set up my tent on the plywood, and then watched the tide come in . . . and in.
I’d assumed the grass would be above the high-tide line, but I was wrong. It turned out to be sea grass, and at I AM water started splashing against the underside of the platform. I jammed more 2×4s under there to raise the plywood, while cursing at and pleading with the tide to stop. Uh-huh. I finally moved my sleeping gear out of the tent and up to higher ground. By this time all the lumber was floating in a foot of water, so I waded over to heave it up into the bushes before it could drift away.
Just when it seemed the tide was at its peak, the wind picked up again and drove the sea back up to the bottom of the plywood. Exhausted, cold, hungry, and discouraged, I crouched in the dark on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, pounded by wind-driven rain and far from other people. I felt pretty damned forlorn and started to wonder what I’m doing here. Crying in his cardboard box inside a plastic garbage bag, the kitten didn’t seem too happy either. But the tide finally started to ebb and I put the gear back in the tent and slept. My body hurt everywhere.
It’s been raining and blowing on and off all day today, but here in the lee of the trees only the strongest gusts can get to me — unless the wind shifts from northwest to southwest, then I’m screwed. The navy captain told me that seldom happens. I’ve moved the tent platform higher up the beach and raised it two feet above the ground. I’m glad to have stayed dry so far, but I’m a bit worried about all my food on the beach where we started to unload a mile from here. I hope they set everything above high tide, but until the wind drops I have no way to check.
FEBRUARY 7, 2001
Still blowing, and it may be tough to move my gear the fourteen miles south to the small bay where I want to go. I’m waiting for the wind to die and feeling frustrated even though it’s very beautiful here. Across the channel to the west I can see more than thirty waterfalls cascading down the rock cliffs of Staines Peninsula to the sea. In the other direction, when the clouds lift, the snowy peaks and glaciers of the southern Andes loom.
FEBRUARY 8, 2001
Maybe the weather is never calm here; this may be as good as it gets. The wind has eased, but it’s still raining. A while ago I went to check my food and the propane tanks. Everything is still there, but the tanks had floated around and the food bags had been washed by the sea. I hope the waterproofing held, but won’t know until I get a cabin built and have a dry place to unpack. I brought back the first-aid kit and a jar of peanut butter and moved everything else to higher ground.
FEBRUARY 9, 2001
I’m training the kitten to go outside to crap. A tent full of gear with sleeping pad and blankets on the floor is not the best place for the task. I’ve never had trouble with such training before, probably because I’ve had cats only in the tropics where it was warm and I cut a hole in the door for them to freely come and go. Here I need to unzip the tent flap to let the kitten in or out. He must have dumped a load in here half a dozen times, and cat shit is not my favorite smell. We have a new rule: “No! Outside.” Then a small swat and a heave out of the tent. Also a thump to stay away from the camp stove when it’s lit and away from my food. I get particularly upset when he claws at the tent’s mosquito net to come back in. But for the most part I’m glad he ’s here with me. He sleeps curled up behind my knees or snuggled into my belly.
I’m trying to just be here rather than feeling prevented from going to the bay where I want to be. Waiting is part of the process, too. I don’t control the world. During preparations for this journey, over and over I had to let go of my plans and let things happen as they did. It’s the same here.
FEBRUARY 10, 2001
This is summer? I’ve been here five days and have seen the sun for a total of maybe twenty minutes. There ’s almost constant wind now, but supposedly there won’t be in winter. Four dolphins (Chilean Dolphin or Peale ’s Dolphin) swam around in front of camp for a couple of hours this morning. I went out on the rocks to call and sing to them. In the afternoon, I took the boat five miles down the inlet toward the bay, then turned back because of rough water. It settled at times, but never really flattened out. I’m anxious to get going, but don’t want to take foolish chances.
The GPS unit worked great the other day: located satellites with no problem, gave readings for location, direction of travel, and speed. Today it won’t work at all. Damn! It’s supposed to be waterproof but I suspect there ’s a bad seal. Luckily I brought a spare, but now that this one ’s broken, I have only one that works and no backup. I plan to make some long trips through this archipelago of islands, and if the remaining GPS dies while I’m out there somewhere, I could easily not find my way back to camp.
I’m keeping the down sleeping bag wrapped in plastic until the cabin is built, because if it gets damp it will lose its insulating capacity and be difficult to dry. Meanwhile I’m sleeping in long underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt, wool vest, Holofil vest, hooded sweatshirt, and a snowsuit. On top of that I have two blankets. I barely kept warm last night with the tent sealed up. The weather’s so bitter raw and damp now in summer, what will winter be like? It’s not easy here, that’s for sure.
FEBRUARY 11, 2001
Today I stayed late in the tent — a small bubble of dry in the wet hugeness that surrounds me. I feel like an alien in this watery world. All the creatures here, except kitten and me, seem to be water beings. This morning, vague tendrils of terror crept through me. Alone. A tiny solitary speck completely vulnerable in the face of an infinite universe intent on my annihilation. Eventually I’ll cease to exist, and death is possible at any moment — right now. Yet I know from other solitary retreats that there ’s light and peace beneath the terror.
In Buddhism, one takes refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. Who is my guide and inspiration; who do I lean on that has wandered this pathless land before? Yes, the Buddha. What is my Dharma, my source of knowledge and understanding? There are many: Buddhist teachings, the wisdom of Deneal Amos, the I Ching, Chuang Tsu, the Bible, and, most importantly, my own actual experience. Who is my Sangha, my community of fellow journeyers? Patti is primary now. I wonder if she always will be. Susan, not so much in terms of wisdom as for her love and respect. My supervisor and committee members, David, Lee, and Carl; my family; and my friends Pille, Diane, Madeleine, and Wil. There are many.
I’ve been here a week. In planning, I somehow never thought I might be stuck like this. I wonder if I really am. If I take half loads, I can probably make it to the bay without problem. It’s the trip back against the wind, chop, and spray that concerns me. I’m trying to be patient and wait for the weather to improve, but in the back of my mind I question whether it ever will. The wind might quit for a day or two, but I’ll need a week to move all my gear. Strange that I never asked anyone which month I should arrive. I just assumed that summer here, as on the coast of British Columbia, would be best. But this weather is exactly what I’d hoped to avoid until I get a cabin built. Always risky to extrapolate from what you do know to what you don’t.
A while ago I tried the GPS again and it worked for a few seconds. I was pretty sure it had moisture inside, so — against all the warranty disclaimer warnings — I pried off the water seal, opened it up, and dried it over the stove for a few minutes. Closed and tried it. It worked! This is excellent news. From now on I’ll keep it in a plastic bag when I use it in the rain.
NO ENTRY FOR FEBRUARY 12, 2001
FEBRUARY 13, 2001
Yesterday I did chores. I mixed two-cycle oil with gas for the chain saw and got it running, then assembled the mounting bracket for the backup outboard motor. I hope I never need it, but if the 15 hp outboard fails, the 4 hp should let me limp back to camp. I also cleaned up the tent and readjusted the tarps I’ve stretched over an A-frame structure I built to protect the plywood platform, tent, and area in front of tent where I usually cook and eat. And I put together a survival pack of food and other gear to take when I go out on the water in case it gets too rough to return before nightfall.
I’m more and more restless to move down to the bay so I can start building a cabin. I feel very vulnerable here, and on the map the bay looks much more protected from the wind. It’s also more hidden and remote. Even though unlikely, it is possible that fishermen might come by here occasionally. German told me no one ever goes down there.
It’s slightly warmer today and the black flies came out for the first time. Hungry buggers. Guess there’s not much flesh around. Two dolphins came by for a while. Kitten is not crapping in the tent any longer, but he did get into my cheese. I discover I’m pretty impatient and violent in my castigation: not just “No!” but also a shake or a swat and at times a toss through the air. I’ve decided not to hit him anymore, or at least pause so the cuff is not in anger.
I’ve started to read about working with anxiety in Seeking the Heart of Wisdom, a book of Buddhist meditation instruction by Joseph Goldstein and Jack Kornfield. It presents a clear, pragmatic approach that I hope will help defuse my fear. But I sense that Buddhist philosophy and meditation will not be my only path here.
FEBRUARY 14, 2001
Finally a calm morning with some blue sky. I went to the bay but didn’t find a good building site. A couple of places are well protected from the wind, but the hillside there is steep and wet with thick brush. On my way back, I stopped to pick up the food and one propane tank from the beach where the navy dropped them. This way I’ll be ready tomorrow morning to head straight to the bay. But as I returned to this tiny island, I realized I can just stay here if I want to. There’s no stream, but it’s rained every day since I arrived. I plan to collect rainwater from the roof of the cabin, so water shouldn’t be a problem. There are some standing dead trees in the forest nearby, and if they’re not rotten I could use them for firewood. I think the solar panels would work ok except in June and July when the sun might dip behind the trees.
The view here is spectacular, and it feels much more open and wild than down at the bay. Another lovely thing is that dolphins come by here, and I’m not sure I’d see them in the bay. The biggest plus in staying here is that I wouldn’t need to move all my gear. The biggest potential problem is southwest wind; this spot isn’t at all protected from that direction. I don’t know what to do, sleep on it I guess.
FEBRUARY 15, 2001
I set the clock for 7 AM. Rain. Went out to check the ocean. Not bad, but not calm enough that I wanted to chance a trip to the bay with a loaded boat. I felt very reluctant to start moving all this stuff with a small boat and unpredictable wind. I imagined having half my gear at the bay and the weather turning foul for weeks or getting stuck down there with tent and sleeping bag still here. None of my imaginings were encouraging.
I guess I’m letting go of another preconceived ideal and accepting a gift from life. This is where the navy dropped me, and it’s probably the best all-around spot I’ve seen. Maybe I’ve just stopped to really look at what I already have instead of reaching for an imagined something better. I consulted the I Ching to ask if I should stay here. The hexagram was “Wanderer” changing to “Retreat,” which seems to support my decision to stay.
I unloaded the boat, carried everything up onto the rocks, and covered the food sacks with a tarp. Checked a few and none seem to be wet inside. That’s very good news. Back in Punta Arenas a local outdoor guide told me that considering the weather here, he strongly recommended I put all my food in watertight barrels. I couldn’t afford barrels, but I took his advice to heart and sealed everything in a second layer of plastic and nylon sacks. Very glad I did. Water has seeped through the rice sacks’ outer layers. If I hadn’t double-wrapped them, I’d have a serious problem with wet, probably moldy, rice.
One of the things I learned during logistic preparations was to really listen to other people ’s advice rather than pretend to already know everything. Many people have been generous with information and support, and listening to their suggestions has saved me a lot of grief.
As I unloaded the boat I felt light and happy for the first time since arriving here. It’s been only ten days but feels like much longer. I’ve been stewing and fretting about the need to build a cabin while it’s still summer, but now that I can start anytime, I’m in no hurry. Typical.
FEBRUARY 16, 2001
It was a wild night with wind and rain roaring in the trees. Sometimes, like a huge presence, the wind swooped howling down, and even here in this protected nook the tarps over the tent cracked and shuddered under the assault. I’m glad I took time yesterday to tie things down more securely. As far as I can tell, everything is still dry.
The cat and I were restless in the storm. He was in and out of the tent at least six times before I finally made him settle down. If he was in, I worried he might have to crap and let him out. If he was out and wanted in, he ’d scratch the mosquito net, and that got me to open the flap immediately. I ate instant chicken soup for dinner, which gave me the runs. Since it was so nasty outside, I stayed in and used my improvised chamber pot. One hasn’t lived until one has shit in a plastic bag. Very nice. Today I get to wash it out. Generally, I’ve been relieving myself on the beach at low tide. All in all, since I’m alone here, I think that’s the best way to go until I dig a latrine among the trees. I haven’t shaved since I arrived, haven’t bathed, and have brushed my teeth only four or five times. Haven’t felt the need. Just the way it is.
Yesterday I hooked up the two-burner stove to the large propane tank I fetched from where the navy dropped it off. I want to save the small butane stove and canisters to use if I go exploring. But heading out in this climate for overnight trips in a small open boat isn’t especially inviting. Finding campsites will be difficult, since every place is rough and brushy or below the high-tide line. One option is to rig up a removable plastic shelter and sleep in the boat.
I knew I’d forget to bring at least one important item, and I have: plastic to line the inside of the cabin walls to create a dead-air space for insulation. On my building materials list, the inner-wall plastic was on the same line as the plastic for the outer walls. When I decided to use tarp instead of plastic on the outside, I crossed off all the plastic wall material without really thinking. Happily, I brought plenty of other plastic and will be able to make do.
I think I’ll miss the rich variety of animals I’d likely see on the coast of Canada. There are only a few species of land mammals in southern Chile: huemul (a kind of deer), guanaco (llama), puma (cougar), foxes, and some small rodents. This tiny island probably has none at all. I won’t, however, miss bears. One of the benefits of coming here rather than staying in Canada is that I won’t have to build a bearproof food-storage cache or worry that bears will break into the cabin, tracking the smell of the fish I hope to catch.
I do have frogs, though — very vocal neighbors that produce an amazing repertoire of sounds. They’re not like any frogs I’ve heard before. Their calls are a sort of cross between frog and cricket: an almost metallic or electronic clicking. And loud! Each seems to find a place to celebrate in a pool under a rock that acts as an echo chamber. I can’t tell how many there are. Sometimes it seems like only one, and sometimes they sound like a New Age jazz ensemble riffing off each other. One will wind up with a series of clicks and trills while the others lie back and either keep silent or hold a sort of steady rhythm. Then another will join the lead and they intertwine their songs together. It’s quite wonderful.
They’re only about an inch in length. Elegant with yellow belly, spotted back, and long delicate toes. I saw one of them yesterday and stomped it. Not really, but when I was feeling anxious about moving my stuff to the bay and thought they might be some kind of insect keeping me awake half the night in a roaring storm, I admit that fantasies of extermination did cross my mind. They certainly like the rain. Just chirrup away when it starts coming down. I hope the cat doesn’t eat them.
But now the rain has stopped for a while and there is another lovely rainbow. It’s interesting to try to pin down the borders of the colors. High clouds are pierced by sunbeams that stroke the flanks of the hills and the face of the sea. I’ve never tracked these moving shafts of light before; have seen them only as a brief touch, rather than a lingering caress. But now I watch as they form and shift and fade again.
For visuals this place is a delight. Across the eastern channel, rock-rugged hills, and beyond, snow and glaciered mountains with sharp almost-needle peaks. A light breeze from the west brings the roar of waterfalls from rock walls a mile and a half away. All afternoon, the sea has been flat calm, and if I’d seen this two days ago, I might now be moving my stuff to the bay. But I’ve begun to build here and am glad to be getting on with it.
Work went well today. It rained hard all morning, and I lounged. When the rain eased about 1 PM, I decided to get started. I hacked an opening in the brush and laid out the cabin. The soil is soggy, with the water table only five inches below the surface, so as foundation posts I’m using the still-rooted stumps of four small trees I cut down. I’ll also set in eleven more four-byfour-inch posts. One corner of the cabin will rest on the rock ridge that juts into the sea to form one side of this small cove. Another corner will rest on a length of log I laid in the mud. The rain is raining again, the cat just woke up, and the frog is calling. Coffee water is hot, and I’m away.
FEBRUARY 17, 2001
Perhaps I’ll use the odd extra nail in the cabin. My intention has been to resist my usual tendency to overbuild, since I must take the cabin apart again in a year. But holy mother, what a storm last night. It made the one during the night before seem moderate. About 2 AM all hell broke loose. Rain hammered down, driven by the steadily roaring wind, and occasionally a ferocious blast would come shrieking over the trees behind me to batter the tent and tarp.
At one point I stuck my head out to check on things with the flashlight and saw the cat sitting out there in the pitch black night apparently enjoying it all. I suppose I’d have been doing the same if I hadn’t been anxious that this shelter would come down or the anchor drag and the boat wash onto the rocks. The boat is still tied out in the cove between the anchor and a tree on shore because I haven’t yet cleared enough rocks from the beach to pull it up above high tide. It was getting blown around but seemed ok, so I lay there in the tent and tried to copy the cat’s example with both the inner and outer storms.
A whole universe of noise. Groans and roars, whistles and shrieks from the wind, surf pounding on the rocks and rain on the tarps. Occasionally, in a lull, I could hear a frog chirruping. Brave heart. I wonder if in his pool beneath the rock he was aware of the raging storm and of how his voice vanished in the tumult.
Finally about 3:30 AM the storm eased and I looked out again. The A-frame had shifted and the tarps were flapping loosely. I stripped naked but for rubber boots and raincoat and went out to adjust the A-frame, retie the tarps with stronger cord, and tighten the boat tether. As soon as the cat saw there was work to do, he came in the tent and went to sleep.
I can’t remember ever being in such a gale. Thankfully everything weathered it without damage, but I won’t skimp on nails in building the cabin. And it’s protected here. What must it have been like out in the open? The other day at low tide I walked the beach to the exposed point a hundred yards from here and was almost blown over, even though there was just a breeze here around the tent. I can’t imagine being on the water during last night’s storm.
Now it’s pissing down again. This weather makes Vancouver’s climate seem stable, even benign. It’s rained every day since I arrived. There’s been almost continuous cloud cover with only two or three hours of partially blue sky in almost two weeks. But the quality and density of the clouds vary.
Sixty feet from the tent, my boat and motors float in the cove. I probably wouldn’t be here without them or the stove, chain saw, solar panels, flashlight, etc. They are useful things that improve my life. But when I consider what their manufacture and maintenance implies — the resources consumed, the pollution produced, the living conditions for the factory workers who built them — I feel conflicted.
Perhaps the “tragedy of the commons” is our culture ’s overriding metaphor. We realize that collectively we are seriously damaging the Earth, but we feel the technology and consumer goods that are the main sources of environmental degradation improve our individual lives. Few of us want to personally do without these things, so we look for alternative solutions: recycle, down with big business, the illusion of sustainable development, and so on. But finally, I think we will need to renounce some of our material goods. Am I willing? This trip makes me wonder. How high-tech I’ve become compared to other wilderness retreats.
FEBRUARY 18, 2001
I hurt. My hands are cut, swollen, and sore, thumbs starting to split at the tips, which is always a problem in the wet and cold. My shoulders and arms ache, and phantom pains stab my amputated foot. I think I’m also getting absentminded. Outside the tent, I always wear neoprene chest waders or rubber boots with felt liners (actually only one felt liner, since my prosthetic foot doesn’t get cold). The other day, I hopped from the tent platform into the ever-present puddle, only to realize I’d put on the liner but forgotten the boots. Amazing how quick a felt liner sucks up water and how long it’s taken to dry. Today, when I put on the right boot it felt very loose. Oh ...I’d forgotten to put on the leg and was slipping the boot onto my stump. I’d better take care; can’t afford to space-out here.
It’s been a beautiful day. Just a sprinkle of rain, and sometimes sunny with interesting clouds and a breeze. It was even warm enough to work in a T-shirt for a while. I’m more and more glad I was dropped off here and have decided to stay. What a gift. The mountains today are glorious. A day for photographs. The black flies were a bother, but it’s cool now at 9 PM and they have gone.
Many of the birds here are unafraid and the cat is stalking them. When I see him I yell, “No!” He ’s learned what that means. Hunting is his natural urge, but the birds are too lovely to let him kill. A small one with spiky topknot (Thorn-tailed Rayadito) landed on a branch above my head today. I held up a finger and he flew to it and paused there for a moment before continuing on his way. [Note: I didn’t take a field guide for South American birds with me, so I made up names that described the birds I didn’t recognize. In the journal I’ve retained these names, but also note the common names that I later determined from my notes, photographs, and memory. There were many birds I couldn’t identify.]
Yesterday was a heavy workday. I dug holes eighteen inches down to bedrock for the foundation posts. The holes immediately filled with water and sloppy mud, so I carried bag after bag of rocks from the beach to pack around the posts. There will be about two feet of vertical space beneath most of the cabin, enough to store firewood — if I ever get any. I also nailed in the first of three horizontal support beams. Each will be twenty feet long and supported by five posts.
Construction went well with no major screwups or frustrations. I worked steadily but didn’t rush. Of course I made a bunch of wrong-length cuts, but I just fixed them and didn’t get angry with myself. It always startles me when I measure several times and then cut a board too short anyway. When I realize the mistake and try to figure out how I made it, I can’t. It’s very odd.
A layer of plastic over the beams will act as a vapor barrier and create dead airspace for insulation. On top of the plastic I’ll nail the two-by-fourinch floor joists and then the plywood floor. This should be the heaviest part of the job. Attaching the wall tarps will be frustrating — especially if there’s wind — but not as physically difficult. Everything I’m doing out here I’ve done before at some time in my life. I like this kind of living and I’m fairly good at it.
Today, I set in the rest of the posts and the other two beams, then carried up and cut to length the nine floor joists. The lumber is wet and heavy since it was sawn green just before I bought it and has been soaking in the rain since then. I’d hoped to get the joists in place today, and would have except . . .
I discovered another major flaw in my preparations. I’d planned to staple the tarp to the outside and the plastic to the inside of the cabin’s wooden frame. It was a good plan. I brought a staple gun and two thousand staples for the job. Unfortunately, although I paid close attention to the length of the staples when I bought them, I never thought to check their width; none of the staples fit the gun. This is unbelievable. Arghhh! In the hectic rush to get everything ready in Vancouver, I just looked at the box, recognized the color, and grabbed them. Luckily I brought a pound of one-inch nails and can use those, but it will take a lot longer to hang the tarp and plastic.
FEBRUARY 19, 2001
Tired, sore, not in the mood to write. It’s been a long day with intermittent rain all afternoon. At least the black flies went away, and I filled the containers with water running off the tarp above the tent. I’ll put rice on for dinner when I finish my coffee. I have only one cup for measuring. I make lousy rice. Seems like a simple task, but somehow I always do it wrong. Cat on knee, frogs under the rock carrying on.
The mountains were super clear today and I put the binoculars on them. Finger glaciers from the Southern Patagonian Ice Field pour down between beautiful needle spires and jagged rock ridges. I haven’t yet seen full sun on them or the flash of blue fire from the glaciers’ compression ice. Perhaps one day I’ll climb the hills that lie between here and the mountains. I won’t chance a fall, though. Alone, the stakes are too high.
FEBRUARY 20, 2001
I feel quite vulnerable so near the sea. I’m often hammered by rain beating on the tarp overhead, but last night the new-moon storm tide pushed waves much further up under the tent than I’d expected. The platform was still eighteen inches above the highest surges, but when I shined the flashlight out into the dark to check the boat all I could see was moving water in every direction. I’ll be glad to move into the cabin, which is twelve feet back and three feet higher than here. Hopefully using pressboard under tarp for the roof will muffle the sound of the rain.
I’m whipped again. The floor joists and floor, corner studs, and top plates that will support the roof are all in. Usually plywood walls stiffen a building, but since I’m making the walls from tarp, I’ve had to reinforce the corners with triangular bracing. They required a lot of angle cutting, which was a slow process. I built a stepladder to reach the roof from inside the cabin and a taller straight ladder for working from the outside. I also secured everything against the high water the tide tables predict for tonight.
There was another lovely rainbow today — with all the rain, they’re common here — and through the mist and clouds I could sense, if not clearly see, the faint presence of distant hills. Ah, now I remember. This is so beautiful and I’m incredibly lucky to be here. Next time in the city, when I’m bemoaning not having a career or money, I must remember this.
FEBRUARY 21, 2001
Today has been cold with spitting rain. The wind must be from the northeast since the eastern channel, semiprotected when the predominant northwest wind is blowing, has been rough all day. There’s another small island just behind this one, and beyond that, half a mile further north, a much larger and higher island that offers some protection to this area. In front of me, about two hundred yards south, is a third small island, and closer in, off to the southwest, a tiny islet. These two small islands and the islet form a semiprotected basin in front of my camp that is usually fairly calm. Large diving ducks and cormorants (Olivaceous Cormorant) fish there, and I plan to join them soon.
My boat is tied in a tiny cove about sixty feet wide and, depending on the tide, between six and fifty feet from the beach to its mouth. At low tide the boat nearly touches the bottom, and I can easily wade to it. At high tide it floats in about five or six feet of water, and to use it, I loosen the rope tied to shore and pull the boat across to the rocks on the far side of the cove. It works ok, but I want to figure out something that feels more secure and is easier to use.
I didn’t start work on the cabin until after 1 PM today, but I’m usually a slow starter, and since it stays light until almost 10, I can work until after 8. Things are moving along with all the studs up and the three window holes framed. I hadn’t intended to build so skookum, but every time I think, “That’s good enough,” my memory of the fierce storm the other night urges me to drive in another nail or two.
The sea is calming now, tide coming in; the rain has stopped and I can see hills but not mountains. And me? Feeling ok, I guess. There’s too much physical stuff going on to pay much attention to anything else. It’s been cold all day, but I’ve stayed dry. Or maybe I’m getting used to being damp. I hang sweaty socks and T-shirts on a line in the tent. Clothes that have gotten rain-wet hang under the tarp outside. Considering there ’s no good way to dry clothes, I’m doing well. I had instant soup with macaroni, and rice with soy sauce, for dinner, plus a piece of chocolate for dessert. Yum. The kitten is cuddled in my lap. Things could be a whole lot worse.
FEBRUARY 22, 2001
A night of rain, pain, and dreams, and now another cold, grey, windy morning. What have I done coming here? I sense that something deep within called me to such an extreme locale. My notion was to spend a lot of time outside — to become woven into the natural world again. But I imagine this climate will push me inward: into the cabin and into myself.
FEBRUARY 23, 2001
I’m building the cabin to be ten feet deep by sixteen feet wide, five of which is a porch that’s open on the southeast side facing the sea and mountains. The front and rear walls are seven and a half and five feet high respectively. The sidewalls slant down from front to back. I planned and built the cabin frame to fit the tarps I bought in Vancouver. The tarps are white and will allow light to pass, so the cabin should be fairly bright even on cloudy days in winter. That and cost are the main reasons I’m not using plywood for the walls.
Today when I measured and cut the tarps to cover the walls, I discovered that one of them does not measure approx. 13´6˝ as the package label claims. No, it’s actually 12´11˝. Grrrr. If I were near a store, this would be a minor inconvenience because I could just exchange the tarp. But here I’ll need to scab in another piece of tarp along the bottom of the walls to create a watertight seal. I believe this would be valid grounds for a nasty letter of complaint to the manufacturer. Mutter, mutter.
It’s a lovely, quiet evening. Cloudy, but there was pale orange in the sunset sky — the first color I’ve seen here. A while ago, just as I’d quit work for the day and paused to look out over the sea, a large bird I hadn’t seen before swooped to perch on the top of the front wall just ten feet from me. Long, slightly curved, pointed, black bill, stubby tail, grey body with white flecks, grey-black legs and feet. It sat for a while then flew off.
FEBRUARY 24, 2001
Last night was another cold, uncomfortable one. My back and shoulders feel like they’re clenched into deep spasms, and my hands ache and burn. I take painkillers, do stretches to loosen the knots, and try to accept and relax into the pain, but nothing helps much. I sleep bundled up, and since it’s not particularly cold I’m probably chilled because of the damp. I continue to wonder what winter will be like. Already I’m ready for some warm, blue sunshine. Imagine how I’ll feel next year.
It’s been flat calm all day with, at times, just a slight wind riffle from the southeast. A change in weather? The light is different, too — more silver than grey — the hills reflecting pale blue in the sea. I can see the snowy mountains, and it feels like a crisp fall day, but I don’t know the weather here yet. Ah, it just started to rain lightly. Good, that should settle the dust. This twenty-four-hour dry spell has been rough. I have a new system for cooking rice. I put it on and let it cook until I smell it start to burn. Seems to work pretty well.
Long workday. I finished attaching the tarp walls and sealed the corners and seams with silicone. It looks tidy and I hope it will be wind- and rainproof. Just need to spot-nail in a grid pattern over the whole outside to prevent flapping in the wind. Hanging the tarp would have gone a lot faster if I could have used the staple gun rather than pounding in nearly a thousand small nails with the hammer. I still shake my head over bringing the wrong-size staples. Perhaps this, too, deserves a stern letter of complaint. But I doubt the postal service would deliver it to me out here. I wonder if this calm will last or if another nasty storm is on the way. I guess a storm will come or not; in either case I’ll be here.
FEBRUARY 25, 2001
NOON: I think the endless rain is getting to me. The tension I feel seems similar to the fear I’ve felt toward bears during wilderness retreats in Canada — as though something dangerous out there is coming to get me. But here there are no scary animals, just wind and rain. I suspect it’s mostly my own dark feelings I’m afraid of. I’ve begun to meditate for thirty to forty minutes in the evening. As usual I spend more time lost in thought than simply remaining aware of physical sensations, emotions, and the process of thinking. My primary focus of attention is sound: rain and wind, waves on rock, frogs, birds. The sounds of water surround me.
As far as I can tell, it’s rained lightly but steadily since last night. I’ve been working in front of the tent under the tarp, but it’s time to climb into rain gear. It’s also time, in the larger scheme, to walk the walk. I’ve often talked about surrender. In my preparations for coming here I was repeatedly confronted with the need to surrender my preconceived plans and adapt to what was actually going on. Now there’s rain. The rain is. The rain is not going away, nor am I. If I don’t begin to practice accepting life — including rain — as it is, I’m going to have a lousy time here.
The tide comes in and washes my shit away. Poof. Gone. It’s so easy to understand how we have damaged sea and sky and rivers . . . and our hearts. Greed. To want just a little more. It makes perfect sense. What’s the harm? I reach out to grab something, and the agitation of wanting and grabbing dissolves in the currents of my heart. Poof. Gone. Until slowly, little by little, my heart fills with greed, my life is polluted with this toxin, and I can no longer enjoy what actually is. Time to work. I want a cabin!
EVENING: Worked late. I cut and nailed the rafters in place, and with them overhead, the cabin got a lot smaller. Another six inches of height would be nice, but then the tarps wouldn’t fit at all. I never expected to put the cabin together this securely, and I’m starting to run short of nails. Tomorrow I’ll have to drag three sheets of pressboard for the roof out from under the tent. This game of musical materials is hard work. For the past several days I’ve been juggling 2×4s trying to find straight ones, and I had to replace the tarp that was over the tent with plastic so I could cover the cabin walls with the tarp. Hope I’m not hit with another big storm because the plastic might not hold. Same thing for dinner yet again, which won’t make the cat happy. He doesn’t seem to like macaroni and instant soup. Imagine that.
It was a splendid afternoon. Some blue sky for a short while, and even a direct ray of sun for about five minutes. The clouds lifted and the mountains loomed sharp and mysterious against the silver sky. A kingfisher (Ringed Kingfisher) flew by calling. Up on the ladder nailing down the rafters, I heard the dolphins blowing and looked out. The world seemed new from up there. Two of the dolphins were swimming as they usually do, but a third was going in circles and breathing heavy or even panting. Then he leapt from the water white belly up. I’m no dolphin expert, but it is late summer and something seems fishy. Good on them. As dark comes on there ’s an ominous feel in the air . . . or is it in my heart? The sea has begun to move, restlessly it seems. Does it portend an outer or an inner storm?
FEBRUARY 26, 2001
Sun! I’m actually sitting in it as I write. Oh. Well, I was a minute ago. Ah, yes, now again. And blue sky in places, too. Amazing. The sound of the sea gently lapping the rocks is lovely and peaceful when it’s the only water sound on a dry morning. The clouds over the mountains are ragged — layered dark grey, silver, pale yellow — and moving fast. Sunlight slides across the rock cliffs to the west, flickering on waterfalls. A kingfisher just landed in the nearby tree: brilliant rusty-orange nestled among dark, dead, angular branches. When I heard no rain early this morning, I leapt up to empty the tent and pull out three sheets of pressboard from beneath it. Then everything went back in and still no rain. A miracle.
EVENING: The wind is up and out of the west. The boat is tugging at its leash, which always makes me uneasy, and the plastic over the tent is rattling and slapping. I hope it holds. It just started to sprinkle but held off until I got the roof on, so for the first time since I’ve been building the cabin I didn’t have to wear rain gear. It would have been a much more difficult and unpleasant job in the rain, but even so, humping the pressboard up onto the rafters wasn’t easy. At one point I fell off the ladder — or rather it went over and I jumped off. After that I started to tie it in place. Can’t afford an injury.
The ladder also fell on my head today, and a few days ago a 2×2, which is now part of the ladder, fell on my head. Maybe it doesn’t like me. I, on the other hand, am in love with my felt boot-liners. I wear one to work in (which gets a bit damp from sweat) and one to sleep in. I’ve yet to get a cold foot. Hmm, I think my perceptions of and attitudes toward supposedly inanimate objects might be starting to change. Solitude can do that. I’ve been here three weeks today. Doesn’t seem like it, though.
Just caught a glimpse of what I think was a nutria as it disappeared around the corner of the cove. Looked a bit like an otter with a long tail. Jeez, the rocks are slippery here! I go around half the time like a crab on all fours.
FEBRUARY 27, 2001
It’s wet out there. There was an hour of pretty good weather this morning, but now it’s pissing down again. My dream has expanded from a whole day without rain to two nice days in a row, and then three, etc. Greed. If the rain and wind give me a chance, I’ll stretch the large tarp over the roof later today. Day after tomorrow, I need to send the first monthly “I’m ok” email, and I should get the system working before then. The GPS is still misbehaving. Seems to work only when warm, so there’s probably still moisture inside. A hummingbird (Green-back Firecrown) just came by. Perhaps I’ll put out some sugar water. Oh, it’s stopped raining. Maybe it will get warm and sunny. Uh-huh.
FEBRUARY 28, 2001
Cloudy but not raining. Woke early and I’m tired and cranky. Too much work, too many aches and pains, not enough sleep. But there ’s no reason to take the day off, since I find little comfort lying inside the tent reading. I don’t miss sex or even chocolate ice cream that much, but a hot tub would sure be a treat; not just the heat, but the release from gravity. Back in Canada I had fantasies of building a tub here and solar-heating water to soak in, but I doubt there ’s enough sunlight. Actually, my real fantasy was to find an unknown hot spring and build my cabin beside it. In the meantime, I’ll try to get the tarp on today and make sure the satphone is working so I can send a first-of-themonth check-in email tomorrow.
The cat is hunting birds. I yell, “No!” but instinct is too strong. I set down my oatmeal, put on my leg and rubber boots, and go to harass him. My allergies are kicking in as he gets older, and I don’t think I’ll let him into the cabin once it’s built. It’s ironic that after all my effort to stay away from cats in Vancouver, I bring one to sleep with me in the tent. Although he’s often irritating, I’ve grown attached to him and doubt I’ll actually use him to test shellfish for red tide toxicity. It would be kind of like coming home from work to find some suspect leftovers in the fridge and calling your kid or little brother over to sample them before eating them yourself.
EVENING: I spent all afternoon trying to get the satphone working. It took a long time to find a location for the antenna that would let me use the phone from the tent where it and the laptop are protected from the rain. Having the phone on for so long searching for a satellite killed its battery. So I had to drag out one of the 12-volt truck batteries, open the watertight storage barrel with all the electronic gear in it, and find the battery connector. What a hassle, and I started getting ready for tomorrow days ago.
Of course when I had the barrel open, stuff strewn everywhere, and was worried it would any minute start to rain on the electronic gear, Cat came over to get in the middle of what I was doing. I set him aside and he returned. I set him aside again and he came back. I tossed him into the mud and he decided to stay away. Cats are the most stubborn animals in the world!
But it was a glorious afternoon. There was a double rainbow, and three dolphins came by close to shore. They were definitely making love among the kelp beds. Two would roll over and swim on their backs while the third swam above one or the other. Then two would swim belly to belly on their sides. It was very erotic and surreal.