A Cool Routine

Cuddly Duddley keeps warm!

The morning is cold — colder than it should be this time of year — but I am in my tent nonetheless, with a little propane heater for warmth, and a cup of hot cocoa.  The other day my stove quit working — the gas line froze.  I had to wait for breakfast at lunchtime!  And there's ice in my bathing tub!  No matter.  I love it  here.  I love the peace, the quietness, the morning sun illuminating my tent, and the sound of Ms. Squirrel quietly lapping water from the tarp.  I love that she can do that, that my tarp is there.  Bishop, who is helping to frame my home, doesn't like the cold, so we work only in the afternoons, and I have all morning to enjoy these things — the soft putter of the heater by my desk, a little mouse skittering outside, the sound of owls.

Earlier in the fall a family of mice moved in overhead, on the nylon mesh that is the ceiling of the tent, beneath the upper tarp.  The mother made a nest of chewed leaves, which she lugged by small mouthfuls up long nylon walls.  I was afraid, afraid she'd take over the place, afraid she'd chew through the mesh and plop down on my computer, afraid she'd chew up my bed!  So I bumped the nest, trying to discourage her choice of location, and two infants popped out. The infants, hairless and cold, blundered about in the dark, eyes sealed tight, mewling for Mom.  I was so ashamed.  Ashamed of my fears, of my disturbance of the nest. The mother retrieved them eventually, and eventually moved away.  I wish she had stayed.  There was plenty of room.

I was afraid of the cold when it first arrived.  But I've adjusted.  I bought the heater.  I have a sleeping bag that's stuffed with down.  I cook lots of soup.  I've lost my fear of the dark.  Since it arrives so early now I thought we must get more acquainted, so instead of rushing about to have dinner accomplished and dishes washed by the time evening stars sprinkle the sky, I wait for dark to arrive, then sit near the door of my tent eating my meal and watching the moon rise.  Then I retire inside, and if it's too cold for anything else, I snuggle under my sleeping bag and read for hours.  Not bad for a winter's routine, I'd say!

Play Time

I hear the deer again.  A buck, rack held high, is dashing about with the doe, engrossed in a game of tag.  They race and chase about, oblivious to me in my tent as I peer from the window.  It's a gorgeous autumn morning, a chill in the air and bright sun rising, perfect for prancing about under the canopy of trees aflame with the reds and orange.

The other day I saw a young bear playing with my bath towel that hung from the limb of a tree.  He batted it back and forth with his paws like any kid at the clothes line.  Then he meandered over to the garden and stood high atop his tippy-toes to sniffle at the satellite dish.  I was surprised, thinking he'd only be interested in edible things.  But no, he wanted to sniff and touch and paddle about like any two-year old, investigating every new thing he hadn't seen before, whether it was smelly or not.

And remember the bobcat, somersaulting down the tree, with glee?  Animals at play — not something you see, really, at least not in the wild.  Dogs tussle with old shoes.  Cats bat about feathers and balls of foil.  But wild animals?  I thought they were all business, burdened with the constant hunt for food, and with ferocity.

Not so.  And to see them let go of daily discretions to clown and cavort is such a treat, a delight. I feel honored to witness them letting down their guard.  They only need space, like anyone else — free of threats and loud crashing noises, free of faces leering too wildly from strange windows.  Matter of fact — I need this too, in order to rest!

It's been a long haul — this building of home, with quite a ways to go to completion.  I tire, but daily soldier on.  Then  the animals come — remind me to play, to take time for that.  Don't let autumn fly by in a rush of work! they say.  Take time to laugh, to play; enjoy the changes going on.  Go for a stroll under the canopy of trees.  Enjoy the sound of rain. 

So I do.  And am renewed.  Creativity flows, and as I turn to work again the work itself turns into play, and satisfaction — like the brilliant yellows spattering the woods — peaks, and I am so content.

Building Update: The Pounded Tire Foundation

Path tackles a tire.

I am happy (no, ELATED is a better word!) to report that the "pounded tire foundation", which is by far the most grueling and time-consuming part of building the dwelling, is now complete.  Yes — all 64 tires of it!  Thanks so much to Justin, Kristine, Tracie, Kris, Path, Catherine, Cindy, and Lydia for their help in this arduous work!  Now the aching tendon in my arm can rest awhile, and my flagging knees and back can take a break!  Even the woods is taking time to celebrate with oceans of leaves, thrown like red and yellow confetti, streaming profusely from trees.  I've often felt in a rush with this project, as if I am behind schedule, and yet the seasonal coming of the rains has made the pounding go more easily, helping the earth to better compact.  So, perhaps I am right on time.

Tracy:  Master tamper!

What IS a pounded tire foundation, anyway?  Just as it sounds — it is a foundation made of used and discarded tires that are pounded tightly with soil. It is an effort to build something of recyclable materials, diminishing their flow into area landfills, and to reduce the cost of building by using freely available materials (any tire servicing center will gladly provide the tires for free in order to avoid their disposal fee).  Furthermore, the tremendous thermal mass of the pounded tires (each becomes a 300- to 400-pound "brick" once thoroughly packed with soil) provides excellent stability and insulating properties.  Annie and Jay Warmke, my mentors in the building techniques I am using, report that their home, Blue RockStation, which is made entirely of pounded tires (called an "Earthship"), maintains a temperature between 60 and 70 degrees throughout the year, and that is in frosty Ohio! 

Kris handles the sledge with ease!

But what about the environmental and health impacts of using old tires in a foundation?  You're probably familiar with the foul and acrid odor of used tires — not something you want in a dwelling!  That "old tire smell" is from the photo-degradation of tires, meaning they degrade when exposed to light.  Tires in the pounded tire foundation, however, are fully covered with cob or mud-slip, and not exposed to light at all.  Tires not exposed to light never degrade (fortunately or otherwise).  In fact, tires buried in the soil have been found to ABSORB pollutants and, for that reason, are now being used in landfills to curb the flow of toxins, and in golf courses to absorb nitrate run-off from the manicured greenways (see articles "ChippingIn" and "The OffgassingNon-Issue", for example).

As I and my hardy friends have all experienced of late, building a pounded tire foundation is extremely labor intensive as it requires wielding a sledge hammer to pack the soil tightly into the rims of the tires.  Once complete, however, it makes an excellent foundation for straw bale walls, which can be raised very quickly once the foundation is complete.  Stay tuned for straw bale wall construction in the coming weeks, and for opportunities to help with applying the cub (mud-slip), a job that is a lot more fun and easier on the joints and tendons!

Building Update: If at first you don't succeed...

Bishop and ol' Bessie

 

Get the backhoe! 

What a difference a backhoe makes, and strong, capable friends!  Thirty wheelbarrow loads into "do-it-myself-ism" and my knees informed me that I'm not in my 20's anymore.  I listened (unlike in my 20's), asked for help, and Bishop and ol' Bessie came to the rescue.  This, after also realizing — painfully so in yet other ways — that my original efforts at digging a bermed foundation were all for naught in the original location due to ensuing water problems after recent rains.  Much thanks to those rains for inspiring me to move the location before doing even more work!  And thanks to Bishop's expertise and experience, a new location for the building was found, and Bessie made quick work of a raised foundation (PLUS a terraced garden, PLUS a pond!).  I've learned some valuable lessons about my limits, and made some great friends in the process!

NOW, "B is for BOX" folks — the new shape of the building — and for BACKHOE!  We're keeping it simple here on in, okay?  No more letter-shaped abodes for awhile!  I'll leave the creativity to words and not buildings (well...uh....I might want to make a bottle window, and ... er ... how about rounded doors, sculpted shelving, and...hmmm....)

Country Kitchen

Photo courtesy of Diana Rivers.

You might be wondering how I'm keeping my food in bear country.  I certainly don't keep any of it in my tent, but neither have I purchased a pricey bear vault.  I DID try the "bear bag" thing — storing my food in a critter-proof, metal-mesh bag hanging from a tree, but that proved too cumbersome.  It's okay for backpacker's quantities, but not for homesteading!

First of all, every food item I own is enclosed in a tightly sealed glass container; tightly sealed meaning tight-fitting metal lids or glass lids with hermetically sealing rubber rings.  Each time I purchase a food item from the store it is immediately transferred to such a container.  For additional protection, I store jars of especially aromatic and sweet foods in a large steel barrel with a tight-fitting lid (see black barrel left of the table in photo above).  And I keep the kitchen very clean.   All food-tainted liquids and solids go into the composting barrel.

This approach is NOT designed to withstand the strength of a bear, nor is it designed to keep food out of a bear's reach.  Rather, it is designed to prevent a bear from becoming interested in (smelling) the food in the first place.  I have a bear's favorite commodities in that barrel, including honey, jam, and nuts, and so far they haven't shown any interest.

My ultimate concern isn't the safety of my food but the responsibility I have for the welfare of these creatures.  If a bear discovers that my outdoor kitchen is the mother-lode of tasty treats, that bear will return and become a "nuisance" bear, and the danger that causes to me will require the bear's removal from it's home, and that's if someone else doesn't shoot it first.  I don't want to be the cause of that.  So I'm careful.  REAL careful.

It's easy to wonder whether or not we human beings can coexist with creatures like bears and others that can become dangerous.  I believe we can, but that coexistence requires enhanced responsibility on our part.  Behind many "nuisance" bears are human beings who really don't think that the needs and ways of other creatures are as important as their own.  I think that there are ways to handle our food and refuse that does not create nuisance bears.  Yes, it is more work, but it can allow for a much richer community of creatures than we allow for ourselves today.

Making Change

I didn't want do dig that hole in the ground, or rather — have it dug by somebody else.  I didn't want to see an ugly flat spot, denuded and bare, marking where I'll dwell.  I didn't want to drag the logs onto the pretty sunny slope or down the ailing trees.  I was hoping to leave those for the woodpeckers.  You should hear those woodpeckers!  Every morning each claims a tree with a unique sound — some higher pitched, some low — then lets loose a percussive improv of calling out and answering, each in their different tones.  It's really something to hear! 

Will they be farther away now?  Harder to hear?  That's not what I wanted.  Yet I don't want the "widowmakers" either.  That's the local name for dead branches hanging precariously from dead trees, of which there are lots this summer.

And I need a home.

I don't like changing things.  I don't like being an influence on my environment, or on people.  I was raised to weep and hide in the shadows — find a little hole somewhere and stay there.  Don't rock the boat, for heaven's sake; and better yet, be invisible.  But it appears that life is influence, and living better, influential.  To shun influence, or influencing, is to pale away, die.  So take your pick, because those are the only two options.  Take your pick.

Treetop Lost & Found?

The crows stole my car keys.  Yes, they did.  I have lost my car keys, and it's all their fault!  I placed my keys outside the tent along with several other sundry items early one morning, then zipped the door closed to remain inside awhile before walking the items to the car.

Minutes later I heard a raucous in the trees overhead, the crows squawking unusually loud and close, but I thought nothing of it, really, as I've heard their loud  commotions before.

"Oh, they've found a mouse," I thought.

Or "Oh, they're pestering a snake."

But later my keys were nowhere to be found!   Then I recalled how crows steal shiny items to decorate their nests.  Or maybe they don't think of them as decorations.  Maybe they're badges of honor, or mini-solar reflectors.  Maybe they're locator devices, helping them find their nests at night when the moonlight glances off the metal.  Who knows how a crow thinks!  But one thing is sure — they've got my keys!  What they're going to do with the attached library card, I have no idea!  And the pepper spray!  All I know is this is going to one well-armed, well-read crow, and they're already smart enough, which means I'm in big trouble here in Whisperwood and I've really got to start watching my back, because obviously THEY already ARE!!!

It HAS crossed my mind to get one of those microchips people put in dogs, attach it to a key chain I don't need, and set it outside my tent on purpose.  A-HAH!!!  Then I'll track the villains, head straight-way towards the nest of ill repute, and SPY!  Yes, and one fair morning when they're busy cackling about the airways I'll scramble to the top of that tree and retrieve my long-lost belongings, and those of other hapless victims, as well!

What treasures await, dangling from the high limb of a Loblolly Pine!  Can you imagine the loot I'll find?  Jewelry, watches, wedding rings, silver coins!  Gems from generations past lodged into the recesses of that poopy crow's nest!  Who KNOWS how long this has been going on!  They teach their young, you know.  There's a whole TREASURE TROVE of riches up there in one of those Whisperwood trees — I know it! — and it's just WAITING to be discovered! 

P.S.

I am very sad to report that I have found my keys — and pretty much where I left them.  I was very disappointed, to say the least.  I was having SO much fun conjuring crow shenanigans.  But I wouldn't put a shiny thing past them, No!  And for some reason I still can't quit thinking about that lofty treasure trove!