Building Update: 4 Walls and a Stove

The Vogelzang from Catherine

I sit by the wood stove and read, at temperatures during which I usually  leave Whisperwood, journey to town in my heated car to huddle in public cafes and the library, where people seem to know why I'm there.  There are no windows in this new dwelling of mine, and blankets sewn together provide the only door, yet I am so grateful to stay.  I am so thankful to Catherine for the gift of the stove, and — My! What a gift it is!  No matter how many people exclaim "what a mild winter we've had!" it doesn't feel mild when living in a tent.

The dwelling emerging.

The walls of my dwelling are temporary, only plywood to keep out the wind and rain — most of it, anyway.  There are leaky spots through the tar-papered roof, and stepping three feet from the stove I am cold again.  But no longer will I need to sequester a bottle of water with me overnight in my sleeping bag in order to have something to drink in the morning!  Now I can set the water by the stove, and my cooking oil, too, so they will not solidify.  I thought I'd need to drive to town today for more propane, but no, I can stay, read by the fire, which is cooking my food.  And I can eat by the stove, too, instead of chattering outside in the cold.  These are some of the new-found delights of the stove, and the bone-warming heat of wood, heat that thaws me to the core.

I have to admit the cold got to me for awhile, before the stove was complete.  Being cold can curdle the gayest day into a heavy chore.  It took much longer to acquire the many requisite parts for the stove piping than I imagined, and all the while winter raged.  Many friends have offered their homes to me, and on occasion I accept, only to quickly feel a need to return to Whisperwood and space of my own.  I can't explain that.  It's just the way I am and need to be, right now anyway.

Heartfelt thanks to Catherine for the gift of the Vogelzang Boxwood stove, a stove that heats like no other, and to Bishop for the temporary walls and for installing the stove.

I continue to sleep in my tent.  My new dwelling is yet too much of a construction zone for a bed at this time, and I am always warm at night in my sleeping bag.  But first thing in the morning I can rush the thirty feet to my new dwelling, light the fire, and feel its warmth permeate my bones.

Of course, having a wood stove means chopping wood!  I'd chopped wood as a teenager but feared I'd forgotten how after decades of sedentary desk jobs.  I wasn't sure that I could still accomplish such a feat, yet I am proud to report I've done swell! My upper body strength certainly isn't what it used to be, but that doesn't seem to matter.  Splitting wood appears more a matter of carefulness and aim — both of which I have in ample supply — and a good, sharp splitting ax.  A sledge hammer is a big help, too.  I'm not sure if these are the conventional combination of tools to use, but they worked for me!  Within an hour I had enough wood to last several days.  And, yes, I am bragging!  I think any woman who splits her own wood has something to brag about!  Now the hickory, oak, and locust trees that either died from drought or had to be cleared for the solar panel and garden are providing free fuel, bone-warming heat, and rest from trips into town.

Thank you trees, thank you stove, and thank you friends for helping me through this winter!

The Basics

Bath Time

Gee, it seems all I did today was cook and take a bath!

I say this to myself with some frustration as the day winds to a close, and the lament is literally true sometimes, especially in the wintertime, camping in the woods.  On the coldest days it does, indeed, require all of my energy to stay warm, fed, and clean.

Get the pot, fill with water, heat the water on the stove...

Nothing else gets accomplished.  No stories are written, no editors contacted, no resumes polished, no research or e-mails.  Nada.  By the time I awake and warm the tent and get a bite to eat it is the afternoon, and not because I awoke late.

Find the soap, warm the towel, set the tub inside...

I've always loved camping — the way time slows to a dribble like cold honey crawls from a jar; the way it really does take all day to cook and take a bath, to do those basic self-care things often done in a flurry during the rush of an ordinary work week.

Get the water, let it cool, seal up all the drafts...

The slowing down of things gives me time to think; I call it mull-time.  And mull-time is my favorite pastime.  Mull-time is fuel and fodder for all those other things I haven't yet accomplished:  the writings, resumes, etc., etc.  Here is where I figure them out.  Here is where they are born so often, or rejuvenated, and here is where they rest, feed from underground springs far below the frozen tundra where it seems nothing else is going on but washing dishes, cooking food...

Lather, rinse, dry...

And if the caring for myself is all that gets accomplished, is all that seems to get accomplished — isn't that the most important thing?  Isn't that the most invigorating thing to do, the greatest privilege that we have — to care for this being each of us is and contains? 

Pour the water by a tree, hide the soap from coons...

One day I may have the privilege of caring for another, and someone may have the privilege of caring for me.  But no one will ever know me as I know myself.  No one will ever be able to hear every echo of my voice as I hear her.  No one can be tuned quite so perfectly as I. 

Set the tub down by a log, hang the towel to dry...

Camping reminds me of that.  The quiet of the woods reminds me of that.  That's why I'm camping.  That's why I'm here.

Season's Greetings

From my tent to yours...

 Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays to You;

Happy rustlings in the leaf-fall,

shiny stars above the tall

and quiet trees;

Merry needling of the nose,

nippy fingers, chilly toes

in moist and brisky northern breeze;

King snake slumbering underneath

an ancient stump; the icy sheath

in barrels left out in the rain;

Coon eyes shining by the moon,

cayote's howl — their merry swoon —

enraptured, nightly high refrain;

Quiet bear and busy mouse,

merry possum, owl, and grouse,

and all that goes a-softly

padding by at night;

Misty morn on mountain tops,

lovely quiet when wind stops,

and sweet hot cocoa

by the glowing warm fire-light;

Crinkled leaves a-clinging now

to restful trees a-sleeping now, and

clapping softly like brown paper

tambourines;

Squirrels sipping at the pool,

nesting mice beneath the stool,

and tiny tustling, bustling things;

Happy bed stuffed warm with down;

dainty deer on frosty ground,

prancing in the new dawn's

early light;

Happy new year to you all;

I wish you well, and most of all —

Sweet Love deep as forest

in the night.

Love, PLH.

Building Update: I've been framed!

As the leaves have fallen from the trees this autumn the wooden frame of my dwelling has risen into place, much thanks to Bishop's help and expertise.  He's heaved the rafters into place, as well, and now I'm nailing lots of hurricane clips to hold the rafters tight.

Bishop works on a rafter.

"Lightweight", he murmurs, teasingly, when I hammer for only an hour then take a break.  Well, I do have rotator cuffs to think about, and they're feeling a little worn about now.  And for good reason.

"It will take longer than you think."  How many of you have told me that?  "AND it will cost more than you think," you lovingly follow.

Okay.  Okay.  You're RIGHT.  I'm losing my race with ol' man winter, and fast.

It's amazing how much work goes into each aspect of the building.  I've scoured the woods for locust trees for the center support post and deck supports (thanks, Diana, for your locust).  I've hauled lumber and sand and rock, and lugged stones in buckets for the foundation drain (thank so much, Nancy, for your help, and your truck, and for wood).  I've "rubbled" the outside face of the foundation.  This means filling the voids created by the round tires with rubble held in place by dollops of concrete (my idea, to help stabilize the stones), and also by chicken wire tacked onto the tires.  See the photo below for a view of the "rubbled" foundation.  

A "rubbled" tire foundation.

And where do I get the rubble?  The rubble comes from sifting the clay soil that I'll be using for the mud-slip (cob) overlay of the straw bale walls, which means first making the screen to sift the soil.  And there is no magic to sifting soil.  It is done one shovel-full at a time.

Sifting soil.  I'm proud of my sifter!

 An alternative to rubbling the foundation is filling the tire voids with discarded plastic bottles packed into crevices with mud slip or cob, but that requires preparation of lots more cob and, hence, lots more sifting of soil.  Further, cob in contact with the ground develops moisture problems, so I am opting for rubbling my foundation with stone and then creating a rock wall overlay.  I've had the good fortune of beginning the rock wall overlay during a recent warm spell, and I absolutely LOVE the process, the artistry and patience of it.  However, the remainder of the wall may have to wait until a season of reliably warm weather returns.

Rock wall overlay of foundation.

Meanwhile, I may rest awhile, finally, and enjoy — to my surprise — a wondrous change of scene that has occurred; for as the autumn leaves fell, the summertime view of the garden on the sunny slope with birds streaming past gave way to a stunning panorama of misty mountains to the south and east!  What a delight! — a mountain-top view for six months at a time and then the forest garden for the other half of year — all without changing my seat!  As much work as it is to create, I think I'll want to keep this seat for a very long time.

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!