Writing is an interesting exercise for me not in the least because of the requirement for restraint. One must not offend, after all. Or be gross. Or be too provocative. Or rude. Blah, blah, blah. In fact, when you add up all the ‘do-nots’, one is/I am, effectively, muzzled. Censored. Tethered. Restrained.

I could blame Sally. She is much more decorous than I am and generally less expressive in all matters except nice ones. It is just the way she is. And she does act as an inhibiting factor because of that. You know, like the Queen.

More to the point, however, is that she actually passes judgment on everything I write before it is published and, even tho I insist on ‘saying what I want’, I really don’t want to say anything that upsets her. So she is an effective editor/censor without ever really needing veto powers. An arched eyebrow is like the delete button for me.

Restraint is just marital harmony by yet another name.

It is not so much that I have gross things to say nor am I looking to offend (with a few notable exceptions). It is, rather, the sight of the fence at the end of the field that keeps the horse from getting up a good head of steam. And so it is that my steam is kept in check and I don’t even move my haunches in that direction.

If I was allowed (by my ownself, I know) my freedom-to-spew, I would most definitely paint a few of my neighbours in more vivid hues or some in severe basic blacks and whites. That is in my nature. I am inclined to word-pictures as my Friend Doug says. And painting characters is the most fun.

I would most certainly ream the government over myriad issues and may have to be physically restrained after awhile lest I get arrested. Just thinking about it gets my blood riled (you following the fish-farm/DFO/issues!?). So, in that sense, my restraint is also for my own good.

I would also talk about relationships more. Family. Friends. Neighbours. I like the subject but I understand that it would be a violation of intimacies and so it is taboo. Not everyone wants to read about themselves and especially not in association with me. Hell, I might even write about intimacies but that, too, could cause trouble in paradise.

Most of the good stuff is out of bounds!

I might even write about my own inner demons but, to be frank, they are all pretty lame now. Geriatric demons, if you will. No real spunk. Not any more. M’demons got no mo’ mojo.

And I guess that is the nub of it, eh? No real demons to push me to the brink of offense, rejection or social isolation. Not like the good ol’ days. Now I rely on boring people as my primary offense.

How’m I doin’?

Family and guests. Brian and Emily, Dave and Kate (B&E’s friends). It’s nice. They all packed light but they all brought scotch. Experienced campers. Brownie points to the good from arrival.

I have no idea how I managed to instil in guests the need to bring scotch but it has become a bit of a tradition and I am quite pleased about it. First tradition I have ever liked, actually. Well, I have come to enjoy Thanksgiving but, I am afraid, for much the same reason so we may as well bunch it all into ‘scotch days’.

I mean, really, eaten one turkey, eaten ’em all, eh?

And another tradition manifested as well. One, perhaps, more enduring over time: Brian is Em’s fiancé officially as of last night. Ring, champagne, romantic setting (presented privately at sunset beside the Inukshuk on the point) and the whole thing. He seemed to know what he was doing. (As much as any man ever knows what he is doing with such a radical act!) And Em was pleased. Smiles all around. It was nice. Very nice.

A few toasts. Some pictures. We then, of course, reminisced about our own wedding. Out came the photo album. It was a scene from Father Knows Best or Ozzie and Harriet. Even the dogs were in there wagging their tails! I guess some things never change.

But I must confess that, after a minute or two, their intimate and personal commitment seemed to signify yet another shift in the generational continuum to me. I moved my continental plate one more increment closer to the edge.

Time to close our album and get ready for another.

Time does, indeed, march on.

And I am not sad about the progression. I just felt it. But I don’t feel as if I am losing a daughter. ‘A son is a son til he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all her life.’ So I am really just gaining a wood splitter. I’m OK with that. All in all not a bad development!

You know how it is…………at a certain point you get bored with your own plight. There was an excitement about the accident at the time but that story has been told ad nauseum. Now it is just scabs. The thrill has gone from the bloodletting, as it were. That adventure is over. Time to move on from self pity and once again throw your body into some other kind of harm’s way, ya know?

Well, even if ya don’t know, I am there. Bored of this. Whinging when I lift a loaf of bread, limping when I walk. Cringing at cleaning the burn. I mean, really, how stupid is all that!? Lots of guys take bullets in the shoulder or even the guts and then come flying out of broken shopping centre windows shooting with two pistols blasting sideways a few minutes later. I see that all the time in movies. Not me. I get a little cut and lie there like a lamb roast. For days!

I need to get the juices flowing again, ya know?

Hmmmm………..bugging Sal is always a dangerous game………hmmmmmmm

“Geez, Sal, I am getting bored”.

“Poor baby”, she says as she packs logs up the hill and starts the laundry after having made breakfast and cleaned the house. “Soon as I am done here, I’ll make you a nice lunch and you can lie down for a little nap!”

“Well, that seems fair. But I am still bored. How you gonna entertain me when you are working so much?”

“You mean like art therapy?”

“Yeah. I’ll get it all out for you and all you have to do is sit and paint.”

“Geez, I dunno. Could be hard on my back. What else you got?”

NOW there’s electricity in the air!

Back is almost 75% healed. Can’t put on my socks or lift and turn with any weight carried but, generally speaking, I could walk a block to the store and bring home a loaf of bread. But, of course, out here that is not an option so I am just talking big. Still, for all intents and purposes the healing is underway and I am gonna be fine.

The leg is still a mess but, it too, is healing. Pretty well, I think. It oozes out of the burned area a kinda honey-coloured resin goo that seems to be like a natural fibreglass and that stiffens up the burn area considerably. With the skin thus stabilized, my leg then tends to try to knit the edges of the damaged area together in some magic and invisible way. The problem is that the leg has to move. Can’t avoid it. And, when that happens, you tend to ‘crack’ the glaze and it feels as if you are tearing duct tape off it. I have to say, the leg is healing but it is making me cry like a little girl in the process.

Unless someone is within earshot in which case I just grimace.

I was lucky. I’ll be fine. Just another stupid-man-thing that didn’t go as bad as it could have. But it hasn’t been easy on the old pudding.

Monday she went to work at the Post Office. Did it again Wednesday. Tuesday she went to Comox for the BIG shop before our next set of guests. She left at 8:00 am and, after stopping at ten stores or more, got home at 8:00 pm arriving by loaded-to-the-gills small boat. Then, while I looked on in pathetic impotence, she schlepped it all into the house and put it away. Having a partner is a good thing. Having a great partner is a gift. Having Sally is no less than a miracle blessing.

And today is all-housework-day for the guests coming.

I am definitely going to wash the dishes more often in future. Probably.

There is another basic premise that I have not much mentioned about this living off the grid lifestyle. It’s fear. And, of course, the associated loathing that goes with that. I understand completely how irrational is this fear and loathing but I feel it anyway. I am definitely fearful of what is to come. And I hate it.

I remember distinctly the incident that started this visceral reaction in me and, in itself, it means almost nothing. Almost too trivial to even remember. But, at the time, it was enough to nudge me into a way of seeing things that I have not altered and, to be fair, may have accelerated a bit. It was around 1990.

Near our old cul de sac was the elementary school we had moved to in Tsawwassen to be nearer for our kids access. I wanted my kids to be able to walk to school. I was sickened by the over reaction of parents all over the lower mainland to the fear that their child was going to be snatched and by the subsequent and dangerous collection of cars that swarmed the school areas every morning and late afternoon. Heaven forbid the little darlings should walk!

But despite the madness of it, I could understand it. I, too, felt that I should take every measure possible to ‘keep them safe’ and so we did that by moving closer to a school. Same difference, really. We were all reacting to an improbability that could not be stopped by the actions we were taking. It was stupid but understandable.

But that was not it. It was not the parents. It was not the kids. And it was not even the irrational fear of the one-in-a-million child snatcher in the lower mainland. Instead, it was the school and its actions that somehow catalyzed the feelings of fear of institutional thinking, responses and draconian measures that I still feel deeply.

The school didn’t dispatch teachers to corners a few blocks away to monitor kids as they approached. The school did not even get out and direct traffic out front. The school just sat and there did nothing. Except on one bright morning, they decided that they had a responsibility (to themselves!) and so they had signs posted around the school grounds declaring the area a no-ride zone!

The school decided in their sense of self interest to minimize their own liability by ensuring kids walk their bikes the last 100 yards or so to the school grounds! In that way, when the inevitable kid got run over, they would be seen to have ‘done something’.

To the irrational fear of a kidnapper, our institutions forbade bike riding!?

This, by the way, happened long before 9/11. The stupid, selfish and totally inappropriate tin-pot dictum of the no-ride zone was just a portent of things to come.

And, of course, it went on and on and on from there to the point that one cannot take shampoo on an airplane, a Muslim is guilty til proven innocent and the rest of us are getting ‘policed’ ever more closely as well (did you hear of the old, retired grandmother arrested by Canada Customs and held in a Winnipeg jail for 13 days because she had a jar of used motor oil in the truck that might have been heroin?!).

Yes, I am afraid. And I hate it. And that is partly why I am out here. I think group-think (govt., institutions and corporations) has gone mad. But make no mistake, it is not paranoia. Incidents cited (there are thousands of them) may be just small incursions here and there right now. Inconveniences most of the time. But the government is NOT acting in your or even anyone’s best interests on many (if not all) things (want a list?).

But that is not the issue itself, it is the trend. The trend is toward more inhuman institutions and corporations and governments. The trend is to more control of the people. The trend is toward more exploitation by taxation and the trend is toward an unhealthier life for the common man.

When I was younger, I ranted and raved and picked a few windmills to tilt at. Now, I just leave the battlefield to the megalomaniacs and, fortunately, they all prefer to do their work in the city. I’ll try to do some good albeit small stuff from out here. Please don’t tell anybody where we live.

So, let’s see: you have the prerequisite ‘fatigue’ of the city, a romantic desire to get away from it all (seems, according to Vanity Fair, almost 40% of all Americans of all ages feel that way and a staggering 57% of Sarah Palin Tea Party members feel that way!) and you have even given some thought as to where you might go and what you might do when you get there. Is that it? Have you done it? Are you basically at; step one?

Sure. Why not? Step one can be anything, really, that gets you off the couch but the real step one is when you take concrete steps toward commitment (i.e throw the TV away, cancel cable and buy a pick-up truck). I think step one in the building process is site picking, collecting junk and infrastructure. But that is the building process. Step one mentally is commitment to change and a dream of what that change might look like. I think that step one is always the real step one.

Anyway, however you see it, whatever step you take is not cast-in-stone (until you get to concrete work, that is). You can take a few steps one way and then back up and try another direction. For me, learning and then moving two steps forward and then one back is part of the fun.

But let’s go back to practical matters. Recreational property is not as readily financed as is suburban land. Banks don’t really want five acres in the Chilcotin with a half-built log cabin on it and a pile of junk under a tarp. Even if they did, you don’t want them as your partners in this property. Going feral does not require being mortgage free but it is so much easier that way. SO much.

The main reason is this: you won’t find much work out here. There are, of course, people out here who go into town for small contracts. I have done so a couple of times. But, really, I likely won’t do it any more. It costs me as much as I make. And I hate it. Not only do my business people forget about me when I am ‘out of sight’ but I forget about them. My networks are dissolving. And worse, I don’t want the work anyway. Bottom line: come out debt free.

“But that means selling the house!”

Yup! Even if you don’t have to sell the house, you may want to. Face it – it’s a burden. The house owns you when you are there and it owns you completely when you are away from it. All big investments require inordinate lumps of time, energy, worry and work. And houses are no exception.

“But won’t that be true of the cabin as well?”

Maybe. If you let it. But, if you build it to be simple, small and consider utilizing the living ‘outdoor zones’ as much as the cabin, you can limit the drain on your soul that all big investments make. The key: make a smaller investment! The BIG investment out here (i.e, the nature around you) has already been made is being managed without your help for the most part. In other words: don’t manicure your site, don’t get in a landscape architect and keep the damn house to ‘cabin’ category. Make it so that you can leave it and not worry about it. And that is much easier if it is not 5000 sft with granite counters and an entertainment room.

“But we are so much wealthier than that!?”

Then spend it elsewhere.

When I write about ‘getting started’, I am, for the most part, writing to those who already dream and think about having their own off-the-grid place. Maybe. Someday.

There are, of course, many more who dream of having an off-grid cabin already built for them or even an on-the-grid cabin/cottage/small home that is sufficiently removed from the hustle and bustle of deep-city living. Perhaps just moving to a smaller, slower, quiet community like Qualicum Beach or Osoyoos is what they have in mind? Getting out of the city does not have to mean a remote, isolated island where the wolves and the cougars still roam.

But that does sound kinda neat, don’t you think?

Essentially, I am writing for the audience that already appreciates the concept of a cabin, modern, comfortable and connected or maybe one that is just simple, basic and ‘out there’. I am addressing those who feel the city is just getting a bit too intense for them or, perhaps, is no longer as appreciated as it once was. They are seeking a bit more quiet, a bit less stress, someplace a bit more in keeping with their own aging/slowing pace.

It started out that way for me. I was just tired of it all. I just wanted to live more simply. Work less. Spend less. Worry less. Of course, getting here wasn’t simple at all but the goal was to end up living more simply and I think we succeeded to a degree. I may not work any less (I do, actually) but I sure do worry less. And we spend at a fraction of the rate that we once did.

We tend to see our own way of life out here as connected, comfortable, simple, modest and gorgeous with just a dash of challenge and hardship to keep it interesting. And, you know what? I prefer that to full-on comfort.

Many, however, prefer their well-established routines, comfort zones and urban at-hand conveniences. They worked hard for them and they want ’em. And they like where they are. They don’t need to do this ‘hardscrabble’ thing. I understand. Honest. For those who have such a different agenda, I say ‘vivé la difference!’ It is what makes us all interesting.

But I have to say (and you knew there was a ‘but’) that sometimes one needs to step outside the cul de sac to see what else there is. That’s all.

And, as it turned out, when we stepped out we liked what we saw.

The purpose of this blog: Just to state that there was an ‘irritation factor with the cul de sac’ that came first. I needed to move on. That might be an essential part. I don’t know.

Access and materials handling go hand in hand. In fact, that is the essence of the access problem….’handling’ materials. There is not a single piece of wood, a screw, nail or any other ‘material’ that I have not handled several if not a dozen times before actually putting it in its final resting place. Think about it…….

You pick up a bag of Reddi-mix at the building supply store. That is lift #1. You pull it out of the trailer/pick-up/SUV/backseat at the dock (#2) and put it down on the dock/beach while you get the rest of the stuff. Then you lift it into the vessel (#3). At the other side, you lift it out (#4) and pass it to someone (Sally – lift#1 for her) and she puts it down for you to lift after the boat is put away (lift #5). Then you carry it to it’s ‘awaiting use’ place (#6). Some days later, you pick it up and carry it to where you are mixing concrete (#7) and then it sits there awaiting its turn to become useful(#8). You pour it in and mix and then carry the slurry to the forms (#9) and dump it in.

And all this assumes a logical flow of work that rain, guests, other jobs and accidents don’t interrupt. Trust me, if I lifted a bag of concrete once, I lifted it ten times. And that goes doubly so for wood because stacking, cutting and moving-it-around-to-find-the-right-piece adds to the lifts.

An architect friend of mine told me early on to ‘forget timberframe construction and go with ‘stick-built’ because it is so much lighter and you have to carry everything.’ He (Nick Kokas) was 100% right on.

It is simply not possible for a do-it-yourselfer-to have all the materials handling (mat-hand) tools and equipment at his or her disposal. Lifting is just part of the deal. Get used to it.

Having said that, there are a few mat-hand items that should be employed whenever possible and, if my back is anything to go by, use them even when you think you don’t really need to. There is a drywall lifting device for a few hundred dollars that is worth it’s weight by far. I clearly have a bias in favour of winches, too. Wheelbarrow, cement mixer, block and taykle, come-along, stone boat, log tongs, PeeVee, ropes and chains, buckets and more buckets, tarps, mini-cranes and motorized helpers are a godsend. Get some temporary workbenches, small tables, boxes, totes and I also employed an old BC Hydro steel transformer box or two. I even had a chainsaw winch that did a lot of work for me.

The point: people who build cabins are generally older. People who can lift things all day long are generally younger. If you can’t be both, get equipment and/or casual labour. We couldn’t because we were so remote but I should have ‘set up’ better mat-hand systems than I did. As it is I have a funicular on one side and a highline on the other of my site but I needed more. I really needed some kind of motorized wheel device but the terrain prohibited it.

As you can see, so far we are not even thinking about the cabin. The project is still in the preparation stage.

Firstly: there is a marked lack of sympathy for old fools and there aren’t any old fools more stupid than old motorcycle fools. For most people, I am in a category of stupid unparalleled since Evil Knievel. And Sally is the poor, put-upon, long-suffering Mrs. Knievel. Sally gets sympathy!

Secondly, even I am not sympathetic to me. You know you have been an idiot when you can’t even muster any self pity. Self pity usually comes so easily to me. In fact, I find myself still shaking my head in disbelief. “What kinda nut-bar would crack a wheelie on a bike he has never ridden before?”

Maybe there is more to it at a mystical, spiritual, finding-God level, eh?

As for the back itself, it is a solid, pulsating mound of tension and pain but every day it gets better than the day before. At this rate I’ll be fine by September. November at the latest. 2012.

The leg burn, on the other hand is a mess. It keeps weeping some kinda goo and, when I sleep, my legs stick together until I move. Then, OMYGAWD! There is definitely a price for being a dope and I am currently paying it.

“We don’t feel sorry for you, you doofus!”

Neither should you. Nor am I asking. I am just telling you this so that you do not make the same mistake as I the next time you have a motorcycle at your disposal. If I can save just one stupid senior citizen from the crushing humiliation of a wheelie-gone-bad, my suffering will not be in vain.

Now listen to me: Motorcycles don’t kill people! Stupidity kills people. (‘Course, I am so stupid that you shouldn’t listen to even that!)

And, if stupidity doesn’t get you, your wife might!

PS (ads pop up on my Blogger account and, when I posted this, a confirmation of the posting popped up and it contained an ad. Make a Will.com. Seems fitting, don’t you think?)

This blog is about living off the grid. But naturally there is more to life than just being off the grid and so an honest blog would include other things in my life that may transpire even tho they are unrelated to remoteness. Like my being nominated for an award. Here’s the story:

As you know, I hurt my back last week. Herniated disc. Painful. But, by the time my son and Katie came to visit this weekend, I could walk straight and move around. This should have been a good thing.

Ben brought his trials bike, a motorized version of a mountain bike and something I have always wanted to try. We took it up the old logging road and I went for a spin. When I got to an open field, I tried a few ‘antics’ to get a feel for the thing. It was really neat. Trials bikes are very well-balanced and one can pull wheelies with them much easier than with other motorcycles.

Or so the theory goes.

It was not my finest moment. I cranked the throttle, pulled up on the handle bars and went screaming through a chain-link fence with both wheels off the ground and crashed on a pile of boulders with the bike on top of me.

My first thought was, “Geez, Ben is gonna kill me if I hurt his bike!”

My second thought was, “Geez, Sal is just gonna kill me!”

My third thought was, “Why do I smell BBQ?”

I pulled the red hot exhaust system off my bare leg after it had seared a blob-shaped scar into my thigh and turned my thoughts from BBQ to moving the rest of the bike off of me and then me off of the boulder jamming up under my back.

I managed to get home and have been in bed ever since.

Sally sent in an application to the Darwin Awards people. Seems I made the cut in the ‘still-alive’ category and my name is now on their database to be followed up on the safe assumption that I will soon make the finals.

Life is a bowl of cherries and I just ate a pit.