It has occurred to me that the ‘move’ from town to a rural setting is a somewhat vague and confusing concept for many. It is not that people don’t understand moving to or living in a rural setting, it is rather the transition process that seems so nebulous; what steps are involved, what pitfalls to avoid, etc? So, I thought I’d pass on a few tips.

First off, one has to let go the notion of ease and convenience. It is not that anything in the move is that hard but rather that your routine, your systems, your familiarities and your resources will all be utilized differently and some will be taxed beyond expectations. Everything will be disrupted at the very least. Your regular square dance lessons? Starbucks with Linda? Season tickets to anything; even your favourite TV show – all that will ‘go by the boards’.

Here is how everybody’s system changes, for instance: Cars don’t work on dirt roads. Not for long. You may think you do not need a truck or an SUV. And, you may be right (some people out here make it work for awhile). Most people come to realize that, at the very least, a Subaru Outback or a small SUV is pretty important if not essential. So, accept it. The Miata has to go.

And that is just the vehicle you drive. So, the tip: start looking now for a low mileage, 199X Toyota 4Runner or equivalent. 4×4 is not optional. A small utility trailer (second hand) will be a Godsend.

Another thing is schedule. Things happen less punctually the further from the city core you venture. Even the ferry system. By the time you get to Prince George, they celebrate Xmas in January. In the Yukon, they are a year behind. Haida Gwaai has been lost somewhere in the time space continuum. So, the tip: allow for days to get done in what normally takes hours at home. It is just the way it is.

So, the tip: don’t plan on selling the house in Maple Ridge in June and moving to Spusm in July so as to ‘assemble’ your ‘kit’ cabin in August and still make your daughter’s wedding in September. Not gonna happen.

Here’s a shock: all your ‘stuff’ just ain’t worth much. Not in utility nor moolah. It is certainly not worth anywhere near what you paid for it or even insured it for. More than that, much it is not-so-useful in the country anyway. Lawnmower? Hot-tub? Speedboat? Bicycles? Big screen TV? Fancy dining room suite? 42 piece Greco-Roman-style bedroom ensemble?

Most people go small when they go rural and that, in itself, is a determinant for much of what we carry around. When it doesn’t work in the cabin and you are 300 miles west of Merrit, there is no market for a nice French Provincial 12-seat dining suite complete with China cabinet and sideboard. Sell it in Vancouver and remember, storing it just adds to the overall loss.

Tip: Let go the ‘stuff’ (Inside tip: saddle the kids with it. To them it is an heirloom (hahaha)). When we moved up here, we put stuff in storage. The manager asked, “How long?” Sal answered, “Well, we are going to build our own house on Read all by ourselves so I dunno, maybe six months?” He said, “I’ll write you in for a year and a half. Call me a few months in advance when you want another year.”

Storage cost us $1800. Value of all the ‘stuff’? Considerably less than priceless and probably less than $1800.

Mind you, keep your tools, keep your kitchen utensils and keep anything that is strongly built. May as well ‘chuck’ Ikea. May as well ‘chuck’ desktop computers, suits and ties and briefcases and Florsheim shoes. Chuck ‘glass’ furniture.

Keep winches.

Tip: Plan way, way ahead. I was ‘preparing’ for a move out of the city a year or so before I knew we would move. It was not foresight, it was instinct. I had no idea what the future plan was but I ‘felt’ that it would find me somewhere else. So, I explored my possibilities and prepared where I could. That turned out to be a good move (rare for me, I know). It may also have been a self-fulfilling prophecy. Whatever.

Then, when we were ready mentally (we still are not ready physically, skill-wise and we are still learning all the time), we made a leap of faith. And we landed on our feet. We were lucky.

But, if I had to do it all over again knowing what I know now, I would be able to do it easier and better. If this blog content piques your interest at all, I’ll write some more about actually ‘doing it’. If not, just ask for more stuff on ravens.

I confess to a quirk. I have a few, it seems. But this one is really weird: every now and then I want to buy something. I thought getting too many winches would satisfy that latest manifestation of the urge but it was not to be. I am now looking at an old diesel engine.

This is a weird quirk, you see, because I generally hate shopping and really don’t want any more stuff. Honest. I am greatly relieved by the lesser amount of stuff in our lives right now and all that such stuff entails (buying, using, storing, cleaning, fixing, etc.). I really do not need more stuff.

But sometimes I weaken. I give in to my urges. It can get messy.

Which is OK, I guess. A little weakness now and then is only human. The worst that comes of it is that I have too many winches. How bad is that? What if it was wenches? OMYGAWD! (there but for the grace of an ‘e’ could have been ‘I’?)

But the problem is not just the urge to buy. The problem syndrome starts with general interest, focused curiosity and progresses to obsessive research and the resulting relentless hunt (often accompanied by heavy breathing at this stage). I am thinking that this so-called urge is really just the primal hunter-gatherer instinct writ modern and inappropriate. Getting on E-bay is like entering the forest. Craigslist is fishing the seas. AAARRRGGHH!!!! It is a ‘man-thing’. Kinda.

I gotta stop.

I have no idea how I got there but I found a 12 hp diesel with reduction gear for a good price. The pulse quickened. All senses went to high alert! I just have to trust the pictures, drive for a very long day, heave 500 pounds of dead weight into my utility trailer and then bring it back home to the logging road, beach, boat, haul-out (winches come in handy here!) and then store the damn thing until I build a boat.

“It’s like huntin’ moose, eh?”

Yeah. You read that right. I might build a boat.

It’s another urge. I could have a problem.

And Sal, poor thing, really does have a problem.

Hmmm, it seems that more raven pieces are, in fact, desired by at least 5% of my readership (Annette is one of the 17 and this blog is in answer to her request). So, a raven update:

Jack and Liz had four kids this season (we call them ‘raisins’ since we don’t know or care about the proper nomenclature). Wild ravens usually only have two offspring annualy. If they are doing well in their world, they might have three. Our spoiled rotten buddies had four!

One of them is a bit of a runt. His feathers are coming in a bit late, he is a bit smaller and he just looks a bit goofy in a ravenesque kind of way. A raven geek, if you will. But he’ll be fine.

Jack still feeds him direct sometimes and he is flying pretty well although a severe bank is not yet part of his aviation skills repertoire. When he attempts a quick turn, he falls from his loftier elevation and has to catch himself half-way down. It is hard to watch sometimes – especially the first few times. But he is still in the air and seems to be getting the hang of it.

The other three are ‘good to go’ and I suspect that they will be shown the door as soon as the geek is ready. The parents are quite egalitarian about that sort of thing. ‘When they go, they go together’ seems to be the rule. So, right now we have six raven and soon there will two. It is the way it is.

Sal and I harvested a small pail of clams from the lagoon this afternoon. She is going to make a pot of her should-be-famous clam chowder. OMYGAWD it is good!

She has been baking all day in anticipation of our first group of guests this summer. We’ve had one or two people come this year already but this is the first whole group (numbering four) of three students and their teacher – all from our ‘pet’ school in Hong Kong, CHMS. They come Thursday.

And so we got some prawns in. The clams and oysters keep nicely where they are and we have to do a big shop on Monday but, generally speaking, we are ready. It will be fun. Always is.

One thing is for sure – they will be quieter to live with than the ravens!

So, the ravens will leave, the students will come and we’ll have balance in the neighbourhood once again. And maybe a little peace.

Our neighbourood (all 500 square miles of ocean and separate islands) has a newsletter. It is called the SNOTRAG and it is published every month by the intrepid Judith-of-Calm-waters fame. (Judith undertands the Marshall McCluan premise that she who controls the media controls the world.)

And so it is that the SNOTRAG defines our world. World? Think: ‘POND’. But it can be a good read.

If you wonder about my version of life Off-The-Grid you can always subscribe to the SNOTRAG and read the news unabridged from the viewpoint of J-of-CW. She has good sources. Mine aren’t so good (just me). The challenge: to get a subscription. Rags are issued on a need-to-know basis. Those not connected by history or family to the area are not usually eligible.

“They don’t need to know!”

Put another way: the SNOTRAG is an underground publication.

I find all this ironic in a ‘marketing-by-playing-hard-to-get’ kind of way. Lots of people want on the S-rag subscription list and are refused. The SnotRag is very exclusive. Ergo, more want on.

I, on the other hand, virtually beg a readership. I am embarrassed to say I even let out an involuntary ‘whoop’ of delight when I noticed my followers had increased from 16 to 17 a couple of weeks ago. I am the opposite to exclusive. I am for sale cheap.

Well, for free, actually (I am even willing to subsidize for hardship cases. Bribe, if you must.).

Price, however, doesn’t seem to matter. The Rag has an irresistible cachet. For me, fame is an elusive specter.

Of course, It (Dispatches from Off-the-Grid) is/are primarily just about me. And, admittedly, I am biased/focused/occupied and writing in my own favour. On most things, anyway. In fact, I am completely and totally swayed by my own point of view most of the time. I am helpless in front of me and almost always side with myself. But, it’s a turn-off it seems. Who woulda known?

But it is not all my fault. Sally can (and does) make necessary changes to our things mostly whenever she wants, so I am not totally responsible for the complete and total me and/or the opinion and point of view of me you see in this blog. I am sure you understand (if you are male, anyway).

In other words: We can all blame Sal for much of this nonsense.

Put another way: I am not totally responsible for me or for what I do anymore. I need to be vetted. Believe it or not, this blog was edited and great swathes of content were deemed ‘unpublishable’.

“You can’t say that! Are you crazy? Stick with the squirrels and the logging stuff. A little on the garden, perhaps. Keep politics, people and any sensitive subjects for publishing later when it has all blown over! Do a raven piece. Everybody likes raven pieces.”

If you are still not clear about this form of censorship, contact my power-of-attorney/official rep: SJT Davies at SallyD@Hughes.net for further information/and/or permission for………whatever.

Just be careful.

Remember: resistance is futile!

So, anyway, for balanced news off the grid, subscribe to the SNOTRAG. I can’t give you the address. Nor will I pass on your name. You have to have ‘connections’ and mine aren’t influential enough.

(Hint: one of the Victoria CBC news-readers may be able to get you on.)

It costs $10.00 annually to be an official ‘SNOT’ member (the ‘A’ list) and, although many of you may qualify in every other respect of snottiness, money-on-the-barrelhead is required for admission to the newsletter-receiving club. Just write to: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX@hotmail.com and she’ll sign you up.

Maybe.

I doubt it.

Me? I am already in trouble just for telling you this!

Another day on the job site. Things are progressing. All is good.

When the day was over I went down to the dock to get my boat and go home. René, postmistress numero uno was there. Since we are both part of the ‘vintage working class’, we stopped to hobnob about our day.

“Howzit going?”

“No. Really! There are two other stops on the float plane’s route and we are, by far, the biggest receiver and sender of mail amongst the three of us. Honest!”

So – there you have it! On our biggest day we sell $40.00 worth of stamps and we are #1 on the mail plane’s route for volume. A pilot gets in a plane and flies around a few hundred square miles for six or so hours and, when it is all said and done, Canada Post may have made $100.00 gross sales on a big, big day.

It would appear that the days of the ‘postie’ are numbered.

Which, in a way, is ironic. A recent poll (Vanity Fair) found that over 63% of people polled would prefer to ‘live out their days’ in the country. Less than 7% preferred to spend their remaining years in the city. How does that square with the fact that the cities are growing and rural populations are still shrinking?

Seems men are currently outliving women these days, too. Can’t remember where I read it but men are (in some context) outliving women for the first time. I guess it has something to do with wars being conducted by cruise missiles, terrorists and hackers (thus saving young men) and the workforce now employing more women than men (something like 55/45 I believe). So, the ladies are getting the heart attacks these days, I guess.

Having touched on the big topics of our day, I leave René and head home. I see the local prawn fisherman out on the water and stop by. We kibbitz for a bit. Decide to do a proper visit in a day or so. He’s hauling traps while I motor along slowly. We finish up and I head toward home.

The sun is shining, the wind is at my back and I literally fly over the waves for the few minutes necessary to get home. As I drag my weary and sack-o-potatoes-like body up to the house, the dogs run to greet me and I see Sally tending the garden.

“Hi, sweetie! Come look at the Kale! Wow, it is coming along nicely, eh? I’ll come in and make you a nice cuppa tea, shall I?”

“Yeah. Whew. Tough day on the ol’ chain gang, ya know. Need a good cup of tea. Brought you some eggs. Picked ém up at the market. Had no money so we owe Sandy. Will you remember?”

“Yeah. No worries.”

She’s absolutely right about that.

Sal is second alternate to the postmistress. She was called in today.

The post office is a floating one. Literally. One of only two in Canada. It is a little ‘shed’ on the main government dock and it has no electricity, plumbing, phone or even other staff. You go to work by boat, sit in a little 120 square foot room and sell stamps until the mail-plane arrives. Then you sort the mail and go home. Hours: 11:00 to 5:00, three days a week.

After the school, the post office is the ‘hub’ of the region. It is where one might ‘bump into’ a neighbour. Especially on Wednesdays when the dock shares space with the local market, a short three hour affair where all minor social intercourse is conducted. Major issues are referred to the more formal setting of the bunkhouse.

I was at the computer when my walkie talkie ‘toodled’ for my attention,
“Hi, sweetie, I’m home!” It was Sally. She was out front and I usually go to the front deck to meet her. And so I did. There she was in her little 11 foot whaler slowly heading round the point while thunder and lightning rumbled overhead. “I may just tie this up here so I don’t get soaked!”

She was talking about a log. Seems ol’ Sal had spied a nice ‘floater’ on the way home and, after pounding in a log dog and tying it to her stern, she towed it home for the firewood supply.

“Well, tide is high. Easy to get ér in the lagoon. May as well.”

“We are supposed to be there at 6:00. Plenty of time to tie your log.”

‘Course, as she disappears around the point, the skies open up. It`s a deluge.

So, there you have it. My wife goes to work and brings home a log. Not just the bacon but a whole log to go with it (and gets soaked to the skin in the process). Some people remember to bring home a loaf of bread or a litre of milk. Maybe a pizza or a movie.

Sal brings home logs.

Probably just a matter of time before she brings home a stray seal or dolphin, I guess.

I may be losing it…………..

I bought another winch!

It’s embarrassing. I really should know better. I have to stop. No one needs all the winches I now have. I am sick. I need help.

I am going into the winch selling business!

You know how I got the last two winches, right? Not really my fault. Not really. OK. My fault. But I put a stop to it and I am basically sane and so no more flim-flam men were going to sell me another winch. I was strong. I was resolute.

But then I saw a winch that was inexpensive and perfectly suited to the job for which I had bought the previous two winches. I had to buy it! Man, oh man, it looks good.

You see, a winch is not a solution. It is just part of a solution that includes cables, hooks, power, snatch blocks and all sorts of ancillary stuff. The winch may be the heart of the system but we also need brains and legs and eyes and hands, etc. My first two winches were just ‘hearts’.

I need some brains.

Then I found a winch that came with legs and arms and brains as well as a heart. So, I had to buy it. I had to. Surely you understand? Shirley? Do you understand?

So now, I am selling winches. Anyone want a good Marpole Bulldog 5-ton winch? I can throw in a nice 125 foot 1/2″ cable to go with it? Well, throw may be the wrong word. I can heft a cable into the back of my truck with some help from a strong man or two to go with it.

I have yet to see the other winch I now have for sale. Won’t lay eyes on it for another week. It’s a Braden winch and it is big. Bigger than I thought. (Note to self: don’t buy a winch from a picture unless there is a ruler or something in the picture to give a sense of scale.)

Note to self#2: DON’T BUY ANOTHER WINCH!

Oh what a tangled web we weave, eh?

Bert and I got the rafters up yesterday. There are only 16 or 17 but each one started out at about 18 feet and they were rough sawn, meaning that they were thicker than most lumber people are used to from Home Depot. Some of these were a full two inches thick.

Just so you know: a 2×6, twelve feet long from Home Depot weighs maybe 20-25 pounds (I am guessing). A 2×6 out here is either Hemlock or Fir and weighs at least twice that. The local boards are much, much stronger and much, much more attractive than the paste-and-soap boards at the local building supply store.

Bert, like many locals, has his own mill to make the boards he needed to build his house. If he needs lumber, he just cuts up a fallen tree. I have never seen the process from start to finish but it is easy enough to imagine. Carry, drag, cajole a ‘cut’ piece from a fallen tree (at least one foot longer than the pieces you need) and lever the damn thing up onto the bed of the mill. Typically these ‘beds’ look like rails and, of course, they are off the ground a few feet so there’s a bit o’ heavy lifting right there.

And trees never fall conveniently close to the mill, either.

After they take off slightly rounded slabs that include the bark (which pretty much ‘squares the log’), they begin to cut ‘for real’. The first two inch slab is carefully cut up to ‘set’ the depth of cut and put aside. Then, after all the two inch slabs are done, they are run through again to make 2×4’s, 2×6’s and more – up to 2x 12’s. I’ve seen wider, even. Most of the guys do this work alone. Bert cut some 8 x 12’s at least 16 feet long!

Then, after they have their rough lumber cut, they stack it and start again on the next log piece. I swear a 2×12 wet Hemlock 16 feet long weighs in at about 80 pounds. It certainly feels that heavy! The majority of our rafters were 16+ and some were recent cuts so they were still wet and pretty damn heavy.

Bert is virtually the same age as I am (a few weeks apart) and both of us have more than a few creaky parts. So, for the most part, we carry these boards together but once in awhile, when it is necessary, I’ll pick one up and carry it myself. 80 pounds. No big deal.

But they do seem to ‘add up’ over the course of a day.

After the rafters are cut to length and ‘notched’ expertly by Bert (birds-mouthed), we have to get them up on the roof of the bunkhouse. A little lifting, a little ladder climbing and maybe a sliver or two and voila!, one board is on the roof. “Only 16 or so more!”

Of course, I made the mistake of yawning.

“Hey! We’ve got a few of the boards on the cutting table already. I can manage. Why don’t you go inside, maybe put on a movie? Take it easy, old man. You are looking a bit tired.”

“Fuggedaboutit! I’m good. C’mon, let ér rip!“

“Hey, you can’t fool me. Sal would kill me if I let you die out here! Go on, now. Go in and watch something nice on the DVD. Disney’s Bambi is in there. You’ll like that. Watch Bambi! That’ll put you to sleep. Go on. Have a little nap, eh?”

It is embarrassing how tempted I was.

“No way, you old bastard. That is all I need. ‘Dave watched Bambi while I cut rafters!’. Ya think I’m stupid? Just cut!”

Bert cackled away to himself for a bit. But he began to move slower as the rafters accumulated. We got ém all up. Covered them with a tarp and put the tools away. By the end of the day, we were happy to quit. Very happy indeed.

Plans go agly……road to hell is paved with good intentions…………no good deed goes unpunished……..Murphy’s laws………he said, she said…….mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa

I thought I’d write a piece today that is a bit unusual for me – up here. It is still real, tho. Very real. Everyday life in a small community. It is still ‘good’ as they say, but it is not just another snapshot of paradise. Because into every paradise a little bird-poop must fall and I am currently feeling somewhat splattered.

Bird-poop happens.

Or, put another way: in any group of two or more, disputes are inevitable and the likelihood of more disputes increases exponentially with extra members. More birds, more bird poop.

Of course, some human endeavours are more inclined to disputes than others and, after marriage, construction projects are probably the second most likely to cause bad feelings – temporary as they may be.

We just may have some of that going on right now. We have a bit of Construction opera. Thought you’d like to know about the ‘dark side’ of a small community.

But before I say anything about our ‘project’ or community, this story all has to be held in perspective: it is just a small ripple in a small pond.

Especially so when compared to big ripples in big ponds. I recall attending the completion celebration for the then-new Victoria General Hospital some years back and the CEO toasting the crowd by saying, “We did great! The consultants did great! And the construction crew did great! This is a wonderful day! Only seven lawsuits!!”

I asked my friend, who was the architect on the project, what was so great about seven lawsuits! “Dave, Dave, Dave……….Jim is right. This is good. Typically the project grinds to a halt with lawsuits and typically there are dozens if not hundreds of lawsuits on a project this large. This job got completed before the lawsuits. That is what is so great! I am ecstatic and I am named in all seven suits!”

I have never filed a lawsuit nor have I been the respondent to one but I don’t feel as if I am missing anything. I think bird-poop is bad enough. Call me crazy.

Which brings me to our community project. Sometimes it is crazy up there. No lawsuits, tho. No punch-ups. No real disagreements. Not really. Just opinions and feelings for the most part. But we have had our tense moments. Construction does that to people. Today we had a few tense moments.

Old guys with old habits are working with other old guys with equally as old habits. I’m one of them and I have a few. And they/we are not always compatible. Sometimes the antlers get squared and the moose snort and paw the ground a bit. Moose-poop hits the fan! It is a primal thing.

And, of course, our ‘clients’ have opinions and wants and needs which don’t always seem do-able by the crew.

And yet we are all trying hard to build 400 square feet of building and almost as much again in deck as a ‘community’ project. And we are just human…..

Or moose.

Or birds.

Whatever.

The really interesting thing is something that might bother me, bothers no one else and vice versa. Some guys ‘float above’ the whole thing, others get immersed. You just never know what is going to set someone off. Put another way: no one is bad. It is all inadvertent.

The hard-of-hearing seem to handle it best.

When I get wrapped up in a little tempest like this, I dislike it. When I step back and survey the scene, I still dislike it. But when I think about it in the bigger picture, I realize that it is all part of people working together and it has a place. Like bird-pooping has a place. Kinda.

I have no idea exactly what function all this drama serves but I am guessing that it is for the greater good. It has to be. We all seem do it so often.

For us, today, it was simply a mis-phrased question, and later another verbal short-cut (mine) that caused someone stress, and a third-hand conversation misinterpreted. It all combined to take the fun out of the day. Frowns and feelings ensued. A few terse exchanges. But work carried on. And we will be back at it again tomorrow.

And I’ll be there. I sure hope the air has cleared.

Epilogue: The next day things were back to normal. Work progressed. Life carries on.

Since the ‘beastly’ piece, we have been shopping to Campbell River and I did a day at the bunkhouse renovations. Between those two events, I began the unraveling of the cable from my new, old winch. Sheesh!

As you know it is a Marpole Bulldog, 5-ton winch with what seems like 100′ of 1/2″ cable wound tightly around the spool. The winch has not been in use for years and I am pretty sure the cable was never fully unwound even when it was used – which was very little judging from the old paint still on the gears and the generally good overall condition of the old pig. That cable is tight, thick and inflexible.

Bear in mind that a 5-ton winch with gears does not ‘roll out’ the cable like fishing line from your salmon rod at the best of times. This not the best of times.

To get an inch of cable, you turn 22 inches of gearing; gearing that has not turned in a long, long while. It is like pulling teeth from a dead hippo (OK, I am only guessing at what that is like, to be honest but it must be hard, eh? I mean; first you have to fnd a dead hippo and that was what it was like for me to find this winch. I could go on….).

So, anyway, I tipped up one corner of the winch so that I could insert the long handle and I began to turn. And turn. And turn. After what seemed like an hour, I had five feet of cable off the drum!

There has to be a better way.

So, I got out the greases and the oils and applied same vigorously and generously in all the appropriate orifices which was nowhere near as much fun as it sounds. I finally got the old girl well-oiled and tried once again to have my way with her. But she did not not do any free-wheeling easily and, let’s face it, I need a little encouragement at my age and so I was thinking of giving up. It would not be the first time.

Instead, I got out the drill, attached a pulley to it and I jury-rigged another one to the drive shaft of the winch. By leaning into it, I could add tension to the fan belt I retrieved from my box o’junk and installed on both pulleys. Then I turned on the drill and the winch began to undress as it should.

Then the battery died (and you thought the metaphor had petered out!)

That was OK. I know it will work now so the pressure is off. Knowing my schedule as I do, I’ll try again in a week.