Updates from the Road

Remember the old joke about the two best days in a man’s life, the day he gets a boat and… the day he sells it?  My boat is a house.  When we left in 2012, I harbored only a few dreams that we might return to that house, that life.  Within 12 months of living in Hamlet, I couldn’t remember what we’d put in storage and blissfully kissed away thoughts of returning there.  Unfortunately, the house didn’t let go so easily.  In late April 2016, we finally closed on the thing and celebrated with our new friends and amazing colleagues who suffered our almost daily updates of the house selling drama.  The least I could do is mix them a good drink. 

This beautiful 1,650-square foot albatross in the Blue Ridge shackled us in ways that we are only now shaking off.  I fully recognize how annoyingly privileged this all sounds.  Our “problems” with home ownership are not the kind which make headlines, no renters trashing the place, no shutting off the utilities, nor banks foreclosing.  Ours are the mundane and self-consuming laments of people with enough means to get by, but who simply didn’t want to be homeowners anymore in a buyer’s market.  Our choices, our timing, our consequences.

Without reliving the whole history, I’ll summarize that despite neither living in our house nor renting it out, it still consumed much of our energy, free time, cash and worry.   In April 2015, our renters left 14 months early on their lease and 2 months arrears in rent.  We decide to sell, good market or no.  Enlisting some help of a few dear friends we make some needed improvements.  Normally, we would do this ourselves but our internship as Education Rangers with Acadia National Park in downeast Maine pulls stronger and we are stubborn. We can do this.

As the months go by with many showings but no offers, our concerns grow.   Nearly 7 months pass with no movement.  At the beginning of 2016, in a scant 8 days, we drive from North Carolina to the North Cascade Mountains in Washington to begin seasonal naturalist jobs offering a 9-month season.  This offers a compromise between supporting our mortgage while still not fully admitting defeat and moving back into our old lives.

We arrive in Washington in February, quite possibly one of the more dismal times to arrive in the Pacific Northwest.  The days are short and dark, so we seek any sunlight that is trying to penetrate the densely canopied, moss covered forests.  What doesn’t fall as rain comes down in a sticky precipitive mix that can only be called “sneet.”  Real winter exists here, but only at elevations above 3000 feet, and our new home tucked in the shadow of a 390-foot dam is only 800 feet above sea level. 

We roll into the town of Diablo on the banks of the Skagit River and the Gorge Lake, one of three reservoirs which make up the Skagit Hydroelectric Project.  Diablo will be our basecamp for the foreseeable future.  This is one of the Seattle City Light company towns built to house workers during the middle part of the last century, and it appears as if everyone either left or suddenly died in some mid-70’s catastrophe film horror.  Seriously, if you want to be freaked out, drive into this “town” on a Sunday night after 8pm, in February. 

We cross the ancient one-lane steel bridge with an ominous sign indicating whether the highway out of here will be passable or not.  The cell phone won’t connect, downed tree limbs scatter the streets, a few cars rest in driveways of darkened homes, large X’s adorn the windows and an ominous all surrounding hum emanates from the power plant.  If zombies attack when we shut off the engine next to our assigned housing, I won’t be surprised. 

February above the 45^th parallel is hardly anyone’s best month, but here we defer full judgment until the first signs of spring appear and the charm of this snoozing little town begins to emerge.  Occasionally the clouds depart and the sun etches the snow drenched mountains against an azure sky and steals our breath entirely.  Rising as they do in dramatic fashion a vertical mile or more from the river valley they are among the continents steepest, if not the highest.  These moments are certainly worth waiting for; as is the spring bringing flowers, waking black bears, browsing black-tailed deer and most importantly the rufus hummingbird following the blooms of the red flowering currant up the Skagit valley. 

We begin teaching with the school program as Trail Instructors.  We instruct groups of students, usually 5^th graders, as they participate in 2 ½ days of environmental science camp.  We have them from breakfast until bedtime with hardly a break as we explore the systems of the non-living world and that of the creatures, plants and micro-organisms who call it home.  We hike our kids around the temperate rainforest of the North Cascades immersing ourselves in it – wind, rain, or shine.  It is awesome… in theory. 

In practice, I must admit that the kids are a handful, the chaperones are often a handicap and the schedule is simply punishing.  Though I love teaching these topics to these kids and we experience some incredible high points, we end the season feeling completely depleted with little faith that the organization will change to a more sustainable pace, despite our best efforts to do so.    

For a while things seem to improve as the summer gets going but the challenges of our non-profit’s disorganization begin to resurface.  Though the hours are certainly more regular and hover near the 40 per week we were promised, the situation becomes untenable.  To say that it wasn’t a good fit for us doesn’t quite cover it, but it’ll have to do for me to stay polite. 

We don’t regret the decision to come to the PNW nor of leaving our employer, too many positive things have happened.  We returned to an environment of stunning beauty which first called to us back in 2014.  We grew to know the ecosystem intimately over the course of three seasons, and it fundamentally shapes my understanding of the natural world.  We make lasting friends, amazing educators and people at the center, some of whom choose to leave as well while others stick it out.  

We take this newly found gift of time to cross the North Cascades ecosystem under our human power by cycling, backpacking, and sea kayaking from Diablo to Chelan, WA (over 150 miles) in 18 days.  The story of our crossing will be printed in the spring edition of Adventures NW magazine, a regional publication out of Bellingham.  One of Shari’s photos is being considered for the cover.  We are excited!

We also got to spend the month of August and September exploring the Cascades, destinations in the Salish Sea, including the San Juan Islands and Vancouver Island, BC.  Many of these places were on the “bucket-list,” and like all places they teach us what we can never learn from a map.  If we’d only had more time, if the weather had been just a bit better we might have seen first-hand what was calling to us right around the corner.  There is still so much to see and experience.

We also learned that perhaps now is the time to make our own way without being

completely beholden to employers for our income.  With the house sold, we can risk some opportunities which might be less secure, and more fitting with our journey.  While we are fully immersed in the gig economy now and will continue to seek seasonal work that fits our values, perhaps now is the time to keep our traveling show on the road by bringing that show to others.  Shari’s photography and my writing needed the necessity of time to go from hobby to avocation.  We might not ever become “successful,” but what if we become just successful enough to keep this lifestyle going?  We remain excited to try.  Our new website will be launched soon:  freedominacan.com.