Opinion - Living in a Cabin

𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕟

𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 ℂ𝕒𝕓𝕚𝕟
ᵃⁿ ᴬʳᶜʰᵃⁿᵍᵉˡ ᵃʳᵗⁱᶜˡᵉ

A lot of people ask me what its like living in a remote cabin in Alaska. Its wonderful, but it isn't always easy. Let me start with my cabin itself, nestled in the heart of the Alaskan wilderness. My cabin stands as a testament to solitude and self-reliance. Here, the idea of living off the grid isn't just a lifestyle choice; it's a daily reality filled with both beauty and brutal challenges that few of you Gabbers can imagine. When you tell normies that you live in a remote cabin in Alaska, they often romanticize it as a pastoral retreat, a peaceful escape from the hustle of urban life. And it is, to a very large extent, or I wouldn't be here. The quiet is profound, the kind that lets you hear the whispers of the wind through the trees or the distant call of a wolf (sometimes not so distant!).

But this 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 comes with its price, loneliness. I'm basically by myself here. In the long, dark winter, when the sun barely rises, the isolation can feel like a tangible weight. There are no neighbors to pop by for coffee, no quick trips to the store for forgotten items. Every face-to-face interaction is a planned event, generally with my bush pilot, often requiring hours of travel through conditions that would make most turn back. Sometimes he has to do just that. Living here means adapting to an environment that can be unforgiving. Winters are not just cold; they're a test of survival. Temperatures where I live can plummet to minus 40 degrees Fahrenheit, where the air itself feels like an adversary. Keeping warm requires constant vigilance from ensuring the wood stove never goes out to insulating every inch of the cabin. And yet, no amount of preparation can fully shield you from the elements. Ice forms inside the windows, and frostbite is a silent predator lurking in every gust of wind. Summer, while warmer, brings its own challenges. The midnight sun disrupts my sleep pattern, and the thawing ground turns the landscape into a quagmire, making travel by foot or my ATV a muddy, treacherous affair.

If something happens, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯. The idea of being self-sufficient sounds appealing until you face the reality of it. Everything from water to electricity, from food to medical supplies, must be managed personally. Water used to come from melting snow or hauling it from the nearby stream, which in winter involved breaking through thick ice. I finally sunk a well, myself and a temp visitor, by using an old engine block to pound pipe into the ground. Power is solar and from a generator, which means rationing energy use, especially during the long nights when solar panels are useless. Food isn't just about growing or hunting; it's about preserving what you have for months when nothing grows and game is scarce. Fortunately I also get groceries from my pilot, but the basics I handle myself, and that means hunting and walking my trap line.

𝘈𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘢'𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 but it can also be perilous. Living here means sharing space with bears, moose, fox, and wolves. While these encounters can be awe-inspiring (at least the first 5-6 times), they also require constant awareness. Garden needed to be fenced, there is bear-proofing, and every step outside involves scanning the surroundings for potential threats. A simple walk can turn into a life-or-death scenario if you're not prepared. I have never had any serious problems, knock on wood.

Perhaps one of the most daunting aspect is the lack of immediate access to s̲e̲r̲v̲i̲c̲e̲s̲ I used to take for granted. It freaks me out sometimes. If I get sick or injured, help might be days away depending on weather conditions. There's no calling a plumber or electrician; you learn to fix everything yourself or do without. No Amazon. No order out. Internet and phone service? I have this sat-phone, a sat-dish, and if I take a four hour hike to this one spot, I can actually pull in a 1-bar signal because that spot is line-of-sight to a microwave tower located at Nikolai, a tiny native village perhaps 40 miles away; communication with the outside world is generally via my satellite phone, which fails in severe weather. My next purchase in this department will be a ham radio, just so I can chat with people once in a while. My sat phone is expensive.

The 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦 required to live here is immense. It's not just about physical survival but also about maintaining your sanity in isolation. Depression, cabin fever, and "the bush hangover", a feeling of disorientation and stress from prolonged isolation, can creep in when least expected. I know, I've battled with them all at one point or another. Building a support network, even if it's through sporadic visits or online, is pretty important. I have six dogs, and that helps a whole lot. I don't think this would work without my dogs. (Rogue, Nugget, Rory, Loki, Puppy Boyington, and Spazz).

Living in a remote cabin in Alaska isn't just about embracing nature; it's about battling it every day while finding a 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 for its beauty and power. It's a life that demands me to be more than just a human; I sorta became part of the wilderness, learning its language, its moods, and its lessons. It's not for everyone, but for me, it's an existence that strips away the superficial bullshit, and reveals the core of what it means to truly live. I like it quiet. I like handling things my own way. I like writing my books. So yeah, there you go. A fascist in a cabin, lol.

𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙡 22:22, 26 November 2024 (AKST)

ᴾⁱᶜᵗᵘʳᵉᵈ⠘ ᴾᵘᵖᵖʸ ᴮᵒʸⁱⁿᵍᵗᵒⁿ⸴ ᵃᵗ ¹⁸⁰ˡᵇˢ⸴ ᵗᵉˢᵗⁱⁿᵍ ᵐʸ ᵍᵃʳᵈᵉⁿ ᶠᵉⁿᶜᵉ‧