Solitude Interrupted

Caretaker’s Log, Thursday, June 5, 2014

I get up at 7:00. First thing I change the linens on the bed. That’s my hardest task for the day. The rest of my prep work for the soon to arrive people will be just little pick up things. The Lodge is ready for company.

Out of habit, I glance out the window as I walk by and see the moose in the east pasture. Hurrying into the front room, I grab my camera and the binoculars and hope she’s still there. I watch her from the front porch as she makes her way along the field. The cat hears me and comes to try and steal my attention. “Not now, Cat,” I tell her. The moose begins to trot out of the sage and, to my great delight, a little baby moose emerges out of the sage behind her. I watch them until they vanish up the east hill and out of sight—blending into the dark green shadows, shielded into invisibility by the morning light.

With that excitement out of the way, I take my coffee and go sit in the sun and listen to Loggins & Messina. “I want to get away and live my life, In the rivers and trees, I want to spend the days making wine and be free, Be free (be free, be free).” L & M and I have a lot in common with wants.

This moment, sipping coffee, listening to Danny’s Song, and feeling the sun, is perfect. A perfect moment to add to my growing collection of perfect moments. This is good living. This is the good life.

I bring in some wood. I take some of my things upstairs to pack. I call my grandmother and tell her about the moose and moose baby. I clean the front windows again to wipe off the rain marks.

Karen and Kathy are supposed to arrive around 3:00. At 2:30, for the first time in two months, I put on a bra. It’s pretty awful.

I wait on the front porch listening for sounds of people. Then it comes. I hear the whine of a chainsaw from up the road. Once, then again. Then once more at the tree I knew had fallen across the road and warned Karen about. I take a breath. “Okay, Cat,” I say. “Your life is about to change too.” Karen, Kathy, Laura, and Loring arrive around 4:00.They each come in their own vehicle. We spend the next hours unpacking things. Boxes, and food, and fresh fruits, and veggies, and more boxes.

Kathy makes collard greens, wild caught salmon, and potatoes for dinner. “It smells like real food,” I tell her. She’s brought me a bottle of wine to make up for the wine lost in the great airdrop tragedy.

The Lodge is no longer mine to keep up with.

They all choose a cabin to sleep in and let me keep the loft.

The fridge is filled to the brim. The smell of fresh strawberries is like heaven. There are fresh greens. Bananas.

 

The cat is royally pissed that Boss the dog is here.

When Laura goes for a walk, early in the evening, I see a deer bounding into the woods, flushed out of the field.

All the doors that have been shut all winter long are now open.

Caretaker’s Log, Friday, June 6, 2014

Karen is an early bird. There are sounds in the kitchen below me before 6:00 AM. Breakfast is over and the dishes done by 9:00. Up and at ‘em.

Karen, Kathy, and Loring begin their training. Loring, the previous owner, is giving Kathy, the new owner, and Karen, the manager, the lowdown on all the systems and the switchover from winter to summer. Laura, the summer crew manager, goes to do her work. She’s been here before. She knows what needs to be done.

At 10:00 I check the systems as usual. Not sure when I’ll stop being responsible for these tasks. Probably as soon as they get the Tame Hydro running. Then someone else will record the weather too. Soon, I won’t be cycled around the times of 10:00, noon, and 7:00.

For me, every wildlife sighting, bird or beast, is an event. For these guys it’s common place. They don’t even look when I say, “There goes the bald eagle!” or “Wow! There’s a deer bounding into the woods.”

There’s evidence that there’s a mouse hiding in the kitchen. This unseen creature has nibbled into a few packages. The cat has fallen down on the job.

The bald eagle (which I am still excited about) is back to sit on its favorite tree.

We have breakfast and lunch and dinner all together at the table in the front room. The recharge time I need after social interaction is going to be longer—at least for a while. I can see I’ll have to readjust to this.

I go for a (maybe) final walk up to the dam. Boss comes with me. He finds a bone and drags it along back toward the ranch. He’s very proud. But he forgets about it in the east pasture when he’s distracted by the ground squirrels.

Back at the ranch, I go sit on the sauna porch for an hour. I laugh at a precocious ground squirrel, watch the birds, listen to the river, see the clouds go by, close my eyes.

I take a quick bath.

After that it’s back to being part of the human herd. I read through a manual Loring has written to explain the Charge Control Module and give him some feedback. “I’m surprised you understood it,” he tells me.

Caretaker’s Log, Saturday, June 7, 2014

Ranchers get up early. I stay up in the loft until 7:00. Then I go down to get my coffee. We have oatmeal for breakfast. The fresh fruit is. It’s superb.

I take the cat’s food and water out to her new hideout in the barn. She hisses at me then comes down when I call her. She winds around my legs and lets me scratch behind her ears.

Breakfast dishes. More coffee.

I’m volunteered by Loring to do the battery equalize while the rest of the gang goes up to the dam to get the Tame Hydro set up and running. After I refill the battery water level and the EQ is running, I go clean the Willow cabin bathroom. Two and a half hours later, Kathy says they’re back and it’s time for lunch.

At the table we’re all a bit subdued. Dazed from all the work.

I do the washing up with the help of a few fingers of whisky and Coldplay. The gang goes to do something with the irrigation system.

When Kathy comes back I show her how to chart the weather. I have to hand that task off to someone before Monday.

Kathy makes soup for dinner. She sets me aside a bowlful before adding some unidentified fish (that’s been in the deep freezer all winter long) into their portion.

At 7:00 I do the weather.

Everyone is worn out. It’s been a busy day. After dinner and a little visiting Laura, Loring, and Karen go to their cabins. Kathy finishes checking emails. She invites me to come work at the end of the summer session if I’d like. I tell her that I’m booked up through that time frame. I ask her if they’ve already scheduled next year’s winter caretaking stints. She’s says they’d love to have me back for that.

Operation Airdrop

Caretaker’s Log, Monday, June 2, 2014

I get up at 8:15. As I’m coming down the stairs there’s the whirring buzz of a low flying plane. It makes one pass. Two. It practically rattles the roof. I try to see it out of the backroom windows. Who in the world is giving a tour of the Darwin at this ungodly hour and scaring off all the wildlife? Who is low-buzzing the house and disturbing my final days of solitude? In my mind, I shake my fist at the air, at the plane.

Downstairs, I stick a cup of coffee in the microwave and check my email. There’s one from Karen telling me that “weather permitting” Greg (her husband) and Paul (the owner) will be doing a fly over this morning at 8:30.

Yep. Weather’s permitting. That explains it.

She adds that they might do an airdrop (because they like them) and that she’d suggested a box of red wine since she knows I like it and my supplies are probably depleted.

Funny how quickly my attitude changes from irritation to excitement.

I grab the binoculars, my camera, a pair of socks, and my rain boots. When the plane buzzes by I throw up my arm and wave. The plane whirs over the west field and vanishes behind the ridge. I put on my boots and head toward the east pasture, thinking they must have already dropped my wine.

Engine whir turns to roar and there they are again. They skirt the east pasture and come to center. A flash of black and red. There’s my care package, dropping from the sky. It hits the ground and, like a water balloon, bursts with a tremendous red-purple splash. The grass is going to be really drunk. I wave with cheerful exuberance at the plane as it roars over me, and go to collect my box. It’s pretty well empty. I sit up on a fence post and watch as the plane comes by again then passes over the east mountains and is gone.

I take the box inside and cut through the black trash bags, the tape, and the bubble wrap. The box itself is soaked and tattered. Split on both sides. There’s enough pooled wine in the bottom to get one small serving. I pour it into a glass jar. There’s maybe two inches of wine from a 5 liter box. I think about measuring it with the rain precipitation stick. This makes me laugh.

I take my coffee and my wine and go sit in the sun. I’m having chillable red wine in the morning, kids. One drink with my coffee in honor of my first airdropped package.

First things first. Breakfast and one cup of coffee down. Then, I can’t stand it, I have to measure the wine. I can’t not. It’s too much fun being precise. I take the glass inside and pour the liquid into a smaller container. I have two containers that are the exact same size. In the second container I pour water until it matches the level of the wine. Then I pour that water into the precipitation measuring tube. Then I measure the level. 0.12 inches of wine. That’s what I’ve got.

I’ll take it.

It has a toasted, buttery flavor. Perfect for breakfast wining.

Later, after the excitement has worn off, I’m a little sad about the lost wine. I could have had a party. With myself. I could have drunk the heck out of that five liter box. But, there’s no sense crying over spilt… well, you know how it goes.

A bumblebee bumbles right into me.

It’s too nice of a day to sit still. So I put on my hiking boots, daub on some sunscreen, grab my survival gear, and get outside. I start across the pasture in the direction of the airdrop site, heading the way of the dam. But as I go, I keep on eastward. I’m going toward Bacon Ridge. Bacon Ridge is called Bacon Ridge because (prosaically) it looks like a slab of bacon. I prefer to think of it as Kevin Bacon Ridge because this (to me) is hilarious.

I’ve been part of this way before. A long time ago when the snow was still deep. I’d followed a moose’s tracks over a hill. Maybe I’ll go as far as K.B. Ridge today. We’ll see what happens. I have no agenda really, just the desire to be out and moving.

There’s a pool lying at the feet of some trees that reminds me of the Wood Between the Worlds in the book The Magician’s Nephew. I stand and listen to the frogs sing. I stand and listen to the birds join in the chorus.

Then I go on.

Over one hill and then another. I pass through marshy areas and the mosquitoes gather with glee on my sleeves, trying to pierce through my clothes and find my blood. I brush them off again and again. A crow flies overhead. The frogs call out a symphony. Bacon Ridge is still off in the distance. I had no idea it was so far. I’m wandering slowly and I have no real desire to make it all the way there. So I head for home.

Back at the Lodge, I de-gear and then since I’ve still got my boots on, I go up and check Industrial Park to make sure the fuel tank isn’t leaking. It’s not.

A can of pineapple chunks is my afternoon snack.

I wash up and launder a few items of clothing.

Karen emails to say the plane crew reported that the roads looked good from the air and that I can expect them to arrive to The Darwin on Thursday.

I eat kitcheree for dinner.

Then I have to buck myself up about the lost five liters of wine. I haven’t really lost anything, I tell myself, but a treat. I still have my own rationed out wine to fall back on. It should last me a few days more.

Some rain comes at 6:00. There’s only a trace of precipitation in the bucket. Not enough to measure. Not even 0.12 inches.

I build another fire and cozy in. Warm for the night.

Caretaker’s Log, Tuesday, June 3, 2014

“Porridge today, Gromit. It’s Tuesday.” That’s what I’m thinking when I wake up. The line is from the Claymation series Wallace and Gromit. I don’t even know why I’m thinking this… I’m having granola for breakfast, Tuesday or not.

I talk with my grandmother.

The sun is out briefly. Then a long layer of clouds takes over. This is kind of good. The clouds free me from the temptation to laze about all day on the front porch.

From 10:40 to 4:20 I clean. I take a break to eat a snack and to talk to my mom. The seemingly never-ending task of thoroughly cleaning the kitchen is almost to an end. It’s starting to look really sparkling. I clean the upstairs bathroom. I vacuum the loft bedroom. I vacuum the music room and the living room. I start to collect the things of mine that I’ve left out to use—with the mind to packing them up. That’s all the cleaning I can stand.

Now the sun is out and I go find a patch of sunlight. The cat winds herself around my legs, around and around. The bald eagle is roosting at the top of a tree near the waterfall. The osprey is not happy about this at all. She keeps diving at the eagle trying to force him into flight, and away. No such luck.

Tomorrow is my last solitary day. I’ve been here sixty-three days. I haven’t seen anyone for forty days, tonight will be forty nights. Sounds terribly biblical.

It’s so lovely when I go check the weather and do my evening walk around that I take my dinner (more kitcheree) to the sauna porch and sit looking over the river while I eat. The sun—the much loved sun—is warm on my face. The water twirls, dances from bank to bank, rushing by me with burbling satisfaction. A duck flies in. Why are ducks so funny?

This is the kind of weather that tempts me to remain outside forever.

Caretaker’s Log, Wednesday, June 4, 2014

9 weeks today. I’m up early. Almost an hour earlier than usual. It must be the impending descent of the summer crew that’s got me moving out of my usual habit. The sun is out. Nice start for my last solo day.

Today marks a year that my friend Matt went missing at sea.

I sew up the pants I ripped by the simple action of sitting the other day. This country calls for tougher clothes.

The eagle is on the tree by the waterfall again, looking dignified and important against the backdrop of green.

The red tailed hawk is out.

I bag up the recycling and mark it so that’s it ready to be taken out and recycled. I take the trash to the trash bin. It’s ready to be taken out and thrown away. I burn the burnable trash in the incinerator.

Melody, Loring’s wife, calls to tell me that Loring, Karen, and Kathy will be switching the winter phone number to the summer phone number and asks me to stand by from 1:45 to 2:30 while they test it. A bit later she calls back to say they’re running a little behind and could I stand by from 2:15 to 3:00 instead. I stand by. While I stand by, I make cookies. It’s the best I can do in my upcoming and short lived role as hostess.

It rains for about ten minutes.

I talk to Michaela.

Sometime between 2:15 and 3:00, Loring calls. The number switch was a success. He hands me over to Kathy and she tells me that they’ll be at the ranch tomorrow around 3:00.

I have another twenty-four hours of this place to myself.

I eat the last of the kitcheree for a late lunch out on the porch. The cat stands up with her paws on my leg to smell the bowl and acts like she’s going to jump in my lap and start eating. I put a piece of spinach on the ground for her and she eats it up. Crazy cat.

Some clouds move in.

I go in and take a bath, wash my hair. I’ll try to be presentable for company.

A bit of sunshine in the 7:00 hour. Why does the day become perfect just in time to turn to night?

I build up a fire and pretend it’s not my last night alone here. There’s no time (and not enough wine) for sentimentality. All things come to an end. All things begin again.

After all this time, I finally take my Edmund MAG 5 Star Atlas outside with me and gaze up. Didn’t Loggins & Messina (or The Carpenters, depending on which group you have playing) sing, “I see Virgo Rising is a very good sign”? Or are the words, “Pisces, Virgo Rising is a very good sign”? That would make more sense. Also, I mishear things all the time. I like to mishear them to fit my occasions. This occasion I really do see Virgo rising (at least I think I do. If I’m reading this map correctly) over the southern horizon.

The Big Dipper, The Little Dipper, those are easy. Cassiopeia, I know her. It’s the others I’ve gotten out of touch with. Bootes, Coma Berenices, Corvus, Crater, Libra. I put my thumb over my phone’s light—turning the beam red so that I don’t lose my night vision. I brought a piece of red cellophane with me to put over a flashlight so that I could study stars at leisure and never used it. How is it that I’m just now getting serious with the night sky? A satellite (the ISS?) goes south to north. A second moving point of light goes north to south. Like ships passing in the night… sky. Then I see another one tracking west to east. No, we are never ever really alone.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

Caretaker’s Log, Friday, May 30, 2014

It takes a bottle of water, breakfast, and two cups of coffee to get rid of my I Stayed Up Too Late Reading hangover.

I sit out on the porch and finish The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest. The cat finally comes from who knows where to get her morning attentions and to sit in the chair next to me.

Just after noon, the bald eagle is out soaring over the north slope.

Two youngster elk are munching grass in the east field.

From 2:00 to 3:30, I finish washing up the inside windows in the back room and upstairs in the loft. I disturb some spiders. Sorry, guys.

It rains a little. 

All of a sudden it’s 4:00. I don’t know how the day passed so quickly.

The osprey is out looking for fish.

The red tailed hawk is circling the forest.

I try to find something new to read.

After I start some quinoa cooking, I trudge over to the root cellar to replenish my house supply of canned pineapple cubes. I bring in nine cans. It’s quinoa and a can of pineapple chunks for dinner.

No luck finding something interesting to read. I must be too fresh off Stieg Larsson’s series. This is maybe the first time since I’ve been here that I’m bored. In between books. Not wanting to start something like a puzzle or a show. Maybe this is just the ennui that comes from being a bit tired, a bit grouchy. Early to bed tonight.

Caretaker’s Log, Saturday, May 31, 2014

The sun is out in full force. I wake up from a strange dream about running a four mile race in socks. One of those dreams where the race never actually starts and I wander around trying to get the staff in line and make sure my parents and my grandmother don’t mind the wait. There’s a rain delay in the dream. There’s a false start. There’s commiseration with the other three racers. There’s my Pappaw eating a hotdog.  

In real life, I sit in the sun and the dream fades away. Before I start to burn, I go inside and begin some research on the Marshall Islands Atomic Bomb Testing of the 1950s.

A helicopter flies over my valley.

A bit past noon, a dark cloud rolls in. A bit before 1:00, the thunder announces itself as serious. Then the rain starts.

These are quick little storms.

Feeling suddenly ill-kempt, I go take a bath and wash my hair.

I read about meteorology and atomic energy.

Well, that was a brief, but effective bit of rain, hail, thunder, and lightning.

Grandmama calls.

The eagle is out.

I make kitcheree.

  

At 7:00 I take measure of the day’s weather. 0.02 inches of precipitation. And that’s the day.

Caretaker’s Log, Sunday, June 1, 2014

Suddenly, it’s June.

Heading to the front porch with my coffee cup in hand, I see the coyote. I haven’t seen her in weeks. How I’ve missed her! I watch as she makes her way across the east pasture. She disappears into the tall growth. I consider getting up on the roof to watch her longer, but I don’t do it.

  

The cat is frisky. She chases the ground squirrels and her own shadow across the front yard.

The clouds create a constant interruption to my sunning. I finally go inside. During a sunny break through, I go back out. Warmed by the sun. Then chilled under the clouds. That sunny lull was brief. The eagle soars over the pasture. The insects must be out. A flock of birds (nuthatches?) flies in changing formation over my head.

The clouds piss me off. It’s too chill to stay outside. Grumpily, I go sit on the couch and wrap a blanket around my shoulders.

At 2:00, I get to cleaning the kitchen. Four hours later I stop to eat dinner. At 7:00, I take the weather. I close out the month of May on the online weather recording site. I put away some of the dried dishes. I make two discoveries while I’m cleaning. 1. There are actually lids to the little pots I’ve been cooking my rice and quinoa in. I’ve been using skillets as lids for the past eight weeks. 2. Someone (not me) put the spices on the shelf in alphabetical order. OCD or efficient? If I’d done it… well, it would have been to satisfy my occasional OCD tendencies. And to be frightfully efficient, of course. Obviously, my power of observation needs some working on.

Through the den window I see a bird of prey that I don’t recognize. It has lots of white. I’ve never seen it before. Even through the binoculars it’s too far away for me to identify.

Michaela calls to make sure I’m alive. Apparently I hadn’t posted anything online all day.

Phinehas calls.

A little before 8:00, I give in and build a fire. A fire for June 1^st.