distance away.
The only problem was severe freezing followed by a heavy winter storm and unusually high tides. The float house froze fast to the mud banks, and when the tide came in, it flooded.
We were finally able to get to it and assess the damage late one afternoon after the high tide receded. The inside looked like one giant slush bucket. At least a foot of crushed ice filled the entire float house.
Undaunted, we brought shovels and slowly hauled out all the ice. Miraculously, there seemed to be little or no damage. We were finally able to move it as planned, and I would stay in it for more than a year.
A TALENTED WOODWORKER and carpenter built my float house using in part building materials gathered from an old church that had been torn down. The floors were solid maple; a small stained glass window was set in the roof under a triangular point. On a clear night, I could lie in bed and see stars and the moon.
The entire structure was about thirty feet long by fifteen feet wide, give or take a few feet. The front featured a door in the middle, tall windows, and window seats below. Inside, there was a small kitchen counter to the left with handmade curtains hiding shelving. An open area to the right held a wood stove. The back half was divided by a wall; to one side was a double bed that could be pulled up like a Murphy bed. On the other side was room for a long dresser and closet. A loft above held storage. It was charming.
I cleaned the entire house before moving in. I painted the exterior in Canada cottage colors, with green exterior walls and white window trim with red touches. The house was adorable and would have made a great getaway cabin.
Of course, there was no running water. A sink drained into a large plastic bucket. There was no bathroom. When I eventually parked the float house on a creek on land Jim owned, I used the same outhouse he built for his wall tent. It was down a narrow boardwalk from Jim’s neighbors. All these young people were in their late teens to early twenties, mere babes, as it were, in the woods.
THIS KIND OF LIFESTYLE got me a nickname when I applied during the summer to work for the Municipality of Anchorage Parks and Recreation program.
When the legislative season ended that year, I went back to Anchorage and applied for work at the Summer Playground Program. The city and school district would open about two dozen elementary schools around the city. After a week of training, they’d place two playground leaders onsite to run two recreation programs—one in the morning for little kids, and one in the afternoon for the older ones. The programs were free to Anchorage residents.
That’s how rich the State of Alaska was back then. What would now be considered camp cost families about the same as the occasional movie ticket. Needless to say, the program was wildly popular, often maxing out on enrollment. As playground leaders, we led indoor and outdoor games, art projects, and field trips to the movies or zoo.
During my first interview, I met with the head of the program and a supervisor, both longtime veterans of recreation programs. When they asked me what qualified me to do work outdoors with kids, I explained how I lived in the woods without running water, electricity, or indoor plumbing. They thought I was hilarious. I would have too. Thus, I became known as “Grizzly Adams.”
This was not exactly the persona I was after.
I THINK I SAW MYSELF as a short Emmylou Harris, the willowy, longhaired, beautiful singer who popularized traditional folk and country music in the 1970s. I don’t know if Harris ever had to live off the land. I have read that Dolly Parton grew up without running water—or was that Loretta Lynn? Either way, I was living pretty much as people did in the poorest parts of the Appalachian Mountains. The only difference between me and people living in a “holler” is that I had chosen to do so, and the poorest of the poor would probably choose anything but.
I’m not sure I ever gave it much thought, but over time, I became disillusioned with the whole business of living back to nature. A series of events, including the night in the hollowed-out tree root, led me to conclude that my life wasn’t going so well.
It may have been the day I was napping in a friend’s cabin with some type of kerosene or propane stove for heat. I awoke with a start, darted for the outdoors, and vomited violently for several minutes. I had been poisoned by a leak in the heater. Thank God it wasn’t carbon monoxide, or I’d be dead.
I might have lost faith the day a group of us went to get firewood. We drove out to North Douglas until the guys spotted in the forest what looked like a good tree to take down. In the forest. The US Forest, I believe, as in you-don’t-just-chop-down-trees-here federal forest. I could be wrong. Commercial logging has a long and controversial history in Southeast Alaska. Taking down trees for your personal use? Would the forest rangers care? No one knew. But whether or not what we were doing was entirely legal turned out to be the least of our problems.
The tree was high atop a small ridge above the road. Perfect. We could chop down the tree, cut it into rounds, and toss them over the ridge almost right into the back of the pickup truck. We’d hardly have to lift a finger.
The guys went up on the ridge. Cut down the tree. Cut up the tree, then began tossing the rounds down. As they did, the rounds promptly sank into several feet of snow. Somehow, no one had noticed that the snow was deep off to the side of the road. Somehow, our intrepid loggers had managed to get up the ridge without stepping into what was no doubt a roadside ditch deep enough and filled with enough snow to bury large rounds of tree trunk.
I stood there thinking, This can’t be how this is done. Isn’t wood supposed to be gathered in the summer? Didn’t I read somewhere that it’s supposed to dry out or be cured before it burns properly?
I’ve never been exactly a stickler for details, but I was wet and freezing and getting sick and tired of being wet and freezing.
AFTER MY FIRST legislative session ended, I got a job as a waitress at one of Juneau’s upscale restaurants located on the downtown waterfront.
I had worked in restaurants since I was sixteen. In Anchorage, the places I worked were signs of the times—The Bread Factory and The Cauldron, both emphasizing healthy, natural foods.
The Bread Factory crew made their own bread, and every meal came with thick slices of hearty whole wheat bread. The specials were large tuna melts or frittatas or salads. The Cauldron specialized in homemade soups, bread, and rolls.
In keeping with the egalitarian ideals of the time, all workers at The Cauldron had to do stints at dishwashing. I didn’t mind doing the dishes, except that I had plaque psoriasis and sensitive skin, making me allergic to wool and—of course—detergents. For years, I struggled with large rashes that would erupt painfully then dry over, only to reappear again.
For a while, I was roommates with a nursing student at the community college in town. Rona got into an argument with the male co-owner of The Cauldron, telling him I should not have to wash dishes because of my rash. Rubber gloves never worked to keep out the water and detergent.
“She could get a serious infection,” my roommate yelled.
My boss was into metaphysics, and I received a rambling lecture about good vibes and mind over matter. I was fairly intimidated by him, as he was known to be highly intelligent, never raised his voice, and—as he told Rona—believed the rash was the result of my negative thinking.
I believe my negative thinking led me to quit that job.
The coffee house scene was still very much alive in those days, so places like The Bread Factory had live music, usually a guitarist singing
