Bush Rats: what are they and how do these "rats" live? Why, they’re us - it’s a term used in Alaska for those living remote and off the road system. A fellow fisherman's crew member last summer asked why we prefer to live out here, and we find it a question that is difficult to answer succinctly because the terms aren't easily translatable, but here follows one response of ours.

Undoubtedly, this lifestyle affords us time in quantities unknown to many. To those used to the civilized rat race, it could appear that it’s a dull and boring life style, but on the contrary, we feel healthily more alive and in tune out here than in town or a typical city. This slower seasonal style of living doesn't have the kind of excitement or variable input that humans cultured within the frenetic smart phone fast-lane of life are programmed for, but in one way, this living close to nature, surrounded and enveloped by it, is energizing and creates a deeper pulse of satisfaction. Just to notice how much more and deeply we dive into the core of remote living is rewarding itself, from learning and trying new things (Tollef spent 6 hours straight sewing a beaver blanket – something he’d never done before - and is teaching himself timber framing) to visiting the same spots in the bay throughout the year and seeing how they shift with the turn of seasons.

Even mundane tasks of everyday living are more meaningful here. Washing the many dishes we generate from making everything from scratch – from bread to beer to yogurt to granola - takes a good chunk of time, but far from being drudgery, it’s a pleasure to do so while enjoying the views of the beach and its resident wildlife. While working on the paperwork aspects of our businesses, our many windows offer us that near feeling of nature happening right there. Sea otters cruising back and forth, sea ducks calling to each other as they over-winter here too, the occasional whale blowing off outside in the distance, deer wandering the beach and yard. Our optical input is always changing, daily or hourly, with snow-blanketed mountains shrouded in fog or clouds creating a sense of mystery, defining dark rock faces more visibly, and wind swirling the sea scape below them. For us the background noise isn't the drone of traffic punctuated by emergency sirens or aircraft, it's the lapping of waves on the beach and rocks and its counterpart the wind, ruffling gentle or roaring across the maritime landscape.

Actually, that wind and water noise isn’t just the background – it’s the primal element that anchors each day’s decisions. With broad goals like how we'd like to go hiking at a specific place, we can only skiff there if the wind is calm or we are in the lee, and if the tides are right. If it is going to be a big minus tide and we need to anchor way off the beach, we might choose to wait. Other projects, like working on the house to super insulate the exterior with foam-board and then an aesthetic balance of metal and rough cut spruce siding, with the end goal to need as little firewood as possible to heat our small home, are also weather dependent. If it’s breezy (which it often is) we don’t want to be up on a ladder with sheets of material acting like a sail. The other day felt decidedly spring-like, with warm sun and thawing temperatures, typical of Kodiak winters, where the weather swings can mean thaws and freezes throughout. That means we can go from a warm 40 degrees to a chilly 20, all with the same humidity around 70-85+%, keeping it interesting.

Although not long ago fine weather was enticing us to out and hike, we spent the day instead digging drainage ditches in the mostly-not-frozen ground, so that we’ll have dry ground on which to erect our new shop that is on tap for later this spring. Throughout the day we ran into vestiges of the previous occupants’ building - old pilings, pipes and drainage culverts - from Alfred and Josie Sandvik’s hand pack cannery that operated here from 1929 –’48 and Dominici Brothers from ‘48- ’67. It felt like modern-day archeology.

Cold but perfectly calm - a marvelous day to check on the kelp farm.

And even rough weather has its upsides. Many times it’s a relief to wake up to a gray and stormy day, allowing us to make headway on the indoor work we have so much of. Being far from having a finished-looking house like you’d have in a city, mainly because out here it's function over form and limited (or made creative) by what materials are on hand to get the job done, means we always have things to work on. Slowly but surely we are chipping away at the to-do list. The big advancement this winter was the installation of an indoor bathroom, which keeps us cozier but maybe takes us outside of the most hard-core “bush rat” status. Not that we are trying to prove anything! In our first years we had an outdoor shower under the house behind some plywood with loose plywood underfoot that was very “invigorating” in any cold fall or springtime gusts of wind. Showers then were taken quickly, fed from a large tank of roof water runoff that was slightly smoky-flavored from the chimney. Hmm. Here’s to progress! We will always have an outhouse here, a fail proof necessity.

We still do enjoy outdoor bathing on our own terms - in our wood-fired hot tub off the porch.

Having the seasons wash over and through us mentally and physically has also been a real treat. With the spring light returning, it’s like nature’s most potent shot in the arm, vitamin D, urging us to get out and do more. With sparkling calm weather, our first impulse is to continue to explore the landscape on foot. Hiking this time of year includes almost always wearing our trusty micro-spikes - just short of crampons and a step up from city dweller type cleats – and strapping our snowshoes on our packs to switch over to as we get higher and deeper into the snowy country. Observing how our tracks intermingle with those of the creatures wandering about for tasty bites entertains and educates us. Cutting across bear tracks (becoming more common as winter wanes) is always notable as they wake up for a stroll and then go back to bed. Even the small ones are bigger than our boots, cris-crossing on their secret missions, their walk-abouts, to see what's going on over the next hill and dell.

Getting out expands our senses immeasurably and measurably. We’re always struck by how, in cities, our view and focus is calibrated in feet, but here it's in miles. Indeed, both of our vision always improves (according to our eye doctor’s wall charts) after spending time out here. The vast texture soaks into our brains and creates a pleasant eurphoric buzz and combined with blood pumping and rushing throughout our bodies, makes food taste better and the company of each other more wonderful.

Speaking of the company of each other, perhaps that’s a big reason we choose this bush rat life. Neither of us would want to go it alone, but it is so different as a pair. Living here for a full year, having not left Kodiak Island for the longest span of time either of us can remember, has been more than great. It’s allowed us time to calibrate ourselves to the natural world around us and to do monumental things we've wanted to do for a long time, like getting married(!) in our own greenhouse by our close friend David Little and a very small collection of neighbors who happened to be around at the time. Even if the pandemic hadn't been in full swing, we wouldn't have changed a thing.