A Deliberate Life: A Journey into the Alaskan Wilderness

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Pamela Haskin

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ISBN: 0-595-28164-8

ISBN 978-1-4697-2976-3 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Foreword

Preface

The Glint of Steel

A Deliberate Life

Be It Ever so Humble

Putting By

Foxtrot

Meat Without a Styrofoam Tray

Wash Day

Put Another Log on the Fire

The Midnight Sun

Bunny Boots and Hot-Pink Laces

Generating Power

A Penny Earned

Trapline Chatter

The Owl Tree

A New Addition

Linking

A Cottage Below

to Jeff—

My most valiant supporter, my confidant, my best friend and my husband. You give me the courage to choose. I love you millions!

Every person I meet back here wants to know how you people live so far from civilization…

—from a letter written by Edward Everett Rice of Boston, Massachusetts dated November 7, 1907, to my great-grandfather, Robert Purves, and his brother James Purves, living in Sierra Blanca, Texas.

Foreword

It is perhaps rare to meet someone whose life is so much more than ordinary. These people often stand out simply as a result of having made deliberate choices for their path in life such as Pam’s choosing to homestead in the Alaskan Bush. It is rarer still, and more precious, to have spent the better part of 25 years married to such a person. Within the pages of this book, you will get a glimpse into what passes for ordinary through the eyes of my extraordinary wife.

Pam never complains about our more rustic lifestyle. She did not mind leaving behind a growing business and the potential for great monetary wealth. In fact, she eagerly embraced the idea of moving to Alaska. Life’s a journey, not a destination. You might as well choose a life with purpose and adventure, she always says. But, that’s just the beginning. A Deliberate Life is a fun and engaging read you won’t want to put down. Trust me, you should have been there!

—Jeff Haskin

Preface

Do you have the courage to live your dream? Do you even realize that you get a choice in life? Most people don’t seem to know it. I didn’t know it myself for a long time. Most people never choose and in not choosing they simply glide through life accepting only whatever life hands to them.

It doesn’t have to be that way! Choose your dream and go live it! It may be too late for some of us to fulfill a specific dream, but you still get to choose where you go from here. We all have choices to make. The easy way out is not always the best choice. The tougher, harder-to-do alternative is oftentimes far more rewarding.

One day, before Jeff and I moved to Alaska, we found ourselves asking if there wasn’t more to life than having a big house, a fancy car, and a successful business. We found that there is indeed more, so much more! We chose to participate in the Land For Alaskans program and moved to Alaska. Homesteading is certainly not for everyone, but everyone gets to choose. Choose Alaska or New York City. Choose to dance or heal. Choose to teach or bake. Life is too short not to choose. Come with me! Come rise above the chaos and clamor that says you can’t. For you can! You can live your dream!

I’ve decided to share my story with you for two reasons. First, I want you to know that you get a choice. Secondly, I do a lot of public speaking. Everywhere I go, someone invariably asks, What do you do all day long out there? Now they have the answer.

1

The Glint of Steel

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the

essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and

not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

—Henry David Thoreau

With both hands cupped around my face, I leaned against the cold windowpane and peered out into the night, squinting to try and bring the dark images into focus. Nothing but darkness. No matter. I already knew what was out there. A foot of new snow blanketed the three feet we already had. A dense forest of 60foot-tall spruce trees, limbs heavy with the new-fallen snow, encircled the clearing our one-room log cabin occupied. A narrow foot-trail at the edge of the clearing led to the gravel road more than half a mile away. The thermometer nailed to the window frame registered twenty degrees below zero. And the nearest person was more than five miles away. Even Jeff, my husband, was gone. He was away at work for another week in the oil fields at Prudhoe Bay along the north coast of Alaska. Oh well, I sighed turning away from the window, at least I was warm and safe inside the cabin, or so I thought.

It was kind of late for dinner, nearly 10p.m., but I was hungry. Besides, I reasoned, I would need the energy to repack the trail and uncover the woodpile in the morning. Small pieces of chicken sizzled and popped as I slid them off the cutting board with the blade of my knife into a waiting pan of hot oil. I stirred in a little garlic and lemon-pepper. Soon the smell of dinner filled my small cabin.

Sahna, my yellow Lab, roused from her peaceful lounging and sniffed the air. Don’t worry. I’ll save you a bite, I said. Her ears perked up and her tail wagged. Then she stood up, circled around, and lay back down on the same spot of painted-plywood floor.

With my dinner cooking, I reached for a towel to wipe down the counter. As I did, the towel caught on the tip of the knife I had used to cut the chicken. The knife flew off the counter. I felt its weight bounce against my arm and hand as the steel blade, glinting unusually bright in the soft glow of the kerosene lamp, clattered to rest at my feet.

Hesitantly, I looked down. I saw a deep gash on the side of my hand between my wrist and little finger. For just an instant as I raised my hand for a closer look, I saw muscle tissue and a thin layer of fat. Then, just as quickly blood filled the cut and began to pour down my forearm toward my elbow.

I knew from my first aid training that this cut was a bad one. It was bleeding heavily and needed stitches. The nearest medical help was three hours away by gravel road and across three mountain passes. The road was sometimes impassable for days at a time in winter when wind and snow closed the road with drifts as high as ten feet.

Knowing I first had to stop the bleeding, I fumbled with the latch on the first aid kit with my right hand while trying to keep blood from my left hand spilling over its contents. I tore open a package of sterile gauze and pressed it tight against the cut. I began to pace. I breathed too fast. I snapped at Sahna when she went to investigate the knife still lying on the floor. The adrenaline rushing through my veins was making me panicky.

Chicken! Oh, no, I was cutting chicken! I could get salmonella! What do I do for salmonella poisoning? I couldn’t remember. First step; stop the bleeding!

Blood quickly saturated the gauze pad and began to drip from both elbows and splatter along the floor as I paced. I sat down cross-legged on the floor and tried to slow my breathing. I drew in a deep breath but released it too quickly. Oh God, I pleaded, please calm me and show me what to do. I can’t do this alone.

As I continued to apply pressure to the wound, I quickly considered my options. Jeff wasn’t due home for another week. We had no phone service in our area so I couldn’t phone for help. The nearest person whom I knew had first aid training was more than ten miles away.

The snowmobile, my usual mode of winter transportation when Jeff was at work, was no help. Its rope-pull start was difficult at best for me to start with two hands much less one when temperatures dropped below zero.

Walking out to get help was not an option. One thing I had learned living in the Alaskan Bush is that under no circumstances do you ever take the elements for granted. The dark cold demands respect! Even if I could have gotten a mitten on my injured hand I would certainly have had frostnip if not frostbite by the time I reached help. The cold would have also quickly drained the power from the batteries in my flashlight long before I got to help leaving me to find my way in the dark.

I was on my own.

Poor Sahna, she moved away from me. The tip of her tail flicked back and forth the way it does when she is nervous and unsure. It’s okay, pup, I said quietly, more to myself than to her.

Thirty minutes passed. The cut was still bleeding heavily. Blood pooled in ever widening circles on my jeans where my elbows rested on my legs. My right arm ached from applying pressure to the cut. I felt light-headed. My peripheral vision grew darker and darker. My field of view narrowed to a small round spot of light directly in front of me.

I fought for control. I forced myself to take deep, cleansing breaths and tried to pray. Lord, please… I began. I couldn’t get any more words out. I prayed faithfully everyday, but at that moment, when I needed to pray the most, the words were muddled in my mind as I struggled to stay alert.

The next ten minutes passed slowly. Once again I gently lifted the gauze pad. At last, the bleeding was slowing. Thank you God, I said aloud and breathed a sigh of relief. But, now what? I needed stitches, but obviously I couldn’t do that myself.

I rummaged through the first aid kit again with my right hand and found steri-strips, narrow pieces of tape doctors often place across an incision once stitches have been removed.

Holding my breath, I gingerly placed several steri-strips across the cut. I began to breathe more easily over the next few minutes as I watched for any continued bleeding. At last, it seemed to have ceased. I wrapped my hand in sterile gauze and hoped for the best.

I didn’t remember doing it, but at some point I must have turned off the flame under the chicken. Cold and thoroughly saturated with oil, my dinner still sat on the front burner of the propane stove. Want some chicken? I asked Sahna.

I cleaned the floor the best I could with one hand. I put my jeans to soak in cold water that I had collected earlier in the day by melting snow. Then, I crawled into bed.

Sleep eluded me.

I propped my throbbing hand a little higher on my pillow and called down to Sahna to quit snoring. She readjusted herself on her blanket and fell back asleep. She started snoring again. Oh, well.

I thought of my mother faraway in Texas. She and most everyone else I knew had told me I was crazy to follow Jeff to the Alaskan wilderness four years earlier. Sometimes, on lonely nights like that one, I too began to question my sanity.

Over the next week my hand got pretty sore and a little swollen, but I never got sick. The side of my hand would always bear a scar. I hoped it never faded away. It was my reminder that I am never really alone. God would always be with me, even in the Bush.

2

A Deliberate Life

The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.

—Henry David Thoreau

Life on our Alaskan homestead was certainly different from the one I had known: a woodpile instead of a thermostat, no running water or indoor plumbing, no electricity, and no phone. Phone service wasn’t even available. No cellular or radiophone would reach our homestead at that time. Mom especially hated that part.

Jeff and I moved to Alaska from Tucson, Arizona, where we had been the quintessential baby-boomers. Jeff’s growing taxidermy business there had quickly become self-supporting. We made plans for me to quit my job as a medical secretary and work full-time with Jeff. We talked about a new car and looked at buying a house. We were on our way to success!

As our real estate agent showed us one property after another, we soon