It's a misty moonless mountain night, chilly and darker than a black bears tookus. My wife and I now stand atop a snowy precipice high above the south bank of the Fraser River, literally waiting for our ship to come in to complete this second last leg in our journey. The time is 1:15am and we are weary from a 650km nocturnal pilgrimage through hairy mountain passes and vicious winter whiteouts. Having witnessed the arrival of our headlights a flashlight clicks on atop the water across the drink and bobs rhythmically up and down like Bambi Woods head in the oral scene from Debbi Does Dallas. As the bouncing beacon nears, accompanied by the clatter of an outboard 4 stroke a frigid wind whips up from the west and slaps us with sharp sheets of sleet. The silver john boat finally slips atop the mucky riverbank below and then, in a reverse Normandy we step off the snowy ledge and rush down a slick mucky slope towards the chrome craft laden with suitcases, desperate for footing. Sheltering our faces we heave our shit aboard then scramble in offering a hasty 'how you doin' to Matt, my best childhood friend whom I have not seen in years. Beer in hand he attempts to navigate the strong current and with my help manages to crash the expensive vessel he has commandeered from an elderly neighbour without permission jarringly into an old wood piling, cursing me under his breath. By the time we are across the river and absconding to Matt's waiting truck we are thoroughly drenched, freezing cold and filthy with mud. There is an uncomfortable silence as we bounce up the 'road' which is really two dirt trails in the grass cut through thick wood that leads to his homestead. "Welcome to Penny" Matt chuckles, cutting the quiet, seeming to read our "what the hell have we gotten ourselves into" thoughts. Just getting to this place has been a resolve testing ordeal, rivalled only by Frodo`s march into Mordor. Privately I hope that our stay is much less eventful.
We have endeavoured to visit our friends Matt and Jenna in early November at their remote residence in central British Columbia. They bought the land and the century old heritage house occupying it about three years ago. Here there are no utilities, paved roads or stores. There are two options to get to their property, you can take a 1.5 hour 120km detour via the nearest bridge and pull up in your vehicle or you can park on the highway side of the river and take a boat across as we have. The closest neighbours are an off-road truck ride away and tucked neatly into the bush, far enough that you don't know they are there but close enough to lend a hand pounding fence posts or to donate that missing ingredient for the muffins you are making. Despite its age, and having been relocated on a flatbed trailer at some point in its life, the house is remarkably sound and comfortable boasting a labyrinth of rooms and constructed of building materials with more character in the fasteners than in entire modern city homes. As I carry my suitcase up the steep hardwood stairs that squeal in protest to the ascent Jenna casually informs me that the previous owner's husband expired in the very room they have prepared for me. How thoughtful of her. Despite this disquieting information, and dogs barking to ward off wildlife at 3am (probably black bears) I have the 3 best sleeps of my life here. Amenities out here are scarce, everything we take for granted in 21st century living is considered a luxury. For example Matt has recently installed a diesel powered generator and a bank of batteries to provide uninterrupted electricity for the absolute necessities such as a fridge and lights, although the breaker is switched off for the night to conserve precious power so you need a flashlight if you want your middle of the night piss to end up in the toilet. Heat is provided solely by the wood burning stove in the kitchen. There is running water, a new addition Matt plumbed in a year or so after moving in but it's not suitable for human consumption unless boiled. For drinking water you must take a plastic jug and fetch some from "the creek" a few kilometres down the road that originates in the mountains that skirt the Fraser river valley from the north.
Chores and work occupy the bulk of our friend's lives in this undomesticated landscape. We are told that the house and yard would be unrecognisable to the former owners should they decide to visit, a claim that is backed up by before and after photographic evidence. A few years of "blood, sweat and beers" as Matt putts it have transformed the place from post apocalyptic warzone to quaint mountain farmstead. In the yard a mesh buffalo fence has been erected to keep out marauding black bears, of which at least half a dozen have visited in the last year alone. While fishing from the argil banks of the Fraser that elbows a stone's throw from the edge of their property Matt told me how one night he arrived here late from work and left his truck at the top of the road to continue on foot in order to avoid making ruts in the trail to his home that had turned to muck after many days of rain. At the start of his 1.5km walk along the path he heard howling wolves, which got progressively nearer until he made to the porch at which point they ceased. Here one only needs to step outside to get a true sense of the word "wild".
Entertainment in this neck of the woods is focused much more on conversation than we are used to and the days seem much fuller and longer, in a satisfying way. In the failing light on our final night of the stay I found myself burning a heap of old cedar shingles that Matt ripped off the house himself. As we aroused the dying flames with garden rakes a blinding flash in the south west sky interrupted our idle chatter. Witness to what looked to be a large fragment of the sun streaking through the black atmosphere on a collision course with earth one wonders how many feral cosmic spectacles the city lights buffer us from; out here Matt just shrugs his shoulders, things that are extreme to me seem to be a regular occurrence to him.
Until this visit I considered living off the grid to be an existence that only extremist hippies or bomb building anitsocials would pursue. After spending 3 days without the mind numbing distractions of modern day life I have to admit that I see the virtue of this means, independent of infrastructure, self reliant and much less frightening. Autonomous of any city council rules and far removed from the clutter, chaos and disorganization of the urban environment that governs the lives of the average Albertan, being here seems more natural and fulfilling. I am proud of my friends for doing what most would consider unthinkable; slapping modern day convinces in the face by moving to a remote location to subsist with nature instead of institution.