So far, the research process for our hand-sculpted homestead has left us with no shortage of ideas. In this entry, we've cataloged a small collection of videos showcasing non-traditional homes/homebuilders that we've found inspiring. Actually, depending on the perspective taken, one could argue these people are pursuing traditional ideas, and that our modern state of living is the aberration.

First, we have a celtic roundhouse. It was built "illegally" by Tony Wrench and Jane Faith, in Wales, on their friend's land. After the structure was discovered by the local planning committe, it took a decade of fighting before they were granted the right to continue doing what they had been all along: living in harmony with the land around them to the detriment of no-one.

Here, Austin Hay, a 16 year old from Sonoma County, California, talks about the process of building his tiny house—an imminently practical project which has the potential to preemptively save him from ever needing to make a rent or a mortgage (a.k.a. death pledge) payment.

Here, Kevin Shea (a retired NYC firefighter) talks about his wood-frame geodesic dome. He ordered the plans from the back of a Popular Science magazine!

And finally, Tara's favorite: a spectacular strawbale-and-timberframe woodland home, built by Ben Law.

In writing this entry, I am filled with a sense of déjà vu. We've been here before—preparing for a grand journey—finding ourselves inspired by those who came before us. As fulfilling as this stage of the cycle is, I look forward to the day when we've moved from reading about building our home to being completely immersed in the work/adventure of actually doing it.

Then comes my favorite part: the first step into the great outdoors, when a vast sky of brilliant stars towers above, and a cold, early-winter wind blows in my face. Last night, we were scared half to death by a great flapping and wooshing of wings on our way to the tent—an owl had taken flight from its perch in the trees overhead. It's moments like this that make me feel fully alive.

When the initial rush of being outside has passed, and the chill air creeps towards my bones, we scurry into the tent, burrow deep into our sleeping bag, and settle in for an hour or so of reading by headlamp, before falling fast, fast asleep.

In the morning, we poke our heads out of our warm cocoon, and a rush of cold air seeps into the nooks, crannies, and nether-reaches of our sleeping bag. Then, we slip out of our downy bed, and pad groggily back to the house, shoes crunching atop frozen grass and leaves. It’s very still and dark out; often, the world is wrapped in thick pillows of fog.

Safely indoors, we gravitate like moths to a flame, fluttering to the fireplace in the living room. Taking up residence in front of the hearth, I am so grateful for it's warmth. Tyler and I sit close, reading as we bask in its flickering glow, feeling quiet and contemplative and content. And yet, some part of me remains restless and filled with longing; I cannot wait until we're warming ourselves by a fire in the woods of Vermont!

The world outside gradually lightens, and so begins another day.

We had planned on using massive quantities of clay, but we couldn't stomach the exorbitant craft-store-prices, so we whipped up a huge batch of homemade play-dough using about two dollars' worth of flour, salt, water, and oil. And then we put on some music, cracked open a beer, and,using a piece of cardboard as a base, played around with our dough-walls until we came up with a rough working model.

Translating our abstract ideas and rough drawings into real, three dimensional objects was an incredibly useful exercise. As we slid around our squishy dough-walls, all sorts of new ideas became apparent. We discovered that, upon adding a slight curve to our walls, really interesting things began to happen in the negative space behind them. Suddenly, without too much effort, ideal spaces for cozy nooks, crannies, and storage areas appeared organically in the design.

We've accepted the inevitability that our design will change (continuously) until we're finished building our first dream home, but it still feels good to have the "shitty first draft" behind us. In addition to our small-scale modeling efforts, Tara has been curating an extensive Pintrest board, full of inspirational images!

It's too quiet in here!

With a Minnesota winter fast approaching, we'd shut our windows, sealing away the chill evening air. Without realizing it, we'd also separated ourselves from the soothing sound of the wind, bugs, and all manner of wildlife in the woods outside. Having recognized the source of the stifling lifelessness we felt, we couldn't stand it any longer.

So, we flung off our oppressive covers at 1AM and made a plan of action: Tyler would set up our tent in the backyard, while I filled a backpack with everything we'd need. But first, we got dressed: merino wool from head to toe, followed by flannel pajama pants, fleece hoodies, and knitted hats.

Sufficiently bundled, Tyler padded downstairs to get our accommodations sorted. Meanwhile, I collected a pair of water bottles, a roll of toilet paper, our headlamps, and finally, two apples for snacking. On my way out, I grabbed the pillows from our bed with a smile, knowing this small luxury would make our new home even more cozy.

Twenty minutes later, I joined Tyler outside—he had already assembled our trusty little tent, and nestled it in a stand of birch trees under the night sky. The nature we'd been missing was all around us once more, illuminated by a brilliant moon which cast a pearly glow over our new abode. As we chuckled with satisfied delight about our 1AM escapade, our laughs became trails of smoke, lit in the beams of our headlamps.

Then, we crawled into our double-wide sleeping bag, and bristled against the initial chill of cold nylon. In a matter of minutes, though, our body heat had tamed the air around us, and our little cocoon was as warm as could be. Listening to the rattle of brittle leaves against the wind, I felt connected to nature once more. In the downy depths of our new bed, we snuggled up to sleep; moments later, we fell into a peaceful slumber.

After some orienteering, we took to the woods:

…admiring the scenery along the way.

Some hours later, we arrived at camp, with three filthy, dog-tired puppies:

We collected some firewood:

…and made ourselves at home:

When night fell, we stared into the fire, drinking wine, and talking about life, the universe, and everything in between.

The following morning, we returned to civilization:

The End!

Thank you Jess, Nick, Natasha, and Pete! Most of our happiest memories involve being in the great outdoors with friends and fires and woodsmoke under the stars. This weekend was a prime example! It was wonderful to see you all—we can't wait for next year. Love you guys. Move to Vermont. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

Be empty. Be still.
Just watch everything come and go.
This is the way of Nature.

Lao Tzu

Zoë Keating - Lost

Our summer rides were sunny and hot, though not terribly overpowering if we left early enough. We were usually treated to dewy, relatively cool mornings. Being on bicycles together, breathing fresh air, feeling the weight of our camera slung over one of our shoulders... it unfailingly renewed our sense of adventure about life.

Our favorite discovery of the summer was a veggie stand just a few miles away from home. Having inexpensive garden produce available to us on the honor system has often felt like a small miracle. It meant we could supplement our meager harvest with a bounty, and it that we didn't have to ride into town as often to buy food.

When we weren't in the countryside of central Minnesota, we were traveling to Illinois with our bikes in tow. Cycling in my hometown was a bit less enjoyable than cycling up north, because we had to travel through the ever-expanding sprawl of Champaign/Urbana's suburbia to reach the peace and quiet of its neighboring cornfields. We really are country bumpkins these days!

When we returned to Minnesota, fall had arrived, and with it, an entirely new landscape in which to ride. Farmers had harvested the scrubby blankets of corn once lay across their fields, leaving the land bare and exposed. We nearly cycled past our usual turns on one more than one occasion because the scenery was so different!

Our garden vegetable stand had changed too, moving on from the jalapeños, cucumbers, potatoes, and sweetcorn we'd been enjoying. With autumn taking hold, there were loads of squash available both for carving and cooking—everything from your standard pumpkin, to yellow footballs of pasta-forming spaghetti squash, and from warty, orange "turbans", to the sweetest specimen I’ve ever tasted: the "sweet dumpling."

Autumn is asserting itself more than ever now, presenting us with chilly, drizzly, grey mornings that emerge from pitch-darkness later and later with each passing day. I'm not sure how much more cycling we'll get in before a bitterly cold Minnesota winter arrives. We'll definitely have to bundle up in our warmest layers and switch to our hefty touring bikes if we want to ride after the snow starts flying.

Your new offer was accepted. Congratulations! I'll forward a copy of the signed contract to you and your attorney.

We did it!

]]> http://journal.goingslowly.com/2011/09/making-friends-in-vermont/ http://journal.goingslowly.com/2011/09/making-friends-in-vermont/ Fri, 16 Sep 2011 22:10:00 -0500 tyler@goingslowly.com (Tara) With light hearts, we're heading north towards the Middlebury area to meet our kayaking friend, Sue. The drive is a pleasure; the sun is out, the landscape is verdant and hilly pastureland, and the views are unmarred by billboards and advertisements. Between great swaths of countryside, we wind through quaint villages talking about our land, hoping we'll hear from the sellers soon.

Two hours later, we've arrived in Shoreham, but we're more than an hour early for our dinner date. So, we decide to while away some time at the nearby Champlain Orchards, where I'm hoping we'll be able to find a suitable gift for Sue. As we pull into the parking lot, I spot a sign for "U-Pick Flowers" and decide to assemble a small autumnal bouquet for our hostess.

With scissors in hand, I trod gingerly between rows, listening to the pleasant hum of chubby bumble bees, dusted with pollen, floating like tiny balloons from blossom to blossom. Here among vibrantly-hued flowers of red, pink, and gold, I'm in my own personal heaven. I love flowers! Silky, heavily-perfumed peonies have always been my favorites in early summer, and I'm now certain that zinnias take the crown on the crisp, shortening days of fall.

When an hour has passed at the orchard, we drive back to Shoreham, arriving at Sue's house precisely on time. She welcomes Tyler and I with our choice of chilled beer and wine, then introduces us to her husband Mark, who is out back, tending to the grill. Drinks in hand, we all take a seat outside, chatting as a shadowy dusk falls.

During our conversation, we learn about how the couple moved here from New Jersey nearly twenty years ago, bought a crumbling old house, and fixed it up (their septic system was nothing more than a pipe leading to the ditch!). Later, while chatting about what it means to be a Vermonter, Sue shares the story of how she opened a bakery in town, only to realize it had no need of fancy patries—an large proportion of citizens in this homesteaders' state already know how to bake!

Our conversation stops to observe a pair of cranes, flying silhouetted across the twilight sky, and then, heading indoors, we take our seats around their dining room table for a feast of turkey, roasted turnips, and flatbread slathered with garlic, roasted peppers, and eggplant.

In the flickering candlelight, over the course of the evening, we are deeply thankful for being accepted into the fold of Sue and Mark's community. We've barely met this couple, and already they're eager to put us in touch with people who they think would be good assets for our homesteading project. We haven't even left, and already we're being invited to future parties!

After dessert (lemon olive oil cake and Ben and Jerry's sorbet) we leave the table, full and satisfied by their good food and company. Soon, it's time to say our goodbyes and head westwards, driving through the night back to Illinois. Before we go, Sue insists on packing us massive quantities of snacks and sandwiches for the road, which we accept, grateful for her motherly care.

Bundles of food in hand, Tyler takes the driver's seat, while I hop in the passenger's. Then, pulling out of the driveway, we wave goodbye to Sue and Mark, shouting thank yous out the open window. As my partner pilots us out of Vermont, the land we'll hopefully soon call home, I fall into a restless sleep.

Not fifteen minutes after we've decided to go through with the purchase, we're peeking our heads into Bonnie's quiet office to introduce ourselves. There, at last, we're able to put a face with the name behind the last two months of emails and phone calls. As we shake hands and exchange hugs, she happily proclaims,

"It's so nice to finally meet you in person!"

Sitting at a round table in the back of the office, we start in with the paperwork. Flipping through the stack of legal documentation, we litter the papers with "TA"s and "TK"s, systemically laying out our consent to go through with the first major step in realizing our homesteading dreams. With the signing-marathon complete, Bonnie takes the papers and presents us with an official-looking folder, stuffed with our copy of the lengthy agreement.

It's not until we've said our goodbyes and are outside in the brilliant sunshine of an autumn day, that reality hits. Walking to the car hand in hand, we can hardly believe what we've just done. Breaking into broad smiles, giddy laughter overtakes us, ringing out with equal parts nervousness and excitement. We're actually going to do this!

For the first time since coming to Vermont, we have no agenda. Now, it feels like we're on vacation, carefree as school kids on the first day of summer break. The only thing left to do is wait and see if the sellers accept, and we should know by the end of the day! Next up, we're off to Middlebury to spend the evening with our new friend Sue.

This morning, the dark clouds that loomed yesterday have gone, leaving in their wake bright blue skies. After a short drive from the hotel, we ascend a great hill, arriving once more at the white gate which guards a maple-canopied track to our possible future home. Waiting for Karen, we breathe deep the smell of autumn in the woodland, watching as the occasional leaf tumbles gracefully towards the ground.

This place will be even more stunning in a few weeks, when the fall colors take hold!

Karen arrives a few minutes later, and we all tromp through the woods together, chatting about our plans for the land. As we navigate the obstacle course of trees which have fallen across the roughed-in drive, she recounts with pity the conversation she had with Tyler last week, after we'd backed out of our contract.

I have never heard anyone so sad in my whole life, it was like talking to Eyeore!
And it's no wonder... this place is spectacular!

As we hike in further, my uncertainty dissolves, soundly replaced by a sensation of overwhelming rightness. Grabbing Tyler's arm with a squeeze, we continue hand in hand. When the three of us arrive at the clearing where we would likely place our cottage, Karen unpacks her solar-pathfinder, taking a minute to show us how the ingenious device works.

When viewing the Pathfinder, you are looking for two things at the same time. First a reflective, panoramic view of the site will be seen on the dome. Simultaneously, the sun-path diagram will be seen through the dome. Where the reflected objects on the dome intersect the sun-paths shown through the dome, the site will be shaded at the time indicated on the diagram.

SolarPathFinder.com

After everything is dialed in, we all have a look at the reflections. We're pleased to learn that we will have no problem getting enough sun for solar power from our clearing. In fact, depending on where we put the panels, we wouldn't have to fell a single tree! The positive news fills me with confidence about our secluded woodland.

With that, our solar survey is complete. Rather than leave so soon, we ask if Karen wants to see the rest of the site. She agrees before we can finish the suggestion, so we set off together, hiking towards the southern edge of the property. As we walk, we talk about sustainable building practices, peppering Karen with litany of questions about solar power, pellet stoves, rain catchment, hot water heating, wood splitting, and more.

Meanwhile, she has questions of her own (Have you thought about what you'll do for laundry? Have you considered what you'll do for power in November and December, when solar isn't a viable option?). She seems pleased when we have answers at the ready, saying with a sigh, "Most people don't think about what they're doing, and they don't want to take responsibility for their basic needs. If we're going to survive as a species, we need to!" We couldn't agree more.

After passing through wild raspberry bushes, and a veritable forest of overgrown undergrowth, we reach the dock of our scummy pond. We all agree it needs a little aeration, and Karen feels sure the pump required to do it could be powered by a smallish solar panel.

Ending our mini-tour, we hike back towards the car, discussing the topic of septic systems. After we've given Karen the back-story on our situation, she tells us about a similar experience she had with two acres of remote Vermont woods, and how everyone seemed to think it would be impossible to get permitting. She eventually found someone who was able to make it happen.

Part of our trouble is that the engineer we've been working with claims that putting in a system sized for anything smaller than a three-bedroom home would be terrible for resale. Until hearing Karen's story, we hadn't given much thought to the fact that our entire project is going to be terrible for resale.

The market for tiny, non-traditional, eco-friendly cob cottages is undoubtedly narrow, so we ought to build what makes sense for us. In this case, that would be the smallest legally allowable system. Surely we can find somewhere on this ten acres of land to put it. Confidence now bolstered, our minds are fixed. We'll throw caution to the wind and go for it; this place feels like home.

Back at our white gate, we part ways with Karen, feeling grateful to have crossed paths with her. Friendly, welcoming, and very knowledgeable—she will undoubtedly be a huge asset for us in the coming years. Perhaps best of all, it feels like we truly "get" each other. We've met one of our kind, hopefully the first of many in the area!

The sun is hiding behind a sheath of steel blue skies this morning. A damp chill hangs in the air, leaving the world without any measure of doubt: fall is here. As we lay in our tent, listening to the rapidly escalating sound of raindrops plunking into our rain-fly, it dawns on us that the deeply rutted dirt trail we traversed to reach this spot last night is likely becoming a mud-slick. Springing to action, we break camp with record speed.

By the time we're ready to go, the skies have opened up, throwing down heavy sheets of percussive rain. With a nervous smile, I turn the ignition of our little Honda Civic and attempt, gingerly, to pilot our car over the steep embankment ahead. We've scarcely moved two feet when the front tires break loose, delivering the disheartening whine of rubber slipping on gritty mud. Oh shi…

Craning my neck, I peer out the rear window, throw the gearshift into reverse, and back up for a head start, careful to keep the passenger-car-consuming-crevasse below us centered under the engine. (The photo below is from a similar experience we had in Russia.) Then, dropping into first gear, I slowly roll on the throttle, gunning it once we have a modicum of momentum.

Hitting the embankment, we immediately lose traction again. With our tires spinning and mud flying everywhere, the hand of our speedometer drops precipitously towards zero. With both of our faces fixed in a cringing grin, we inch up and over the peak, zooming down the other side, rolling to safety in the nicely graveled "Fish and Wildlife" area which led us here.

Having successfully freed ourselves from what could have become a time-consuming mess, we laugh and high-five, relieved we weren't forced to enlist help in escaping our parking space. (The photo below, again, is from a similar experience we had in Russia.)

A few miles down the road, our phone does it's ritual morning beep-beep-beeping, indicating we have a bevy of unread emails. Pulling into a tiny parking space in front of a rural post office, a thick fog engulfs our car as I inspect them for any work-related emergencies. All is quiet on the business front, but one of the messages is from Sue, inviting us to dinner tomorrow night!

We had planned on leaving today, after a final visit to Maple Hill Road, but with such a kind offer, we decide to stay another night. After RSVPing with a grateful, enthusiastic yes, we head to breakfast at a little diner in Shoreham called The Halfway House, where we eat biscuits and gravy and french toast while a cold, drenching rain continues to fall outside.

Tara:

At the bar, two dusty quarry workers sit on stools, chatting about crushing rock over their morning coffee. Catching wind of their rather loud exchange, I can't help but smile with delight when the conversation takes a turn for the unexpected. They've gone from discussing the finer details of aggregate machinery to talking earnestly about the benefits of exercise and how great it makes them feel:

Guy #1 It just feels so good, you know, swimmin' in the water, free and easy. My muscles loosen up and I can breath so deep.
Guy #2 I know, it's the same feeling I have when I go jogging. It's like I get in a zone, and afterwards, I feel so good.
Guy #1 Yeah, colors just seem brighter. It's like the trees get even greener!

While Tyler absentmindedly flips between pages of the diner's "Guns and Ammo" magazine, skimming through dramatic stories of horrific break-ins and the shotguns that ended them, we exchange a broad smile in agreement with the pair's enthusiasm.

Back on the road, we continue our search for a place to call home. Winding eastward across the misty Green Mountains, we follow our GPS to another dozen locations, haphazardly spaced from north to south between Randolph and Brattleboro. We've scoured the area we're most interested in (the western valley of Vermont from Middlebury south to Bennington), so we're giving another part of the state a fair shot, just to be sure we've covered our bases.

After several hours of tromping through woods and fields in the rain and mud, our clothes are soaked and studded with brambles and burrs. Though we've explored many sites, the only thing we've learned is that we prefer the western side of Vermont. As we climb the mountains and descend once more, heading towards the valley, it feels like coming home.

We have one final property to visit—none other than "our" ten acres on Maple Hill Road. We haven't entirely given up hope on it. Tyler is certain it is the one, but I'm not so sure, and we're both curious to find out how we feel about it after all we've seen the past three days. We've purposely saved it for last, but it's getting dark. A re-visit of our favorite spot will have to wait until tomorrow.

As she struggles to lift her water-logged vessel into the bed of her truck, I ask Tyler despondently, "Should we talk to her? Ask her about land in the area?" "Probably", he replies, shrugging his shoulders with indifference. I sigh. There was a time not so long ago when we held each other accountable for this sort of life-sapping behavior, a time when we practically forced one another to engage in the world, even when we didn't want to.

Now, feeling disconsolate about our empty-landedness, and drained by thoughts of our home life and its ongoing, all-consuming drama, we've slipped into a grumpy, sluggish, hopeless way of being. Nearly inaudible among the drone of complaints my ego is feeding me, a quiet voice whispers, Why can't land-hunting be an adventure, just the same as our trip? Where has our resourcefulness and perpetual optimism gone?

As I repeat these thoughts to Tyler, we both have a moment of clarity, realizing that we've wandered completely off-track. When we were out in the world (why does it feel like we're not "out in the world" right now?), we talked to everyone. We unabashedly told our story and shared our dreams with anyone we met. In doing so, we made many friends.

Somehow, being in a country where we speak the language feels more isolating than the remote reaches of Siberia ever did. Ignoring the lonely black cloud we've been creating above ourselves, we remember a most important thing: this land search being a grand adventure or a futile search fraught with drudgery is simply a question of perspective. Surely the Universe provides, even in America.

Allowing ourselves to engage, slipping into the current of life's grand adventure, we get out of the car, put on our best smile, and walk towards the woman, waving hello. I'm surprised by my shyness—this was easier with a big bicycle and a language barrier! Reaching the shore, we offer to help lift her kayak into the truck-bed. With a slight "I can do this myself thankyouverymuch" look on her face, she declines, finally heaving the tail end of the thing in place.

Kayak taken care of, we introduce ourselves and it is thus that we meet Sue. We get to talking, and ask if she knows of any land (Perhaps by word of mouth? Anything unlisted?) for sale in the area. She says doesn't, but her husband, an electrician, might, and she'll be happy to put us in touch and help in our search in any way she can.

A few minutes into our conversation, I'm feeling sheepish for harboring even the slightest bit of nervousness. Sue is a total sweetheart! Before we part ways she wraps up both in strong hugs and wishes us the best of luck. As Sue pulls away, waving from the window of her truck, brightly-colored kayak hanging out the back, Tyler and I smile, returning to our little silver car feeling much better about the world.

It is getting late, so we drive over a muddy, rutted berm, into fairly well-hidden lakeside seclusion. As Tyler programs, his expert fingers typing their well-choreographed tap-dance all over the keyboard, I recline my seat and fall asleep under the icy spotlight of moonlight in Vermont. I'm fine to sleep in the car, so exhausted am I, but Tyler decides to set up the tent when he is through.

A few hours later, we've crawled into our rip-stop nylon shelter, feeling the distinct sensation of comfort and normalcy. Snuggled in our trusty tent, cozy in our double-wide sleeping bag, camped in a patch of wilderness all our own, still beaming from our encounter with Sue, I am happy and contented.

The lot features a dilapidated trailer home, situated in clear view of the road, but the rest of the site is quite secluded and lovely. It's a steep property that descends like a staircase, each level feeling distinctly different from the previous. On the first, there's that old trailer, placed front and center. Looking left, there's a striking view into the neighboring valley; off to the right, a neighbor a bit closer than we'd like.

Already, I'm having trouble tearing my eyes away to explore the rest of the site. I can see myself sitting by the driveway, on the large stone bench situated there, staring off into the distance for hours. Perhaps we could build a little writer's cottage here, so I could make full use of the view? Maybe we could tear out the trailer and put the garden in it's place, allowing us to admire the hills while tending to our food?

The second landing is a scraggly meadow, surrounded by a thick forest (not pictured), a place where I could see us building our home and planting fruit trees. The third is densely wooded, with a shed, a fire pit, and a tattered cabin. From there, the back half of the property slopes steeply downwards until it ends at the banks of the Lemon Fair river—little more than a muddy trickle right now.

With a view to die for (albeit oddly situated), a close proximity to Middlebury, and a price of fifty thousand dollars, we're both starting to feel enthusiastic. Budding with excitement, Tyler calls the realtor for more information. Our rising hopes are quickly dashed when we learn that the land is already under contract to be sold.

My unchecked emotions swing wildly to dejection. We're too late! Why oh why did it still have to be listed if it was already under contract? Feeling like we've completely wasted our time, I am convinced that we will never, ever find a place to call home. We'll undoubtedly be unsettled and nomadic for our entire lives!

Minutes after Tyler hangs up with the realtor, we receive a call from another. It's Bonnie, calling about Maple Hill Road—the sellers want to know how they can convince us to buy the property. Tyler is still in love with it, but now that I've seen the view here, I'm floundering with indecision about what I want. He asks Bonnie to give us some time to talk it over.

We came out here hoping to make some progress towards realizing our homesteading dreams, but I feel like we've accomplished nothing. And yet, as my parents remind us when the phone rings one more time, we are making progress. We're actually learning a lot, gaining the knowledge and tools required to know when the right place comes along.

We have to do what we're doing right now, in order to get to where we want to be. Soothed slightly by their wise words, we drive into the countryside once more, without a plan, as light begins to fade.

We're unsure if this spontaneous departure is a spark of genius and a case of "following our dreams", or just a quixotic fit of complete and total irresponsibility. Tyler is up to his eyeballs in work, but I'm going to do all the driving—he'll be busy programming in the passenger seat for the entire ride.

It takes two full days to reach Vermont, including an evening at my parents' house in Illinois, and a night of fitful dozing in one of New York's brightly-lit travel plazas. While I sleep, lulled by the drone of a hundred parked semis, Tyler stays up through the night, ransacking the internet, searching for possible homesites to fill our land-hunting spreadsheet anew.

Crossing the state line on the morning of day three, we breathe a sigh of relief. We've made it! We're both wearing exhausted grins as we cruise over the lush green hills of western Vermont. The welcoming countryside is dotted with apple orchards, cows grazing, and many a farmer tending to their fields. It feels so good to be in here!

Though the leaves have yet to turn the fiery shades of ochre and crimson that New England autumns are known for, fall is most definitely on its way, bringing with it cool, crisp days and aqua skies. Farm stands abound, displaying the bounty of the season for sale: cheery orange pumpkins, mums in all shades of purples and reds, and an abundance of fresh, juicy apples. There is beauty everywhere we look.

For now, our waffling about the imprudence of this plan has subsided. Tyler has managed to accomplish quite a bit of work in the last two days, and we're overjoyed to be in Vermont again. Now it's time to focus on finding our home—it's out here somewhere!

Last week, we got bad news from our engineer. He visited the land and discovered that the current owners roughed in a gravel road and installed a well without consulting the soil investigation documentation. Their work completely plowed over several of the viable test pits, and changed the topography of the land such that the entire process will have to begin anew.

He isn't confident that permitting will be obtainable at all, the failure of which would render the land effectively useless for our purposes. It looks like our hunt for home isn't over yet. We've backed out of our contract and asked the sellers to pursue permitting on their own (and we've assured them that we'd buy the land in a heartbeat if we knew we could build on it).

For obvious reasons, this is a pretty big deal. If we were unable to obtain a septic permit, we wouldn't be able to build a house on the property we'd like to buy. At the moment, everything hinges on this wrinkle, and, given the importance of it, I've been reading about how it works pretty extensively. Below, I've outlined the steps typically involved:

Step 1: Soil Investigation

The first part of the septic design process involves digging test pits at potential leach field sites on the proposed property with a backhoe. The resulting holes allow the soil composition at these locations to be investigated at varying depths. The type of soil, along with other factors like the estimated seasonal high water table, determine what kind of drainage system is appropriate.

Step 2: Percolation Testing

A percolation test determines the ability of soil to absorb liquid. This test is generally performed by excavating a hand-dug hole, filling it with water repeatedly, and measuring the time it takes to drop a specific distance. Using the results, a formula can be applied to calculate the "perc rate" for the surrounding area. This determines how large a leach field must be, and is dependent on how much water the desired system is rated to process daily.

Step 3: Topographic Survey & System Design

Next, a topographic survey of the property must be completed. The resulting contour map is used to design a site plan which shows the proposed location of the house, leach field, and other important features, such as the water supply and septic tank.

Step 4: Permit Application

At long last, the plans must be collected into what Vermont refers to as a "Wastewater and Potable Water Supply System" permit application, ready for state for approval.

Step 5: Construction

If the permit application is approved, construction can begin. We don't know anything about this, yet!

Suggested Reading:

1. The Humanure Handbook (the first chapter is a bit silly, but persevere, it's worth a read!)
2. Create an Oasis With Greywater
3. Builders Greywater Guide
4. Greywater.com

The results of my research have overwhelmingly indicated that current regulations make no sense for people who are determined to be personally responsible for their role in the ecosystem where they live. At the moment, I have a distinct feeling this sort of thing is going to be a trend on our quest to build a self-sufficient life in 21st century America.

For this and the entry following, I've documented some of the things I've learned.

A conventional septic system has two main components, the first of which is a buried tank, usually a minimum of 1,000 gallons in size. Incoming solids (feces, food particles, clothing lint, etc) settle at the bottom of the tank, where natural bacteria break it down into a "sludge" which must be removed periodically. Until the 90s, the gunk was often pumped into the ocean or indiscriminately buried in landfills. These days, much of it is applied to commercial farm soil (after extensive treatment).

After a retention period of two or three days, the waste in the tank has separated and begun to break down. The liquid portion (called effluent) is now ready to move into the second component of a traditional septic system: the drain/leach field. Next, soil acts as a filter to remove contaminants from the effluent while it percolates into the ground. Eventually, most of the liquid seeps back into the water supply, ready to begin the process anew.

For any number of reasons, a proposed building site may not be able to support a leach field (unsuitable soil, shallow water table, etc). The most typical solution (if one is possible at all) to this problem is the construction of an artificial filter, known in the industry as a "mound system".

Essentially, this involves creating a complex sand hill to clean wastewater in the same way soil would. These over-engineered solutions require extra tanks and pumps to carefully dose effluent into the mound at timed intervals. Once wastewater reaches the substandard soil below, the liquid is (hopefully) clean enough to continue seeping into the ground water.

Frustratingly, many of the complexities inherent in these systems are unnecessary for our home. We will have composting toilets, practically negating the need to treat blackwater entirely. We will be using environmentally safe cleaners (possibly ones we make ourselves) and we will forego a garbage disposal, opting for the more sensible choice of judiciously composting any left-over food bits from cooking. Our greywater will be a resource, not waste! Honestly, the most "toxic" thing in our plumbing will probably end up being vinegar.

Sadly, in the world of self-contained septic management, conventional leach fields and mounds are the only solution with a wide precedent in our country. Somewhere on the fringes of regulatory acceptance is the option of a constructed wetland, but the stratospheric implementation costs make it moot, at least for us.

At the moment, we're following the path of least resistance: finding out if we can even install a system that regulators will readily accept (ie: a backup plan). Up next: the process and costs associated with septic design and permitting, and the response from our engineer about the viability of what we hope will one day be our land.

Immediately after we agreed on a price, we had to enter a contract with the sellers, formally consenting to go through with the purchase. The documents we signed legally oblige us to buy the property, and prevent the sellers from taking a better offer, should one come along. After we autographed and initialled approximately ten pieces of paper, we finalized the process by sending a $3,000 deposit to the realtor (which will go towards the purchase at closing).

Yikes. This is getting real!

Hedging our bets, I asked our realtor, Bonnie, to put a condition in the contract stating that our purchase would be contingent upon the land supporting a septic system. We can't build our home on the land without one of these state-mandated system in place (regardless of whether or not we'll use it—we plan to have composting toilets and environmentally safe greywater). Assuming everything checks out, we'll be closing on the 15th of September!

When I really examine what we're doing, as opposed to daydreaming about having a little place in the woods, I'm sobered by the enormity of what we're aiming to do. This is not going to be a walk in the park. Rather than let myself be overwhelmed by everything we don't know right now, I'm focusing my energies on work. If we're going to pay for this eventual purchase as quickly as we'd like to, I'll be spending a lot of long days behind a computer in the coming year.

Time to buckle down. Fingers crossed everything works out!

I started researching road bikes long before we came home, inspired by the idea of taking daily rides on bicycles that weighed about a fifth what our loaded touring rigs do. I ordered the first parts for our build almost three months ago, and we finished assembling them last weekend. I've been feeling overwhelmed by the number of projects we have going on simultaneously lately—it is so rewarding to see one of them to completion!

Tara and I work as a team in just about everything we do. At the moment, many of the goals we are working towards necessitate an early start to the day. Irritatingly, neither of us is particularly adept in getting up at the crack of dawn (in spite of the fact that we're always glad once we have). So, we've invented a role which we use to support one another in this difficult task. I'm not entirely sure when we came up with it, but we call this job the Enforcer.

The sole responsibility of the Enforcer is to ensure we get up when the alarm goes off. This entails, in a general sense, being granted the right to harass the other in the wee hours of the morning, which, for some reason, helps! Tara was the enforcer today, and she managed to roll me out of bed at 6AM, eager to embark on our inaugural morning bicycle ride.

We set off around 7AM, camera in tow, grinning ear to ear, feeling like super-heroes on our sub 19lb bikes. Almost immediately we began to notice things we hadn't when traveling by car or motorcycle. Hey, I've never seen those flowers before! Gosh it feels good to be outside, exercising. The sky is so pretty! Wow, I never noticed it, but the driveway is not as flat as it looks.

Tara:

These past few months have been an experiment in how to live sane, healthy, peaceful lives, post-bike trip. It has been an emotional few months; there have been many times when we've felt lost and out of control of our lives, adrift in a sea of upheaval and uncertainty.

Vowing to be proactive about our happiness, we've been paying close attention to what works and what doesn't. For example, I know that I feel out of wack if we neglect our journal. This space we've created makes it feel like our lives have a cohesive story, and the process of putting "pen to paper" has been needfully cathartic in dealing with our varied emotions about being home.

I've learned (for the thousandth time) that I need some structure, or my days will slip right on by without my noticing. We've started meditating daily, and we're attending a yoga class twice a week (I used to be so much more flexible!). All of this has helped our well-being tremendously.

This morning, as we glide effortlessly along smooth pavement, chain in the big ring, I feel alive and free and grateful. Legs pumping, lungs pumping, I breath in the cool, morning air and think I need this, adding it to our list of things that keep us balanced and happy. I need this time together outside, before the world wakes up, to re-connect, to breathe deeply, to get centered for the day. I need this to make my life work.

Pretty soon, the stress melts away. Now Tyler and I are basking in golden morning sunshine, while noticing the swaying corn, the grazing cows, and the flocks of geese in V-formation heading south, harbingers of cooler days to come. From our bicycle seats, we can hear little insects singing a chirping song, and admire a patch of black-eyed susans, gracing the grassy roadside ditch. How have I not noticed these things before?

And then we start counting our blessings. Following the lead of a little girl who knows how to start her day off right, we thank our bodies for being healthy, for carrying us through this world. We think of our families, and the shelter we have to live in, and how lucky we are to be together. Soon, we've generated a wealth of positive energy to carry us through the day.

Pulling into the driveway, legs and arms just starting to feel the ache of use, we smile, excited to embark on another morning ride tomorrow. Invigorated, we start our day. Tyler brews decaf coffee in our Mokka pot, while I prepare almond french toast and bacon. We perform our morning ritual to the sound of our new favorite artist, Zoe Keating.

When breakfast is through, we open our laptops—the work day has begun.

A few weeks ago, the frames were painted and the last of the bits arrived. Finally, everything was ready to assemble. A pair of sleeker, less tank-like bicycles were laying in a pile of parts, waiting to replace our car for most trips around town.

As it turns out, the actual building of our new machines has been fraught with more complications than we anticipated (what isn't?), but we've both learned a lot while bungling various parts of the installation. For example, brake cables (at least, the ones included in our build kit) come in two sizes, one long to reach the rear brake, one short for the front. We realized this about two minutes after we cut the longer one to fit the front brake. Whoops!

Thankfully, SRAM (the company that makes the grouppo Tyler picked) has plenty of great instructional videos on youtube. They've been immensely helpful as we've pieced everything together.

I have to admit, working on bicycles is not my idea of a good time. On our trip, I was happy to let Tyler deal with maintenance, but this time around, he insisted that I build my own bike. I've likened the process to piecing together bits of some ancient Mesopotamian map: exciting, but a little incomprehensible, and certainly not playing to my strengths. It's important to know how things work, though.

After much longer than we anticipated, our bicycles are finished, and I now posses a whole swath of bike-building and repair knowledge that I didn't have when we started. I can't wait to try out my sleek road machine—I foresee many morning rides in our future!

We're back in Minnesota, now, and our time in New England is rapidly becoming a distant, fuzzy memory; some days, it feels as though we only imagined it. Our return has brought the pain of an ongoing family disagreement to the forefront of our minds—the drama bleeds into every area of our lives, making it difficult to see the good in anything.

At the moment, it feels like our entire existence is in flux. Though we're back "home", we live neither here nor there, hopping from one family member's home to another, house-sitting for friends, never truly feeling settled, always living in someone else's space. Our house is rented on a two year lease (which we hope will end in its purchase); we don't want to go back, and we aren't going to.

We've considered getting an apartment, but the idea of doing that feels like stagnating. The last thing we want is to expend our energies settling somewhere we ultimately don't want to be, getting lulled into waiting until "next month" or "next year", to start our homesteading dreams. We don't want our lives to slip by, unrecorded, uncelebrated, and unused to their utmost potential.

Tara:

Life feels really, really hard right now. I know we're better off than ninety something percent of the world, but acclimating to US has been extremely difficult, busy and stressful. I can scarcely find the time to write our book, let alone take a few pictures here and there, read a book for five minutes, cook nice meals, or any of the other things that keep me a happy, sane, balanced person.

Though I find myself inordinately busy trying to keep up with the sweeping current of life, at the end of each day, I often have a hard time pinning down what exactly I did. It's become all too easy to slip into a "what the hell am I doing with my life?" mindset, where hours, days, months pass in a flash. Even the seasons are becoming a blur!

Vermont is beginning to feel like a dream. Was it really that wonderful out there? Did we really fall in love with a piece of land? Shouldn't we do more research? Shouldn't we do more hunting before making a decision?

What I want more than anything right now is to stop moving. I want to stop traveling. I want to regain control over the speed of my life. I want a place of our own, somewhere where we can settle in and dig some roots.

Tyler:

On the work front, I've found myself questioning my abilities as a programmer. Attempting to keep up with the ever-constant march of technology can be overwhelming. I am completely re-tooling my company, a time consuming process of learning new programming languages, design patterns, source control systems, web frameworks, orms, and markup languages—it's a dizzying array of new tools and syntaxes.

I am also migrating my entire business to the Apple ecosystem, fighting to rewire my brain to its idiosyncrasies. At the moment, I'm living in my worst nightmare of complete inefficiency and ineptitude. At the worst of times it feels like my hands have been cut off, at the best, like I'm wearing a huge pair of mittens.

Meanwhile, my longing to be alone in the woods with Tara grows every day.

Tara:

Heaping more stress onto an already chaotic time filled with culture shock and feelings of displacement, Tyler accidentally kicked a hand-tiller while we were working in the garden the other day. One of its sharp tines punctured a hole between his toes, digging in to the bone.

I'd never before seen such a disturbingly contorted look of pain on his face (I hope I never see it again). The look shook me to my core, and I found myself short of breath in tandem with his sharp inhalations, eyes as wide as his with horror. I was petrified and floundering as I followed his hobbling run into the house.

Our insurance is the extortion kind, the one where we pay $200+ a month for the sole purpose of mitigating total financial disaster. We have a $5,000 deductible. Needless to say, Tyler refused to go the the emergency room. Instead, I cleaned out the wound with shaky hands, digging out the dirt while he spent some quality time, as he puts it, "dissociating from his body" (while listening to Tool and doing deep breathing).

Thankfully, it's healing nicely without infection.

Us:

We really should be grateful to be where we are right now. We are dry. We are clean. We are safe. We have money in the bank. We have each other. We are slipping through these terrible economic times unscathed. We are strong, smart, and resourceful, and I know full well our lives will feel better at some point. In the meantime, though, it's rough.

Tyler is behind the wheel, dutifully piloting our car in a sleepy haze. The dawn has a magical air to it. Once we're parked off the road, I scurry out to capture various scenes of the morning mist. I've never been to this part of Ohio, and I find myself moved by the sight of its graceful hills, all dotted with sheep and livestock. The undulating landscape reminds me a little of England, with white picket fences instead of hedgerows.

Behind the fences, brown, statuesque horses graze peacefully in their pastures. I'm walking barefoot through the dewy grass to pet one on the nose, but before I can get close enough, he backs away, shaking his head. A bit of mane flips across his brow as he whinnies, soft breath becoming clouds, joining the mist which hangs around us both.

The sun is now emerging from its slumber, a red titan that spreads its fiery glow across the fields. Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning, I think, and wonder if our drive back to Illinois today will be a rainy one. I hope so. The heat of midwestern summer is a fiercely brutal companion on road-trips in our little air-conditioning-less car.

At the moment, I am thankful for the cool morning, which is making pearls of sparkling dew appear on everything from grass to flowers to spiderwebs. Tyler, who has been groggy and uninterested up to this point, forgetting how much he loves to be behind the camera, finally wakes up and joins me in a romping photographic pursuit just like we used to on our trip.

He gets absorbed in the world of macro dew shots, while I stick to my beloved flowers and grasses:

By six-thirty, the sun is well on its way up, beginning to assert the power of its heat upon the land. Meanwhile, Amish folk are about, beginning their mornings, quietly clip-clopping down the lane in their horse-drawn buggies. For a moment I forget about how much work it must be, and fantasize about having one of my own.

The day has begun in earnest, and it's time to re-join Ingrid and Yves at the campsite before they think we've disappeared completely. Back at the RV, we greet our friends and share a breakfast of bread and yogurt. After some final socializing around the picnic table, grateful for the random, serendipitous time we were able to spend together, we say goodbye, hugging them tightly and wishing them well.

It's time to head west once more, towards Illinois and Minnesota.

We're waffling back and forth, daunted by the enormity of it all. Yes, we loved the land, but are we really prepared to leave everything we know behind to settle in Vermont? Why not Maine, at least, where we already know a group of awesome people? If we decide to go for it, when do we start? Can we afford it? If we don't pick this spot, when are we going to go to Vermont again to find another? If we wait, will any of these questions be any easier to answer?

Putting the next chapter of our lives out of our minds for a bit, we've decided to focus on the here and now. For at this very moment, our Swiss/Austrian friends Ingrid and Yves are in the USA, on a road-trip across the country in a rented RV! It just so happens we'll be crossing paths on our way home, and we're going to meet them in the most unlikely of places: some campsite, deep in Ohio's Amish country.

It's been over two years since we saw them last. For the past few days, we've been texting back and forth, enjoying the novelty of hearing about their adventures in our home country. Their attitude towards travel is delightful—though Yves' brother and sister-in-law insisted they head to California or New York, they are exploring the middle of the US, despite protestations from locals who say, "there's nothing to see!"

On the contrary, they are seeing all kinds of interesting things, perhaps having a bit more of an authentic "American" experience than they would otherwise. Still, it cracks us up as they play tourist in ways that wouldn't even occur to us. We can't help but smile when we receive messages like:

We explored the giant flea market and spent 2 h in a Mennonite Info Center. Very interesting. We've booked a 3 h discovering tour through the area, to a cheese-house, a bakery and a farm. Included was a dinner with an Amish family. It was great. Now our feet hurts and we're enjoying a bier, even when alcohol is prohibited in this RV park. How was your day?

and…

Had a wonderful sleep in a fancy bed (at least fancy for us). The bed has two air chambers which can be pumped up as your desire by remote control.

Their exploration of Amish and Mennonite country (which we've never done) and fascination about things like the sleep number system (which we've never used) feels akin to us getting jazzed up about a random "bee museum" in rural France—surely the neighbors dismiss Irene's honey exhibits and downy soft bunnies as nothing interesting? How many varied experiences have we missed right here at home because we are normatively blind to them?

Pulling into Amish Country campsites (complete with a website and free wi-fi... wait a minute...), we're going on three days of sleeping in the car or the tent, and are in dire need of showers. But it doesn't matter. For once more, our friends are here, and it is wonderful to see them again—just like last time, they don't mind a bit what we look or smell like.

Somehow, they manage to take us under their wing, acting the hosts, even though they are the ones visiting the USA. They wrap our sweaty selves in hearty hugs, and welcome us into their air conditioned rental RV. Before we can sit down, they've already offered us each a cold beer and a big plate of chicken and Doritos. Thanks guys!

For the next few hours we talk and talk, telling them about our land and how we're not sure what to do about it, and they council us as best as they can, telling us the story behind finding their own quirky home. We also give them ideas of where to visit in the midwest and southeast—perhaps the The Carter Family Fold for some American musical history?

Update from the future: They went, and we received this message: "The festival was a great experience. Never saw this klick-e-ti-klack dancing before. There were two fantastic music groups in the evening."

Meanwhile, we listen with interest to their midwestern adventures, keen to hear what they have found to be memorable so far. Mailboxes fascinate and delight them. The vast quantities of sugar in nearly every food available in the supermarket baffle and disgust them (they've been shopping at Walmart a lot). They are wary about the legitimacy of the Amish lifestyle, having spied many incongruities, like racing four-wheelers in one of their barns. "Maybe they just fake it!"

Our favorite story by far is of Yves' bemusement and horror upon learning that his brother and sister-and-law (they live in Illinois!), who have an enormous kitchen, only cook with the microwave, and that his brother, who is a chemist, "don't even know how to make MAYONNAISE!" Oh America.

When dinner time rolls around, we head over to the nearest restaurant, Yoder's Country Kitchen—ready for a sugary, starchy feast of overly-processed American food. Before supper is over, we hatch a plan to see them one more time before they fly home. In a few weeks, after their vacation is over, they'll come visit us in Illinois so we can treat them to a farmers market, a food co-op, and some healthy home cooking involving fresh garden vegetables. Maybe a visit to the goat farm will be in order, too!

It was wonderful to see our friends again—who knew it would be in Amish country?

Before heading back to the Midwest, we decide to have another look. So, we backtrack across most of Vermont for one more walk through the woods and surrounding area of our potential homesite. As we travel south, drawing near to our destination, shades of doubt begin to creep into our minds—we're feeling uncertain about yesterday's zeal, wondering, did we just imagine loving the land? We're no longer convinced we felt real excitement about the place—maybe it was merely the first site that didn't elicit an immediate "no"?

We've arrived in Arlington, the wheels of our little silver Honda crunching over the nicely graded gravel of our maybe home-street-to-be. Cool air rushes through our hair and over our smiling faces as we watch the country scenes unfold: horses grazing in their pastures, ducks waddling along the shoulder of the road, and stately red barns standing in the dappled shade of afternoon.

Rolling up a grassy driveway to the white gates of "our" property, it becomes obvious that we needn't have worried about our enthusiasm being genuine. Before we've closed the doors of the car behind us, we're already breaking into wide grins, breathing deep with contentment, taking in the earthy smell of the woods.

This time around, as we hike up the sweeping path that could be our tree-lined driveway, there are no further parcels to visit—our focus is finely-honed on the land around us. After climbing over a downed tree blocking the drive, and wading through veritable a wall of thistles, we arrive at the clearing where the well has been drilled. Inspecting a land survey the realtor Bonnie sent, we set off through the woods to walk around the perimeter of the property.

At each corner of the L-shaped ten acre plot, a length of rebar is stuck in the ground amongst the trees, through a bed of moss, or in a chink of the meandering, picturesque stone wall that winds its way around the land. With the discovery of each rusted marker, hidden amid a jungle of overgrown brush, we cheer, feeling like explorers, orienteers, or maybe just two inordinately lucky people on the biggest treasure hunt around.

Our exuberance is momentarily marred when we reach the south end of the property. It ends long before we thought it had when we hiked it last time. According to our plat drawing, the large grassy meadow Tara had envisioned putting our house on is actually part of the adjacent lot. A phone call to the town clerk reveals that it is 30 acres of protected forestry land. So, we can't buy the small meadowy portion of it, but at least our privacy would be fairly well guaranteed here.

After talking through Tara's disappointment, we decide that ten acres is plenty of land on which to make a meadow of our own—we'll just clear some trees and use them for firewood or building. At last, we're satisfied with our canvassing, so we make our way to the car. We're a bit sad and reluctant to leave this peaceful wooded land. With a wistful sigh, we pull away.

Now that we're sure we like the property, there's one more investigation to undertake before heading home. What is the surrounding area like? In Maine, there were awesome people, farms everywhere, places to go swimming in warm weather, and of course, the ocean nearby with its historical seafaring culture. Would the community around this piece of property be as engaging and interesting?

With hopes high, we drive around the region, paying close attention to how we feel about the other houses, the neighbors, the stores, and the nearby towns. When, just a couple miles from our potential home, we pass a sign for a you-pick no-spray blueberry farm, we cheer. Then, we pass a sign for Polymeadows Farm and Creamery, and laugh with delight at the hillside of dorky goats munching away at green grass. Hello goat cheese and baby goat petting!

Sealing the deal, just a stone's throw from Maple Hill road, we come to the Clear Brook Farm market (open daily from April to October). They sell produce, bread, cheeses, pastries, olive oil (on tap!) and basic staple foods sourced directly from numerous farms in the area. That should keep us afloat until our own gardens are flourishing! They even have a winter CSA.

With so many of our criteria met in this one piece of land, we set off towards the Midwest, tired, dirty, and very, very excited. Amidst our jubilance, we're also feeling a little conflicted. The place certainly feels right, but does that mean we should get it? We'll need to get the well water tested, find out what kind of septic system the land will support, have a solar survey done, and probably a lot of other things we haven't yet considered. There is so much we don't know about this process yet!