All Hail the Little House

At long last, I am home in my little house; although not on the prairie, it is equally in the middle of nowhere—a small valley farm in the mountainous, temperate rainforest fjords of Northern Patagonia, accessible only by boat or light aircraft—, uses a wood stove for heat, hot water, and cooking, and lacks appliances such as a fridge, toaster, dishwasher, washing machine, or electric tea-kettle. The latter would be put to extensive use, given that cold damp weather not only means cold dampness but also soggy wood that only grudgingly lends itself to addressing the climate’s shortcomings. But the electricity here at Reñihue only runs from around 7:30-11:30 pm, so no luck there.

Unlike the Little House of prairie-fame, mine does have the great modern invention, the Internet. Not at any great speed—in fact, dealing with the agonizingly slow connection here has made me realize how much my mode of looking things up and finding things out depends on FAST internet. Nothing very fast’s going on here, but nonetheless, I get a huge kick out of Skyping my dear sister while burroughed under the down comforters of my sleeping-loft-bed.

Tonight, however, ol’ Mama Nature decided to cut the chatting short, with a fantastically vicious hailstorm that quickly brought an end to this moment of connectedness. As the golf-ball-sized ice chunks drummed down on my roof, the noise drowned out any sound my computer might produce, the feeble Internet called it quits, and the lights flickered off, on for a second, and then off for good.

So suddenly, the miraculous—almost fake—sense of global in-touch-ness vanished away, leaving me left with the actual reality of my situation, tucked away in a dark loft, nestled in between mountains, full of inclement weather. Despite all the weeks I’ve spent in “the wilderness,” those first moments of recognizing how isolated I am here felt a bit shocking: I’m totally cut off from the world as I know it, from friends, people my age, etc. At the same time, the total violence of the weather here hardly lures you on long explorations outside. The massive hailstones bombarding the roof a few feet above my head create a dense composite of sharp, loud noises, far more brittle than the usual rainy patter.

As the hail continued, I started to give into its aggressive ebbs and flows, gradually assuring myself that despite sounds to the contrary, ice-balls were not about to fall through the roof. The combination of puffy jacket, long underwear, and comforter brought a pleasant sense of toastiness. This is “Patagonia cozy,” I decided: not the usual cheer of home, but an almost-laughably crazy natural world, far out on its extremes, with you, the little human, newly aware of your little place within it, grateful for whatever nook you have carved out. I came looking for this, although without putting it in these terms. I haven’t found it where I expected to—napping in the sun on a riverbank in the mountains (a vision I’m going to hang on to…)—but bit by bit, I’m getting into the swing of this incredible, inhospitable place, and learning how to make it my little home.