EXILE IN HICKVILLE

It’s been the better part of a year since moving to the rural Washington countryside. As previously shared, it’s been a phenomenal journey thus far. Of course, anytime one moves, be it across the street or to another country, change will, inevitably, ensue. This is particularly the case with given that I relocated from the 2^nd largest metropolitan area in the US to what effectively amounts to “the middle of nowhere.” I was well aware that there would be many interesting and unusual changes associated with such a move which I thought would be excellent fodder for this “Country Squire Chronicles” series here.

Anywho, as I’ve been settling in and getting the nest all squared away, I’ve been taking copious notes on living life far afield to share with interested parties. I’ve discussed specific aspects such as the significantly reduced expenses and lack of bureaucracy of our move previously, so today I’ll focus on the more broad changes I’ve encountered. I’ll bucket them into what I consider to be the two key characteristics of a living environment: Place and People.

For the cursory reader, I’ll get this out of the way right now. I love where I live. This has not always been the case, but I now, literally, live in a place where people come to vacation. To be fair, I did so previously in So. Cal, but you get my drift. I am in a rural hamlet, snugged deep within a high mountain valley betwixt two of the state’s largest national forests. I still remain in awe of the natural beauty. For example, when I take my trash out (read: haul it in my truck 31 miles away to the county landfill) I am rewarded with a drive on a small 2 lane highway that follows the gorgeous Columbia River replete with some of the nation’s most beautiful flora and fauna.

Oh, speaking of fauna, that is one massive change we’re becoming accustomed to living out here.

DANGEROUS PREDATORS

The world is, and always has been, a large and, ofttimes, extremely frightening place for Homo sapiens. Irrespective of where one chooses or is forced to reside, there lurk deep within the shadows all manner of hideous, dangerous predators. However, it’s not every day that you actually see a full-sized billboard warning you of them.

Back in So. Cal., dangerous predators were aplenty. And they came in many guises, such as cracked-out, car-jacking bangers; Rohypnol droppin’ frat bros; creepy, weenie-flashing pervs in schoolyards; sub-prime mortgage lenders; and personal injury attorneys to name but a few.

So, imagine my shock and surprise seeing billboard signs, with lurid photographs, outing the local dangerous predators such as pumas and wolves, along the sundry thoroughfares with digits to the local Departments of Wildlife. Huh? This was definitely a change.

While it is an interesting characteristic of where I now live, I am wise enough to take heed. Particularly when a puma had killed my parent’s llama and decimated a neighbor’s gaggle of kitties a few years prior to us moving here. Even more so when Ms. Fate, during our 1^st month here, ventured outside at 1am to take some moonlight snaps and a puma growled at her – From 50 Feet Away!

In early Fall, I went to harvest some big, juicy apples from the trees on our property with visions of Yuletide apple cider when I saw something odd. It looked like…Well, it looked like shit. Big shit. Huge shit. And then I looked to the branches and saw that the zillions of apples that were there yesterday were now gone? Again, Huh?

Then I saw the apple chunks in the poo. Then I saw the massive claw marks on the trees.

In a thousands of a second I thought, “Pumas are cats and cats are obligate carnivores. Also, pumas do not have a 6” rectum,” which was the diameter of the ‘apple loaf’ in front of me. Then l actually got a little twinge of fear when I leaned in to see the depth of the marks on the tree. There’s only one thing that could have done this – a bear(s). I spent the rest of the afternoon getting all the remaining apples off the trees to mitigate the temptation to return (though they did). At least they left me enough apples for a couple gallons of hard cider to enjoy during the holidays.

I am still overwhelmed by living with puma, bear and other wild critters, but I’ll take this kind of dangerous predator over the human variety any day. Aside from that, having a herd of deer living on our property and seeing them eat every single morning and evening is priceless. So are the flock of turkeys. So are the zillions of birds, so strange to me I had to get a book to learn more. It’s both a treat and privilege to live this close to nature. The bonus is that for the Fuzzy Fates, it’s the best “Cat TV” ever!

And look, there’s always a dark to be terrified of, it just may manifest in an entirely different fashion depending upon one’s circumstances and surroundings. For me, now living in the country, it’s mutated from, “I should lock my doors lest some junkie attempt to break in and steal my 8-year old iPad” to wondering, “Can a bear smell that 5 gallons of apples I have stored in the fridge in the garage?”

THE PEOPLE

Most of you know a) I lived my adult life in Southern California and b) I am not its biggest fan. As such, I was absolutely ready to forsake many of its denizens. Particularly people like “Mrs. Karen Lululemon,” the quintessential 40-something living stereotype with bleached-blonde hair and grotesquely massive plastic boobs accompanied by her unruly children named “Brayden” or “Decimal” (or whatever noxious moniker she’s saddled them with), who takes an eternity to choose a non-sugar, non-fat “artisanal scone” at some boutique patisserie.

Or, “Craig”, the dude from Omaha, behind the counter with Big Dreams who’s preoccupied mentally rehearsing his script pitch to NBC or Netflix to get a development deal and finally be able to go to Perch for brunch and order some avocado smeared on toast and a glass of OJ for $64.78.*

As jubilant as I was to bid adieu to the Karen & Craig’s of So. Cal, I was a trifle trepidatious of simply exchanging them for what I refer to as “Johnny Corndog.” Y’all know the tropes. They entail those with a penchant for things such as buckets of Coors Light tallboys, Ford F250 trucks, NASCAR, Oxycodone & Creationism.

While I’ve seen a few Johnny Corndogs, and other strains of countrified freakazoid, on rare occasion, pretty much everyone I’ve interacted with has been very cool, approachable and – get this – openly nice. Most refreshing of all to me is the absence of any pretense, any artifice. For example, when you go to the local Farmer’s Market, it’s full of actual farmers selling amazing goods from their actual farms at insanely low prices, rather than a bearded hipster with hand tattoos in distressed flannel talking to me about ‘peak kale season’ while unironically charging $6 for an ‘organic’ artichoke.

In spite of the pandemic, I was also fortunate to make a handful of awesome, smart, fun, cat-lovin’ friends (2 of whom are also early retirees my age) who share a love of board games and geek culture and we get together at least once a week. Once things settle down, I hope to make some additional fishing & hiking pals and volunteer at the local cat sanctuary.

If that weren’t good enough, I’m less than an hour away from the “Big Smoke” where I can put on a suit and go to the ballet, check out killer modern art, enjoy high-quality food and libations, and even start a band with people who share my extremely unusual taste in music. Overall, I am loving the people where I live!

IS THERE ANYTHING YOU DON’T LIKE?

The reality is that no place is Eden, no thing a panacea. While living where I do is pretty damn awesome, there are two minor things, while not even close to deal breakers, I am not necessarily enamored with.

The first is referred to as “bundling,” which many know basically means organizing your retailing so you can get it all done in one fell swoop since it’s a 50+ mile round-trip trek to town. Since I despise shopping, I’ve always done this, but the problem here is that any trip into (or has you even passing near) a town still seems to devolve into, and be sullied by, a retail experience. I always think, “Well I’m going fishing today, but I should swing by the market when I drive by to get ‘X’ since I’m already here and not planning on being back for 6 days.” This is extremely annoying and, admittedly self-inflicted to an extent. I’m aiming to change this with a dedicated weekly trip.

Before I reveal the next, I will kindly ask you to sit down. Seated? Okay, ready? There is no direct internet access. Yes, let me repeat that. I have NO direct internet access. Most people’s reaction to this is, “Oh, I could never live there.”

The “internet connection” is a (2-bar) Verizon hotspot using my phone. And, it works just fine-ish. Since I don’t do anything particularly bandwidth taxing, it’s not a big whoop. Yes, I could pay nearly $5K for an unbreakable 2-year contract to get shitty satellite service with a monthly bandwidth limit I’d blow through in 5 days, but I’ve decided to just tough it out until Elon Musk’s affordable (and hopefully less shitty) Space-X Starlink service goes live next year (also hopefully).

So there you have it. All-in-all, the move has been great and I love where were at. Sure, there’s been some changes, but, for the most part, I actually like them and those we don’t aren’t a big deal. Well, I got to roll as the snow is starting to come down and I need to christen my new kick-ass snow shovel. I’m pretty sure this experience will result in much hilarity for the next installment of the Country Squire Chronicles!

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

I will state that I am a bit contrite for using the pejorative term, “hick” in the title. However, I will also confess that any reservation I had was immediately superseded by the irrestibility of shoehorning in a nod to Liz Phair’s magnificent debut album (which, itself, is a reference to the Rolling Stones). Wait, did I start this article with a killer triple-reference? Yes, I think I did.

* I promise that this is definitely** the last of my poison-barbed lampooning of Southern California.

** Maybe