Acclimating to my large life living tiny in Eastern Oregon

It’s a balmy 37 degrees today. We’re having a heatwave in Eastern Oregon. For the first time in a couple of months, the temperature has risen above freezing. As I’ve been walking outside today, I’ve worn a flannel shirt, but decided it wasn’t cold enough to warrant a coat, hat or gloves. That’s when I realized I’ve acclimated to life in the foothills of the Elkhorn Mountains.

We live at about 3,600 feet. Where it hasn’t been plowed, our accumulated snow is thigh high. The top rails of the fences are nearly buried in snow. And yet still it comes down. The Mountain Man has spent hours plowing the long driveway with his green John Deere tractor. It’s the first week of February. The groundhog saw his shadow this week. We are guaranteed for many more weeks of winter. Locals tell me this the hardest, coldest winter they’ve had in 40 years.

Inside our tiny home—a 323 square-foot camper, the temperature has soared to a toasty 63 degrees. It’s so warm today that we don’t need to turn on the propane furnace. Instead, two radiator-type electric heaters keep the temperature comfortable.

Here are some things I’ve learned after living for five months in Eastern Oregon:

• Be prepared to drive in severe weather and really scary road conditions. I grew up on a farm in Northeastern Washington, but our roads were not as challenging as what I’ve faced on my daily commute into La Grande, 26 miles away. The freeway is often closed due to icy roads, and blowing snow that causes white-out conditions. On the way to work yesterday, I drove 35 miles per hour with my flashers on in a driving snowstorm. The snow was blowing so hard that I could barely see the road. Out here, the snowbanks drift quickly and you can get pulled into one and then you’re stuck. Yesterday after work, the freeway was closed, so I had to take the long way home through Union and Pyle’s Canyon. In some places, the snow was blowing so hard across the road that I had to stop and find the road again.
• Be prepared to be stranded in a snowstorm—and be prepared to dig myself out. The Mountain Man’s dad encouraged me to keep my gas tank full in case I get stuck in a snowbank all night and I have to keep my motor running to keep from freezing. In my Subaru Forester I keep a snow shovel, broom, long-handled ice scraper, tire chains, snow pants, heavy gloves, hat, down vest and coat in case I get pulled into a snowbank and have to dig myself out. I use the broom to sweep snow accumulation from my car in the morning. I wear my sensible, warm snow boots wherever I go. When I get to work, I change to clogs.
•  I keep emergency rations in my Subaru in case I get stuck in the snow overnight and have to wait until morning for help: granola bars, trail mix and a bottle of water. It immediately froze. I also have an LED flashlight that doesn’t use batteries, but is powered by winding it up.
• When you're driving, keep an eye out for critters that might run into the road. On my first day of work, I encountered a rancher moving cattle along the road. But more often, I encounter deer, quail, wild turkeys and other wildlife crossing the road. 
• When it was -6 degrees outside, it was getting pretty chilly inside our little camper. One brisk morning I tried to pull a fleece jacket from my closet, but it was so cold inside our house that the jacket was frozen to the closet wall. When I pulled it loose, it was covered with a layer of frost.
• For the past two months, we have kept a faucet running to prevent our water pipes from freezing. The Mountain Man also bought a heated hose and wrapped the pipes at the source in insulation.
•  To insulate our little camper we positioned a thick layer of straw bales all around the outside of our camper. And now, accumulated snow reaches up to the windows, adding another layer of insulation.
•  I am grateful to concerned family members who sent us gear to keep us warm. Doug and Tara sent us slippers and a heated throw for our tiny sofa. It’s glorious to sit underneath it, drink cocoa and watch a movie. Kalyn and Mat sent us a heated mattress pad with dual controls. I turn that baby up before climbing into bed, and I have toasty toes. Mom sent me thermal top and leggings for my birthday because she’s my mommy and she worries that I’ll freeze.
• Dress for the weather. Soft flannel shirts and down vests are a must. Keep your head covered to regulate your temperature. l ordered a beautiful handmade wool hat from my dear friend, Jean Jones, a Chewelah friend. My hat rarely leaves my head these days. Even when I’m inside.
• Sometimes when we get up in the morning, it’s 38 degrees inside. At first, it was a shock to my system, but I’m used to it now. Turning on the propane furnace quickly heats our little home to a toasty 55 degrees. And sometimes, we even heat it to 60. A cup of hot coffee and oatmeal helps heat me up on cold mornings too.
• Be prepared to be dazzled by gorgeous, sweeping landscapes, the immense starry skies and the kindness of the people.
• Learn to look for the wonder all around, and you won’t be disappointed.

Being fearless: My first solo ski run

This ski season, I conquered my fear of the chair lift,
made my first solo ski runs and started parallel skiing.

My heart beating wildly, I skied toward the chair lift for my first solo ride to the top of the mountain. I was determined to conquer my fear of falling to my death from the chair lift. For more than three decades, this irrational fear had kept me from skiing again.

"Can you do this?" my 55-year-old experienced brain asked my timid, 19-year-old self. That unsure  teenager was the one who had nearly fallen off the lift all those years ago.

I'd been standing to the side for several minutes, gathering my courage and watching skiers and boarders approach the lift, sit down and ride calmly to the top. Plenty of athletic young adults did it, but so did middle-aged folks and even grandmas and grandpas.

Yet, I was still gripped with fear from my first time skiing--in 1979--when I'd been dragged up the chair lift by my boyfriend, who didn't seem to care that I didn't know how to turn, control my speed or stop. I nearly fell off the chairlift, and then tumbled all the way down the mountain, hollering. My sister, Judy, who was working at the ski resort, recognized my screams of terror.

After that horrifying experience, the fear of falling off the lift was ingrained in my brain. It was the timid, teenage me who still held onto that fear.

I was brought back to the present when a group of elementary school kids zoomed down the hill in front of me, laughing, and got on the lift. None of them faltered, let alone plummeted to their death.

"Can you do this?" I asked myself again.

But this time, it was not the timid, 19-year-old me I asked. It was the adventurous 55-year-old me. Now I'm the dragon boat paddling, zip lining, kayaking, belly dancing, bow-shooting, backpacking woman with the dragon tattoo.

And thanks to the encouraging teaching of Kirby, my certified ski instructor boyfriend, I had been learning to ski. Although I had ridden the chair lift successfully just that morning, Kirby had ridden with me, coaching me and calming my fear with his soothing voice.

But now Kirby was teaching a skiing lesson and would be busy for the next hour. If I wanted to go skiing, I'd have to get back on that horse--er--chair lift--alone. It was time to conquer this irrational fear.

"Do you want to do this?" I asked myself.

My 19-year-old self was still tentative. But at that moment, I decided I would no longer let that timid girl or her fears control me.

"Yes! Be fearless!" my 55-year-old self said, with enthusiasm. "You're the girl with the dragon tattoo! Let's go!"

I skied forward, held my poles in my left hand and turned to grab the chair with my right hand. Then I sat down.

Miracle of miracles, I didn't fall.The timid teenage me might have closed my eyes for a nanosecond, but then I opened my eyes and looked at the beauty around me. As I approached the top, I could see the Wallowa Mountains blanketed in snow in the distance.

My heart began pounding again as I approached the top and prepared to exit the lift. I'd never exited the lift without Kirby. What if I fell when I stood up?

But then I remembered what Kirby had told me: "Stand up and ski to the right!"

I gulped--but did exactly as he'd instructed me. And I didn't fall!

My solo trip down the mountain was the opposite of my first ski experience all those decades ago. I was in control of my skis. I could slow down, turn and stop. I was having fun.

At one point, I stopped to admire the view. Then I looked down at my skis and realized I wasn't afraid anymore. I'm pretty sure I saw my 19-year-old self giving me a thumbs-up.

Smiling, I pushed off with my poles and glided down the mountain.

Living large in 540 square feet: Clear the clutter. Find your life.

Six weeks ago, I downsized to a 540-square-foot artist's studio I've dubbed Wisteria Cottage. I never dreamed of living in such a tiny space that has no kitchen. Or bathroom. Yet here I am, living proof that smaller is better.

If I've learned anything in the past few years, it's this: Life is a big adventure and we really don't know what's going to happen next. So it's best to hang on and enjoy every minute of the ride.

Along the way, it's helpful to be able to fly by the seat of your pants. Go with flow. For me, that has translated to clearing the clutter and finding a new life.

Less than two years ago, I owned a four-bedroom, 2,400-square-foot house. Through a series of events both unfortunate and in hindsight, fortuitous, I had to sell that house and immediately empty its contents.

Six weeks ago, I moved for the third time in 18 months. My landlord was raising my rent. Most of my reduced salary was supporting a substandard apartment. This time, I downsized from an 1,100 square-foot apartment to a 540-square-foot artist's studio I've dubbed Wisteria Cottage.

Although I don't recommend this crash course in forced simplicity, in the long run, it's been very good for me. In the short run, it's been a wild, exhausting ride.

How do you edit a lifetime of belongings down to the essential? More importantly, how do you determine what's essential for you in this point of time? Might that list of essentials change over time, as one's life changes, ebbs and flows with the tide of family and responsibility?

In my big move 18 months ago, I had to give away a large portion of furniture I'd collected over the years. Now in the last move, I had to edit further.

Wisteria Cottage does not have a kitchen so I don't need a dining table. For now, my years of hosting large family gatherings seem to be behind me. I got rid of my garage sale dining table but kept a Craigslist find from two moves ago: a kitchen cart with storage, a food prep surface and two pop-up surfaces that make into a table. It fits the footprint and it works for my current lifestyle.

Most importantly, it's adaptable. Much like me.

Wisteria Cottage also does not have a bathroom. No running water. No sink. No shower. No toilet. The cottage is next door to the house where my daughter lives, so I share their facilities. I use their kitchen. I do my laundry in their house. And yes, in the wee hours, when I need to uh--wee--I use their bathroom.

Some people don't understand why I'd downsize this drastically. One friend compared my new lifestyle to that of the Unabomber! When a woman at work found out about my circumstances, she blurted out: "Are you okay with living in a shed?" Then she gave me the phone number for public housing. (I don't quite qualify, and I love Wisteria Cottage, thank you very much!)

I do not regret this decision to further reduce my footprint. I welcomed it as something I am supposed to learn how to do--and with joy and a sense of adventure.

Here's why I've become the queen of downsizing and change: First, I'm getting to spend more time with my daughter. That's a big bonus.

Second, I'm saving hundreds and hundreds of dollars a month. I've already been able to pay for needed car repairs I couldn't afford when I was in the apartment.

The breathing room with my finances also is allowing me to do more than just survive. I bought Keen hiking boots--on sale-- for an upcoming backpacking trip. My last backpacking trip was before I had children--more than two decades ago. I bought a sleeping pad for camping and already have camped more this summer than the past five summers combined. I bought an African djembe drum and have played drums around campfires under the stars. In short, I've rediscovered me and am living life to the fullest.

Downsizing from 2,400 to 1,100 to 540 square feet has changed me and my perspective on what I value. I'm learning what's really essential for my existence as well as my happiness. Although I didn't have to rent a storage unit, I still have too many boxes stacked up, awaiting further editing.

As I've downsized, here are the conversations I've had with myself: How many towels and washcloths do I need? How many books should I keep? How many pairs of shoes do I need? Throughout the move, the words I repeated most were: "I still own too much stuff. Why do I have all this stuff?"

Last weekend, I helped my 79-year-old mom move. She's also paring down her belongings and determining what she needs in her new stage of her life. We're helping each other determine what's essential.

Mostly, I've either given away belongings or packed them away until I need them again in my next stage.

Sometime down the road, I'm going to have the luxury of a bathroom and a small kitchen again. For now, I'm living large in the 540 square feet of Wisteria Cottage.

If you're like me, you own too much stuff. I challenge you to begin your own step toward simplicity by reading this book about "throwing out 50 things." Click here to learn more.

Are you ready to declutter your personal space as you determine what's essential in your own life? Who knows what adventures that might set into motion?

To read about an Oregon family of four living large in a 540-square-foot cottage on Sauvie Island, click here: