I’ve now lived in the same general area of the Chequamegon Bay for almost two years. I intend to live here for many more years: I thought of Minneapolis, by comparison, as an extended stopover, from the beginning of my time there, and I ended up living there only a little under three years before moving on. Here is where I imagine I’ve settled down. But given my vagabond past, and because I haven’t bought land or a house yet but instead keep changing addresses as I find different places around here to rent on my gradual way to a more permanent situation, many people who know me seem to suspect that I’m just stopping through. Maybe it’s also because Minneapolis is a place we’re familiar with, a gravity well, a place people end up. The Chequamegon Bay is an unknown. It sounds like a place to do some WWOOFing for a while.

Part of why my writing here has been more sporadic is that I’ve been working on the little projects of getting more self-sufficient. Getting a truck, fixing the truck (as I talked about in the post just before this one), building a little woodshed out of saplings and tarps, splitting wood to fill it. Another part, though, is that I’ve been laying the groundwork for my next big project. I’m starting a magazine.

A few months ago, I found myself with a sudden longing to get a little truck. I know: it was a surprise to me too.

Hello everyone. How’s it going? I’ve missed you. I’m back.

There’s something about living in the country, perhaps. Since I’ve moved out here, I’ve written less here than ever before—now a little over three months since the last time I mentioned anything about my life here. In large part, I think, that’s because around here I find it so much more interesting to actually live my life than to write about it. The summertime is here! The strawberries are already done, the raspberries are passing their prime, and soon we’ll be all the way to blueberries, which will carry us straight through to September.

My partner Misty is moving up to the Chequamegon Bay. The news here isn’t that we’re getting back together—we never entirely broke up—but that Misty is moving house in the middle of a global pandemic.

Back in August, when I started recounting my summer here, I was playing a little trick on myself. Since summer of 2017, I had been meaning to write something about the traditional Ojibwe fast that I went on that May. But at the time, I found it just too big a project to tackle, and I punted it. This past May, I went on another fast, and I knew that if I promised to tell about my entire summer, I would eventually force myself to write about the summer’s fast, which in turn would make me tell about my fast in 2017.

Today is February ninth. On this morning bright with sunlight off the snow, I put on my boots and coat and carried my wooden turtle out to the woods behind the house I live in now. I walked over the narrow, handmade bridge over the creek, my feet elevated a foot and a half above the deck on hard-packed old snow, and sat down on one of the stumps that serve for steps on the far side.