Dating a Swamp Witch

The river was gentle, the meadow was sunny, and a herd of elk scattered into the woods as we drove down the winding road toward the 40 acre lot. Late summer beauty whispered in my ear, This place is perfect.

The next time I went, after all the paperwork was signed and the land was officially in my name, I had never been so excited, so in awe. As I drove down the long easement through the forest toward my new land, I had to stop. The road suddenly ended in a deep, wide lake that left the sword ferns with only the tips of their tallest fronds reaching out of the water. 

This was not a big puddle. It was a full-on forest swamp, and it was all mine. I had to turn around, go back to town, and get hip waders and a canoe. The fall rains had transformed my newly acquired paradise, so I claimed it with a new perspective and I gave myself a new nickname. The Swamp Witch.

Just to get this part of the story out of the way: I started this adventure with one man, but it didn’t last long.

I would wander the woods, collecting bones and feathers, connecting myself to the land, and I would go to town once a week for groceries and a hot rotisserie chicken. I’d sit in my truck in the parking lot, devouring a juicy leg and thigh, forcing myself to save the rest for the next long week at home. And I started dating, kind of.

With satellite internet powered by the generator, I could connect to the outside world. Into the evening, I would chat with eligible men who were intrigued. I would test humour and analyze grammar and playfully demonstrate my wildness. You can attract a lot of guys with an online dating profile like mine: “Single lady with perpetual dirt under fingernails, comfortable with no power, no running water, foraging for food in the woods. Living alone on 40 acres of wilderness with a silly pup, looking for a good feller who wants to share the dream.”

Each trip into town, I tried to set up a quick little date with someone new. I wasn’t clean or polished, but I had a bunch of jokes and a heck of a good story. I wiped the chicken grease off my face, put my messy hair in a braid, and wore my long brown woolly Ewok vest, my elk tooth amulet around my neck, and a red-and-black plaid jacket so they knew they were getting the real deal.

There was the guy who came from a town three hours away, with a sack of plums from his fruit tree. He was a carpenter and a fisherman, but I ended it because he got weird about the carpenters who were putting the siding on my cabin. There was the logger who loved trees, but maybe not as much as me. There was the guy who just looked at me with wide-eyed amazement, and I never heard from again. There was a farmer, a rock climber, an accountant—none of whom I saw more than once.

The forecast was wet but the cozy appeal of cooking together on the wood stove—with candlelight, a bottle of wine, and a game of Scrabble while the rain beat down on the metal roof—was impossible to resist.

“It might flood,” I said, listening to the rain. “If you don’t leave tonight, you might not get out of here.” Looking into the pitch black and taking in the deafening roar of the rain, maybe not quite believing that possibility, he said, “I’m willing to take that risk.” Supressing all other urges, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Dawn arrived and the view from the cabin was jaw-dropping. The meadow was now a lake, and there was an opportunistic swan swimming over the acres of long grass, now completely underwater.

I fired up the generator so that my captive suitor could email a colleague, informing him that he would not be able to make it into work that day. Or the next. We were on an island, surrounded by the Salmon River.
Those few days were a blur. The rain let up, but we were forced into a four-day-long date. In close quarters. With no running water. Self-conscious of our body odour and hygiene, the intimacy of the situation, the disconnection from the rest of the world, we had to get comfortable with each other, quickly.

“What do you do for a shower?” he asked.

I pointed to the cast-iron tub sitting beside the fire pit outside. He didn’t hesitate when I explained our only option, and soon enough we had a fire going.

My bath days usually only happened once a week because of how long it took to collect and heat water. And here we were, doing it together.  We dumped buckets of the plentiful rainwater into canning pots that we heated over the fire. Even with help, the process of filling the tub takes at least a couple hours. If the water goes in near boiling, the tub will hold the heat long enough to be filled. So that’s what we did. Modestly, we took turns and felt fresh again by Saturday afternoon.

By the next morning, the waters had receded enough for Byron’s truck to make the long drive through the swamp with enough clearance to avoid flooding his engine or cab. I watched him drive away, and soon after he left, the rain started again.

The next frontal system flooded my land more than ever. And I was there alone for the next five days, living off butterflies in my stomach, that intoxicating earthy man-scent left on my sheets, and my determination not to sink.

The following weekend, Byron came back. In a canoe. Full of everything I needed and more: gas for the generator, drinking water, fresh greens, chocolate, beer, and a rotisserie chicken.  He came in the dark on Friday evening, and I enjoyed the feast and the company, but when Saturday morning rolled around (and I have still not lived this one down), I thanked him for the supplies and asked if he was planning on staying the whole weekend, with a tone that really said, “It’s time to go.”

I clearly still needed to prove something to myself. I had challenges to overcome, and I was set on isolation and self-reliance. Could I siphon gas from my truck to use in the generator if needed? Could I hook up the power take-off on the tractor or discharge a firearm? I needed to withstand the storm on my own, come out the other side knowing my own strength.

The next time we met, after the flood, he told me that he would never try to steal my independence and that he admired me, saw magic in my eyes, and wanted to get to know me more, wherever it led.

He said all the right things, although I still kept him at arms-length for the next couple of months until I realized I’d never felt more free and true to myself than when I was with him. Safe. Seen. Adored. I finally realized I needed someone exactly like him.

Which brings us to now—to this swamp witch having found her man. He holds together my scattered wildness and complements me in ways that allow my spirit to flourish. He roams the woods with me looking for mushrooms and bones and stories. He’s the most capable, hardworking answer to my big, big dreams.

We are still isolated, but we now have a solar array and large battery bank, a propane stove, full-size fridge and freezer, taps on the kitchen sink, and hot water on demand to fill the tub. We have a medicine garden and a sustenance garden. We solve problems together and we work at preserving food for winter, raising our son, and staying happy and healthy.

All these simple luxuries we have built together from scratch, and I couldn’t imagine doing this without him.

Next on the list, is an indoor bathroom. I can’t wait.