Where

Why am I out here? In a ramshackle shack with no running water and gaping gaps I cannot see where the rats get in. Why am I out here? At the end of a pothole-ridden dirt road where every foot step in the fall, winter, spring, is trodden into the mud. Where gumboots are mandatory and your firewood stash better be at the forefront of your mind or you might not make it through the wet seasons with any sanity left intact. Why am I out here? On the most western edge of the west coast where anything left outside for more than a day will become reclaimed by rust mould or Mother Nature herself. Why am I out here? In a place where I can only dress for the weather, heavy with many fleece wool waterproof layers. In a place where a hairdo nor makeup will never stay just so, and your jewelry better be durable and not get in your way. A place where even the most frail and small being should know how to yield an axe a hatchet a hunting knife. Why am I out here? When my father, back in his comfortable city, tells me I was raised to know better.