Sun Star reporter Lacie Grosvold recently moved out of UAF student housing and into a cabin with no running water. Here are some thoughts on making the switch.

When I was first introduced to Fairbanks and UAF, I found it appalling the way a lot of people live running water. I thought these people were usually easy to identify in their natural fiber clothing and grubby dreadlocks, but the longer I was here, the more I realized how people who live a lifestyle that has long since passed in the Lower 48, get by, the reasons they do it, and how they can have perfectly normal hygiene.

After three semesters in a dorm, I started to feel claustrophobic and began to understand why one would opt for a cozy cabin over the cellular life of a dormitory. One day while talking to a few friends, we all had the brilliant idea to strike out on our own and move into a cabin. It all sounded so exciting and such a relief from what was becoming a monotony of dorm life that I enthusiastically agreed to move. It seemed that the inconvenience would be worth the experience. So the day before I was due to fly out for Christmas, I packed up all my things and stored them in a friend's apartment while I awaited my roommate to seek out the perfect residence over break.

When I returned home to Montana from the strange and mysterious North, I was bombarded by the usual questions from friends and strangers about the dark and the cold and the igloos, but this time I had a new detail of my exciting arctic life to add to the conversation: When asked if I was living in the dorms, I explained that I had moved into a cabin with no running water. They would most often laugh a cruel, mocking laugh and ask stupid questions like, "How are you going to take a shower?" One friend raised his eyebrows and kindly explained to me that the boys would not be impressed by that kind of lack of personal hygiene. Even when I explained how simple it would be to shower on campus and haul water, and how it saved money and was rather fun, it lead to laughter by the onlookers. They would laugh at my young naivete and pity my wide-eyed enthusiasm.

And now during my first week living in the cheery pine-walled home that I've made with two of my friends, I curse those aquatic snobs who are probably running their filthy hands under hot water and laughing like maniacal villains, but we're doing just fine making the adjustment.

In the cold hours that stretch all day, it is sometimes necessary to force oneself to trudge out to the cold outhouse. The dishes are a dirty waste of precious water, and the commute to campus becomes an ordeal, where as it was only a short, brisk walk before. Water is precious, and I find myself being inventive in the ways I conserve water. Last night I added the water from my strained top ramen to my powdered cappuccino. We would not have our very modest collection of furniture if not for the generosity of my roommate's relatives. There is no couch or a kitchen table yet, but our dining room is open and spacious. The bedrooms are quaint and snug. The clothes I wear lie in not-so-neat piles on the floor of my bedroom, insulating the floor from the frosted deck door. The rest lie unused in boxes under my bed.

It seems like an unnecessary hassle for the small amount of monetary advantage to have to use an outhouse and haul your own water. I realized, though, as I was walking outside, how beautiful it was. The tall skinny trees were covered with spiky frost, the sun was just coming up coloring the entire landscape in blues and purples and the air was still and so silent. No cars raced past. There was no noise. Walking outside everyday is its own little commune with nature. Sure it's a pain and my personal hygiene is lacking, but I try to be optimistic. It is a lesson in simplification, a lesson in frugality, getting along with others, and generally an educational experience that will make me an all around better person. Plus, hot water is overrated anyway.