I’d been on the island for less than a week when I opened my glove box looking for sunglasses, only to find the wrapper of my emergency granola bar torn open and the corner nibbled, right next to a neat little pile of mouse droppings.
As I inspected the rest of the car, I was mortified to realize it was likely more than a single mouse. I texted the friend I was housesitting for in disbelief.
“Ugh, I’m sorry! That’s so island,” she wrote back.
If I were anywhere but this remote Pacific Northwest island — a $24 ferry ride away from the mainland — I would’ve hired someone else to handle it.
Instead, I borrowed four old-fashioned snap traps from a neighbor, set each one myself, and disposed of the remains. Not exactly the relaxing island experience I envisioned, but someone had to do it.
A house-sitting stint on a small island made me question whether I’d stay a city girl my whole life
Growing up in the Bay Area and later raising my kids in Seattle, I’ve always considered myself a city person.
From working at a department store in downtown San Francisco as a teenager to partying with coworkers from around the world, I’ve always loved the culture, diversity, and convenience big cities provide. I love walking everywhere, taking public transit, and meeting friends for Sunday brunch.
Rural living has never felt like an option for me. That changed two years ago after a three-week house-sitting stay on this tiny island near the Canadian border.
Despite having limited services, no street lights, and a population of just about 1,000 people, I’ve returned several times.
Now I’m back for three months to see if remote island living could be a real long-term option rather than just a temporary escape.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been discovering the pros and cons of this way of life
I still enjoy visiting the city, but island life has already altered the structure of my days in ways I didn’t expect — fewer decisions to make, less interruptions, and long stretches of solitude (which I enjoy more than I anticipated).
Without constant noise and urgency culture, it’s easier to notice when I lose focus or am in a flow state.
I’ve tried new recipes, gone for long walks on the beach, and written uninterrupted for hours. I’ve also had more time to connect with friends and family by phone.
Living here, however, requires a level of planning city life doesn’t.
When I lived in Seattle, I could be at the grocery store in 10 minutes for a gallon of milk or that one missing ingredient I needed for dinner.
Here, every off-island trip requires several hours, multiple shopping lists, ferry schedules, and the energy for numerous stops.
Forget something, and you’ll just have to wait for it, or, if it’s available, pay extra at the island’s small market that carries an assortment of essential staples like dairy, coffee, some fresh produce, and baked goods.
However, even careful planning has limits. Windstorms knock the power out, ferries go out of service without warning, or the dog steals a loaf of stollen and has to be rushed to the emergency room on Christmas Eve.
For some, these inconveniences are dealbreakers, but I see them as data points. In three months, I hope to move beyond the honeymoon phase and get a true feel for what it’s like to live here.
Though I haven’t made up my mind yet, I’ve been enjoying this experience
I’m still early in my experiment. Winter is slowly giving way to spring, and with it more light, things to do, and people returning to the island.
I definitely plan to stay the full 90 days, and am grateful for the opportunity to be here for the shift in seasons before making my decision. For now, I’m just paying attention to what feels right and sustainable.
No matter what I choose, it’s already been an adventurous learning experience, and as a writer, there’s no better place to do my job.
I’ve caught some epic sunsets, watched eagles nesting, and written more in a week than I usually do in a month in the city.
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