- Cami Ostman acquired a plot of land from her aunt that had previously belonged to her grandparents.
- On the 20 acres in eastern Washington, she built a yurt to live in off the grid.
- She spends half her time there, invites friends to stay, and says it's ridiculously peaceful.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Cami Ostman, a 56-year-old writer and writing coach from Shoreline, Washington. It has been edited for length and clarity.
For as long as I can remember, I'd heard about a property my grandparents owned three hours away from Seattle in eastern Washington. I went to see it for the first time in my 30s, and it was just beautiful: 20 acres of sagebrush and unobstructed mountain views. From then on, as I fell asleep each night, I would imagine the cabin I'd build on it.
I was married at the time and living in Bellingham, Washington. As a wife, I sometimes felt as if I wasn't my own person. It wasn't my partner's fault. I felt thrust into a role of caregiver — something I see happen to women often.
I wasn't getting the space and time alone I needed — until I made it happen
I left my marriage at the end of 2015 and restarted my life.
After my grandparents died three years later, I approached my aunt, who owned the land by default, and asked her if she'd let me buy it from her. She wasn't going to do anything with the land, so she said I could have it. I bought it for a handshake.
I acquired some camping gear and started going once a month. There was nothing on the land but an old trailer filled with junk. I would sit on the deck my grandfather had built around the trailer and stare at the mountains.
I gutted the trailer and put some flooring down over the asbestos to make it livable, but I knew the structure wouldn't last many more years.
I loved the idea of a yurt
A yurt is a circular tentlike dome dwelling made of felt or skins stretched over a collapsible framework, traditionally used by nomadic people in Mongolia, Siberia, and Turkey. I liked the idea of a yurt because it could go up fast and was somewhat insulated.
I did a lot of research and found a company called Pacific Yurts to buy the materials from for just under $19,000, which I paid off in installments. I talked my brothers and dad into helping me build it. We all read the detailed instructions thoroughly and watched numerous videos.
We built a plywood platform cut into a 24-foot-diameter circle. We then installed a drip edge — a board that stands up an inch and a half around the platform that holds in the main structure, which is a lattice wall made of wood — around the perimeter. We covered ours with wool.
The platform took a whole weekend to build, and then the yurt took another weekend. When it was completely built, we were exhausted, and I wept with joy to see my dream come true.
My yurt became my 2nd home
I stay two to five nights at a time and spend the rest of my week at my condo in Shoreline, a northern suburb of Seattle.
I went for "hippy chic" decor. I found sofas and chairs that turn into beds, so I can host slumber parties for nearby concerts. I purchased a loft bed for myself so I could create an area for my dogs underneath. I've put Edison lights all around the inside ceiling.
For art, I've hung prints originally painted by my tattoo artist, who's my favorite visual artist. The general style is very cozy and colorful.
I stare at the mountains a lot. I write. I walk the property and sing. Sometimes I bring friends and we sit around the fire and drink wine. I bring in everything I need when I arrive, as it's a 25-minute drive to civilization.
There's no toilet, so when nature calls, I either go outside, use the outhouse my grandfather built (though it's old and precarious), or use a Luggable Loo, a 5-gallon bucket fitted with a compostable bag that my van-lifer friend Pam told me about.
There's no electricity or running water
Depending on how long I plan to stay, I drag in 5 to 10 gallons of water for drinking and washing dishes. To stay clean, I use wipes. Every three days, I drive to Planet Fitness to have a real shower.
I have a generator to power a little fridge and a microwave and charge all my devices. After dark, I read by headlamp or watch movies on my computer. There's no WiFi, but I have a hot spot on my phone that works pretty well.
Outside, solar lights come on when the sun goes down. I never feel scared, but I keep my dogs on their leashes if I hear coyotes.
Living off the grid is glorious
Every time I go, the colors are different, and there are different bugs, like clear beetles or bees in the spring. The property dips into a valley, so there's a stream when the snow melts after winter. Otherwise, it's very dusty in the summer.
Most of the property surrounding my land is empty. Some of it's being farmed for wheat or corn. A few swaths have houses on them, but all of the lots are 20 acres or bigger, so my nearest neighbor is quite far from me.
Many women I know live off the grid at least part time these days. I can think of seven friends in my age range who've bought off-grid land or purchased sprinter vans or RVs. Solitude is very valuable.
I run two businesses, including The Narrative Project, which has nine-month programs to help writers complete book-length projects. In Seattle, I'm accountable to my students and employees, but when I'm on my land, I leave my work behind.
There's nothing I miss when I'm in the yurt — it's so ridiculously peaceful. It's just me, the deer, and the owls.
