OMG!!! NOT THE FOOD!?
Say it isn't so.
When there is no electricity, the pump that forces water to my house won't function either. I can flush and/or shower though I have to be perfectly clear on which is more important in the long run.
There's something about living on the side of a mountain - an ancient landslide in a storm that gets the ole adrenaline flowing. It's like at the beginning of the movie, The Wizard of Oz, when Auntie Em and Uncle Henry are running around getting the chickens and horses into the barn. There's tons of chores and the farmhands are out playing Farmville on Facebook. You are on your own. Everything seems ragged and raw. Soon, night will settle though there will be no calm in with the dark. And where the hell is Uncle Henry when you need him? He dun pussy'd-out, movin back to the city.
Living in these mountains takes tremendous courage at times -- (or stupidity), though when I lived in the city, it took a different kind of courage (and stupidity) to endure the noise, intrusion and chaos. My last city "neighbor" (worked on overgrown trucks (proving his tiny little genitalia) with oversized tires parked in his front yard) poured used motor-oil and anti-freeze into the gutter, the mix pooling into a greenish luminescent goo in front of my house. He was nice to cars (detecting a pattern here?) though wildlife could get screwed, to hell with the neighborhood - there was no integrity.
A quiet morning in the forest without interruption from the bleating of a semi-truck backing up or the din of traffic nearby is soul poetry. Not a day goes by that I don't feel truly blessed and grateful to live among these redwoods, though a day like yesterday will try the hardiest of creatures.
While the upside of living here is beauty, nature, serenity, and solitude, the downside is loneliness, slow internet and little-t0-no assistance in storms, earthquakes or dying. The birds, skunks and bunnies don't give a rats about your ass. After all, it was you who intruded on their peace. Deer might give a passing glance though they'll go right on nibbling your most cherished plants. If you fall through the deck, your ass hitting the ground ten feet below, you have to pick yourself up. In other words, if you choose to live on the banks of Shitcreek, don't expect any help when it overflows. You are on your own. And well after you're dead and gone, the animals and plants will grow up right over your creaky ole house that was built on that ancient landslide as if you never even existed, and that's an even scarier thought than being alone in a dark house on a very stormy night.
(Oct 15th -- Still no electricity. Ruined food. Stinky fridge. Water running low. Life goes on. The beauty is in the landscape and the landscape is in the beauty. You take what you can get and show appreciation in those brief, beautiful moments.)