文/Michelle+Nijhuis+譯/耿燁蔚

20 years ago， seven friends bought a cheap piece of land in western Colorado. Like most people who do such things， they were young， idealistic， and generally overjoyed by their ability to survive on almost nothing at all.

The land was cheap for good reasons： it was high on a mesa1）， thick with rocks， and spiked2） with scraggly juniper trees. Worse， it was uphill from the irrigation ditch3）. To locals， all land was defined by its position above or below the ditch， and land above was useless， too dry for growing anything but a few cows. People who invested in it were desperate or fools. Or both.

But the friends saw something different in the land. They saw acreage they could afford at a time in their lives when everyone they knew was struggling just to make rent. They saw sheltered spots where they could try building their own houses. They saw a place where they could unplug from the electrical grid—and from a society they saw as wasteful and destructive.

So they pooled their savings， paid up and moved in. For the first time in their lives， the friends were living as they thought they should， consuming as little and reusing as much as they could. They went without electricity or telephones， hauled water and groceries up the hill by hand， and rode their bikes even through the snow and ice. The houses multiplied bit by disorderly bit， built with mud and old wood and hazily remembered Boy Scout skills， insulated with straw and the discarded refrigerator. Over time， the place became more civilised.

They invested their time in the ways they thought mattered， teaching and writing and tending to the sick. They fell in and out of love. There were marriages and， eventually， a baby. There were late-night campfires， and wide-angle views of sky and stars and thunderstorms.

Those first years should have been hard， and at times they were. But mostly， they were full of jokes and adventures and something close to contentment.

When I married into the land， a few years after the commune began， I was as enthralled as the original seven pioneers. I， too， was an idealist and a wannabe do-it yourselfer.

I loved the tiny straw-bale house my husband had built on the downhill edge of the property， not only for its simple beauty but also for its efficiency： cool in summer and warm in winter， it seemed to sip energy as delicately as a hummingbird. I loved my neighbours， whose chaotic résumé ranged from carpentry to Japanese translation. I didnt mind the composting toilets4）. There seemed no more perfect place to be.

Though we werent separate from the world， it was easy to forget the connections. A rutted gravel road， our only line to civilisation， snaked around the steep northern edge of the property. We were a mile and a half from town， 30 miles from a Wal?mart， 70 miles from a Starbucks， and more than an hours drive from anything that qualified as an airport. The quiet was thick and heavy， except when the coyotes5）， with their healthy sense of theatre， howled into the moonlight.

For a long time， the isolation was romantic. And we knew it was part of what had made the land affordable in the first place， allowing us to insulate ourselves from mortgages and power outages. But as we discovered， it made us vulnerable， too. When Nancy， a chiropractor6）， was diagnosed with breast cancer， she moved east to be closer to her extended family and to medical care. One by one， for one reason and another， the original landowners ran up against7） the limits of the place， and regretfully they left for different lives.

Finally， on a spring day a decade and a half after the seven friends bought the land， my husband， our infant daughter and I found ourselves the only permanent residents of the entire 80 acres， living in what suddenly felt like a gatehouse to nowhere.

The land wasnt easy to love. The locals had warned as much， and for years I hadnt believed them. But when the place emptied， I started to see it as others did. During the hot， dry summer that followed， our wide-open spaces choked with pale weeds， and the juniper trees seemed to crowd in on us. The cool relief of fall spiralled8） quickly into winter， which seemed darker， colder， and longer than ever. I stumbled blearily through new-parent sleep deprivation， telling myself that everything would look better in the spring.

We were lucky， though， my husband and I. We were healthy， with a roof over our heads and satisfying work， and while the neighbourhood was quieter than we liked， the isolation was no mortal threat. And after a year or so， it began to ease. Two of the landowners returned from teaching jobs in a nearby city. Families and couples came to housesit and rent， exclaiming over the mountain views and keeping us company around the campfires.

Our daughter learned to walk， then run， on the rocky ground， and soon she was climbing our garden walls. The stray vine outside the front door bore a huge orange pumpkin that somehow survived the grasshoppers， deer and ravens.

My husband and I looked around. The place was still beautiful. We chose it again， ghosts and weeds and all， and then again.

But we， too， were testing the limits of the place and ourselves， testing our tolerance for isolation and aridity9）. Finally， like pavement weakened by too many cycles of heat and frost， our resistance buckled and cracked.

My husband， a teacher， had begun to crave more stimulating work than he could find in our nearby small town. Our daughter was happy here now， with us and our dog and the occasional visit from a friend； but what would her teenage years be like？ What had for so long been heaven for us could feel like prison to her.

So we sighed， and thought， and talked. We chose to go. We left as our friends had before us， quietly and regretfully， with promises to return often. Unplugging from the electrical grid was easy， or relatively so. What we didnt realise was that we needed the human grid， too. We could replicate it for a while in our beautifully isolated little neighbourhood， but in the end the longing for deeper， sturdier， more numerous human connections pulled all of us away from the mesa.

Its easy to see our experiment as a failure， as yet another innocent， short?lived attempt to shrink the resources that all of us used. But I dont think so. My familys 15 years there changed the land， and it changed each of us. We dont use any more power than we did off the grid， and we drive less. The habit of frugality has stuck， so much so that its no longer a hardship.

Our Colorado ghost commune persists without us， populated by a rotating cast of strangers and old friends. A few have settled there for good， but most will move on as we did， taking their stories and， with luck， their new habits with them. Yet all of us leave some piece of ourselves behind. As we scatter over states and continents， we remain connected， a human grid tempered in flickering campfires.

20年前，七個朋友在科羅拉多州西部買了一塊便宜的土地。像大多數(shù)做這種事的人一樣，他們年輕，充滿理想。而且，對于自己能在幾乎一無所有中生存下來，他們普遍感到欣喜若狂。

這塊地之所以便宜，是有充分理由的：位于高高的山頂上，到處都是石頭，散布著稀稀疏疏的柏樹。更糟的是，這塊地位于灌溉渠的上方。對于當(dāng)?shù)厝藖碚f，所有土地的價值都取決于其位置在渠之上還是之下。渠之上的土地毫無用處，太干燥，除了可以養(yǎng)點牛之外，什么也種不了。投資這種地的人，要么是走投無路，要么是愚蠢，要么就是既走投無路又愚蠢。

但這幾個朋友對那塊地卻不這樣看。他們看到的是一塊自己能買得起的土地，在他們?nèi)松哪莻€時期，他們認識的每個人都在為了付房租而拼命奮斗；他們看到的是一片可以遮風(fēng)擋雨的地方，他們可以在那里嘗試建造屬于自己的房屋；他們看到的是一個可以遠離電力網(wǎng)絡(luò)的地方，在那里他們可以脫離這個在他們看來鋪張浪費、充滿破壞性的社會。

于是他們把存款湊起來，付清地款，搬到了那里。這是他們?nèi)松械谝淮伟凑兆哉J為正確的方式生活：盡可能耗費少一點，盡可能重復(fù)使用。他們過著沒有電也沒有電話的生活，用手提水和雜物上山，即使冰雪交加，依然騎自行車出行。房子雜亂地一點點多了起來，都是用泥巴和舊木頭建成的。建房的技巧還是當(dāng)童子軍時學(xué)會的，但建房時已經(jīng)記不太清了。房子保溫隔熱用的是稻草和廢棄的冰箱。隨著時間的推移，這里越來越像一個文明之地。

他們把時間花在自認為重要的事情上，教學(xué)、寫作、照料病人。他們墜入愛河，而后又不再相愛。有人結(jié)婚了，最后還有了小孩。這里有深夜的篝火，有一覽無遺的天空和星宿，還有暴風(fēng)雨。

前幾年本應(yīng)比較艱辛，有時也的確如此，但多數(shù)時候都充滿了歡聲笑語、冒險和近乎心滿意足之感。

這個公社運行幾年后，我便嫁到了這里。和最早的七位拓荒者一樣，我也被吸引住了。我也是一名理想主義者，一個想自己動手做事的人。

我喜歡丈夫在這塊地的山坡下沿用稻草捆建的小房子，不僅僅因為房子有一種簡樸的美，還因為它的功效：房子冬暖夏涼，似乎就像蜂鳥一樣巧妙地吸收能量。我喜歡鄰居們，他們的履歷五花八門，有干木匠的，也有當(dāng)日語翻譯的。我不介意堆肥式廁所。似乎沒有比這里更美好的地方了。

盡管我們沒有與這個世界隔離，但很容易忘記與外界的聯(lián)系。印有車轍的碎石路蜿蜒于這塊地北部峭壁的邊緣，是我們通往文明的唯一線路。我們距離城鎮(zhèn)1.5英里，距離沃爾瑪30英里，距離星巴克70英里，去任何能稱得上機場的地方都需要一小時以上的車程。寂靜是厚重的，只有當(dāng)土狼憑著良好的劇場感在月光下嚎叫時，這種寂靜才會被打破。

在很長一段時間里，這種與世隔絕是浪漫的。我們明白這也是我們最初能夠買得起這塊地的部分原因，讓我們可以遠離按揭和停電。但我們發(fā)現(xiàn)，這也使我們變得脆弱起來。脊椎按摩師南希被診斷出患有乳腺癌后，搬去了東邊，離自己的大家庭更近，也便于接受治療。由于各種原因，原先的土地所有者們都感受到了這個地方的局限性，為了追求不同的生活，一個接一個帶著遺憾離開了。

最后，在七個朋友買下這塊地15年后的某個春日，我和我的丈夫以及襁褓中的女兒發(fā)現(xiàn)，我們一家成了整塊80英畝土地上唯一的永久居民。我們突然感覺像是居住在一座門樓里，但門樓后面什么也沒有。

這塊地很難讓人喜歡。當(dāng)?shù)厝诉@么警告過，多年來我都不信。但當(dāng)這里變得空蕩蕩之后，我的看法開始和他們一樣了。春天之后就是干燥炎熱的夏天，灰白色的雜草填滿了空曠的戶外空間，柏樹好似朝我們擠來。涼爽的秋天讓人松了一口氣，卻又迅速轉(zhuǎn)入冬季。這一年的冬天似乎比以往更加黑暗、寒冷、漫長。作為新晉家長，我睡眼惺忪、跌跌撞撞地熬過了被剝奪睡眠的那段日子，告訴自己到了春天一切都會好起來。

不過，我和丈夫都是幸運的。我們身體健康，有自己的房子，有令人滿意的工作。雖然街坊太安靜，我們有點不喜歡，但這種與世隔絕的生活并不是致命的威脅。大概一年多之后，這種孤獨感就開始緩解了。有兩位土地所有者從附近城市教完學(xué)回來了。有的人拖家?guī)Э诙鴣?，有的只有夫妻倆來，他們或幫忙照看房子，或租住房屋。他們對山景贊嘆不已，圍著篝火陪伴我們。

我們的女兒學(xué)會了走路，然后學(xué)會了在石路上奔跑，不久就開始爬上花園的圍墻。前門外四處蔓延的藤蔓上結(jié)了一個巨大的橙色南瓜，不知道何故竟沒有被蚱蜢、鹿和烏鴉吃掉。

我和丈夫環(huán)顧四周，這個地方依舊美麗。我們再一次選擇了它，選擇了幽靈、雜草和這里所有的一切，之后又再次選擇這里。

但是我們也在檢驗這個地方和我們自身的極限，檢驗我們對于孤獨和乏味的忍耐力有多大。像周而復(fù)始的酷熱和嚴寒會毀壞道路一樣，最后我們的抵抗力也崩潰坍塌。

我丈夫是一名老師，他開始渴望找一份更有激情的工作，比他在附近小鎮(zhèn)上找的工作更充滿刺激。那時，女兒有我們和狗陪她，偶爾還有朋友來訪，她在這里過得很快樂。但她長到十幾歲時怎么辦？這么長時間以來對我們來說就像天堂一樣的地方，對她可能就會像牢房一般。

于是，我們嘆息，苦思冥想，談?wù)撋套h，最后選擇離開。和之前離開的朋友們一樣，我們也是安靜地帶著遺憾離開的，并承諾一定會時?；貋砜纯础＿h離電力網(wǎng)絡(luò)很容易，或者說相對而言比較容易。但是，我們沒有意識到，我們也需要人際網(wǎng)絡(luò)。我們可以暫時在那一小片與世隔絕的美麗街區(qū)復(fù)制這種人際網(wǎng)絡(luò)，但最終我們還是向往更加深入、更加牢固、人數(shù)更多的關(guān)系網(wǎng)，這促使我們?nèi)繌纳缴习崃顺鰜怼?/p>

人們很容易把我們的嘗試看作一次失敗的案例，看作縮減人類所用資源的又一次本意良好但短命的嘗試。但我不這么認為。我們一家在那里住了15年，改變了那里，那里也改變了我們每一個人。我現(xiàn)在用的電不比遠離電網(wǎng)時多，而且我們很少開車。節(jié)儉已經(jīng)成為一種根深蒂固的習(xí)慣，以致我們一點也不覺得難。

沒有了我們，我們的科羅拉多幽靈公社依然存在，一群群陌生人和老朋友輪番到來。有些人永久在那里定居下來，但大多數(shù)人將像我們一樣離開，帶著各自的故事，運氣好的話還會帶著新的習(xí)慣。然而，我們大家都留下了一點屬于自己的東西。盡管我們分散在不同的州和大陸，我們依然保持聯(lián)系。那是在閃爍的篝火旁形成的人際網(wǎng)絡(luò)。

1. mesa [?me?s?] n. [地]平頂山

2. spike [spa?k] vt. 使增添風(fēng)味（或趣味）

3. ditch [d?t?] n. 溝渠

4. composting toilet：堆肥式廁所，是一種以極少水量沖廁，甚至是無水的廁所，排泄物流入便池中，混合木糠、椰棕或泥炭蘚等物質(zhì)帶氧分解成堆肥。

5. coyote [k?????ti] n. 土狼

6. chiropractor [?ka?r???pr?kt?（r）] n. 按摩師；（尤指）脊椎指壓治療師

7. run up against sth.：遭遇（未料到的困難）

8. spiral [?spa?r?l] vi. （費用、價格等）急劇增長，急速上升

9. aridity [??r?d?ti] n. 無趣；乏味