幽灵公社:一次远离尘嚣的尝试

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 didn’t mind the composting toilets4）. There seemed no more perfect place to be.

Though we weren’t 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 hour’s 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 wasn’t easy to love. The locals had warned as much， and for years I hadn’t 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 didn’t 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.

It’s 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 don’t think so. My family’s 15 years there changed the land， and it changed each of us. We don’t use any more power than we did off the grid， and we drive less. The habit of frugality has stuck， so much so that it’s 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，七个朋友在科罗拉多州西部买了一块便宜的土地。像大多数做这种事的人一样，他们年轻，充满理想。而且，对于自己能在几乎一无所有中生存下来，他们普遍感到欣喜若狂。

这块地之所以便宜，是有充分理由的：位于高高的山顶上，到处都是石头，散布着稀稀疏疏的柏树。更糟的是，这块地位于灌溉渠的上方。对于当地人来说，所有土地的价值都取决于其位置在渠之上还是之下。渠之上的土地毫无用处，太干燥，除了可以养点牛之外，什么也种不了。投资这种地的人，要么是走投无路，要么是愚蠢，要么就是既走投无路又愚蠢。

但这几个朋友对那块地却不这样看。他们看到的是一块自己能买得起的土地，在他们人生的那个时期，他们认识的每个人都在为了付房租而拼命奋斗；他们看到的是一片可以遮风挡雨的地方，他们可以在那里尝试建造属于自己的房屋；他们看到的是一个可以远离电力网络的地方，在那里他们可以脱离这个在他们看来铺张浪费、充满破坏性的社会。

于是他们把存款凑起来，付清地款，搬到了那里。这是他们人生中第一次按照自认为正确的方式生活：尽可能耗费少一点，尽可能重复使用。他们过着没有电也没有电话的生活，用手提水和杂物上山，即使冰雪交加，依然骑自行车出行。房子杂乱地一点点多了起来，都是用泥巴和旧木头建成的。建房的技巧还是当童子军时学会的，但建房时已经记不太清了。房子保温隔热用的是稻草和废弃的冰箱。随着时间的推移，这里越来越像一个文明之地。

他们把时间花在自认为重要的事情上，教学、写作、照料病人。他们坠入爱河，而后又不再相爱。有人结婚了，最后还有了小孩。这里有深夜的篝火，有一览无遗的天空和星宿，还有暴风雨。