Marty Raney - Homestead Survival: An Insiders Guide to Your Great Escape

On the morning of November 30, 2018, I left our homestead in Hatcher Pass at eight oclock to get building supplies. It was still dark, as the sun doesnt rise until about ten that time of year in Alaska. As I sat at a red light on the Parks Highway in downtown Wasilla, the earth began to ripple violently like waves on the water. Trees swayed, the ground moved, and I thought, This might be the big one! It was, by far, the biggest quake Id ever felt (registering 7.2). Immediately after the quaking stopped, the power went out. And then, six minutes later, another 5.7 earthquake. Whoa. Police cars, fire trucks, and other aid vehicles with lights ablaze and sirens ablare sped in every direction.

I abandoned my mission to get supplies and immediately thought of those in my circle. I called my wife, Mollee, who said she was fine and planned to assess homestead damage once the sun came up. I then called my parents, but the line was dead. I turned my truck around and headed for their house. As I passed the grocery store, I saw hundreds of people crowded around the entrance, and it looked like they were being handed free bottled water. The huge plate glass window storefront was now lying on the concrete sidewalk in a million pieces, and the asphalt parking lot had a significant earthquake crack running at least fifty yards, straight into the building. Every gas station had a line of cars and trucks that backed up onto the main roads, and it was apparent this quake had caused certain damage and significant panic.

As I entered my parents driveway, their powerless house was pitch-black. I walked in and found them sitting quietly in the dark, stranded in their respective well-worn recliners, surrounded by an ocean of broken glass. They were anxiously reliving the quake back to me as I scooped, swept, and vacuumed the dangerous debris. Once the glass was gone and my (amazing) mom had told me ten different illustrative versions of their crazy morning, I set off for my place.

On the fifteen-mile drive back to Hatcher Pass, I couldnt stop thinking about how ill-prepared everyone had been that morning. Not enough food. Not enough water. Not enough fuel. A few hours after the quake, every generator on every shelf had been purchased. Any store that was not damaged by the quake saw desperate throngs hoarding necessities.

Alaskans are well aware of the 9.2 earthquake of 1964, when the earth opened up and swallowed cars, houses, and buildings, killing 115 people. The adage Its not over til its over is never more true than during an earthquake. When you and the ground youre standing on stop shaking, theres often more to come. Theres also something far worse than a short-lived earthquake brewing in the ocean, and its traveling at a minimum of 500 mph: a tsunami. Destination? The coastline. The quake of 64 triggered tsunami waves that devastated coastal villages and displaced huge fishing boats in Kodiak from their respective moorage slips to high and dry front yards. Thankfully the two big quakes back to back in 2018 didnt trigger a significant tsunami, and come sunrise people began to assess their commercial and residential damages. What did I take away from that earthshaking event? Simply this: No one was prepared.

Earthquakes are to Alaskans as tornadoes are to midwesterners. Theyre unpredictable, destructive, deadly, and common. Add to the mix hurricanes, ice storms, pandemics, cyberattacks on any and everything from fuel to food, water, and power sources, and, dare I say it, wars. Theres never been more people on Planet Earth than now. Theres never been more potential to harm said people than now. And there will never be a better time than right now to wake up and admit the cold hard facts. Hard times are here, harder times are on the horizon, and no ones prepared.

Today, four years after the 7.2 earthquake, I still lead two not so distinctly different lives. One is my Alaskan life, where I work as a contractor while striving to live simply and self-sufficiently on a rugged, forty-acre homestead that has challenged me like no other. My second life finds me traversing North America, answering the calls of prospective homesteaders who have reached out to me for a helping hand with their own (seemingly insurmountable) challenges that theyve encountered while pursuing a simpler life.

Ive long lost track of how many properties, cabins, homes, and homesteads Ive worked onthousands, for sure. It seems like I got put to work on the day I was born, and from early on its all I can remember. Work. But if any good can be said about my lifetime of hardscrabble, its this: Its given me a diverse skill set that qualifies me to travel anywhere to help anyone with anything. These two lives are inseparable. I work in Alaska to fulfill our familys dream to live freely, simply, self-sufficiently, independently, and closer to nature. I travel to assist others to do the same, helping them to fulfill