Off-Grid, On Purpose: Carole’s Tiny House Life in Northern Ontario
Carole built a scrappy, beautiful little home in the woods and made it work year-round. The place runs on solar, propane, grit, and a very opinionated cat.
A quiet acre at the end of the trees
She leases an acre tucked far enough back that neighbors are more rumor than reality. A minute down a path, there’s a small lake that feels borrowed from a postcard and somehow still private.
Third winter coming up out here. The plan isn’t temporary—this is home until it isn’t, and hopefully that’s a long time.
Built small, built together
The house is tight and tidy—8.5 by 28 feet, 238 square feet before you count the lofts. A contractor framed it; then she and her dad took it the rest of the way, with friends popping in when extra hands made the difference.
There’s this obvious outdoorsy thread running through it all. She grew up in the bush, learned early that silence isn’t empty, and still looks most at ease with trees for neighbors.
The kitchen that stays honest
Open shelves on top, open storage below—no doors to hide disasters. You see what you own, you use what you see. It keeps the space feeling breezy and, honestly, it looks good.
Down low, the pantry is just bins and boxes that slide out like tackle drawers—quick, simple, very “grab what you need and get cooking.”
The kitten’s got a proper little eating spot tucked in, which is funny because it’s all so compact and this tiny corner still made the cut.
There’s a small step stool leaning nearby. Not glamorous, but it means the top shelf actually gets used instead of becoming a museum.
Plates and mugs come with stories—the daily dishes are heirlooms, not just “sets.” This is the stuff that makes a small space feel like it’s yours.
And the stove? Full size, all propane. It fits like it was meant to be there, and it doesn’t ask the solar to do a job it hates. Smart choice.
The fridge rides on a box to clear the wheel well, which turned out to be great—no crouching for the bottom shelf. Apartment-size but feels normal in use.
Living room that moonlights as everything
The couch zone is living room, dining corner, and—on sleepovers—spare bedroom. It’s the set piece that pretends to be three different rooms depending on the day.
There’s a secondary loft overhead for guests, the not-quite-secret “apartment B.” It’s basically a twin; kids love it.
Color is easy here: mostly white and blue, then a couple pillows if a mood strikes. When money is tight, that’s the kind of flexibility that matters.
Under the couch is the nerve center: electrical panel, inverter, and a pile of seasonal bins. Everything that needs a home but doesn’t need to be seen.
There’s also this little nook—currently approved by the cat—but sized for a future dog. It grabs about a third of the couch footprint and still works.
A flea-market hammock chair swings in for extra seating or mornings with tea and emails. It hooks into a ceiling point when needed and packs away when not.
The cat got her own bridge
The cat wanted the loft, obviously. So a ramp went up—DIY with a little carpet strip for traction. Now there’s a furry commuter going up and down all day.
It’s a tiny house decision that looks silly until you live with an animal and realize peace is worth the two square feet of ramp.
Heat, cold, and the northern reality
A propane heater on the wall takes the whole house through winter. No thermostat—just a dial from one to five and “high,” and it gets the job done.
In July, a portable AC pops into the window for a few weeks. Otherwise, it’s all about opening windows at night and trapping the cool during the day.
Sun when there is, generator when there isn’t
Four solar panels feed 960 watts into the system—perfect from spring to late fall. The routine settles in and suddenly it just feels normal.
When winter hits, a Honda 3000 generator takes the wheel. Morning start-up, four to six hours depending on the day, and lights stay on.
Propane covers the other heavy hitters: stove and oven, on-demand hot water, heater, even the washer/dryer. A couple of refills a year and life keeps humming.
Keeping water flowing at minus-30
Water comes from a shared sand-point well, plumbed straight into the house. There’s a real septic too—tiny doesn’t have to mean roughing it.
Winter is where it gets clever. A heat-trace line runs inside the water pipe—yep, inside—warming the flow from within.
Then there’s insulation wrapped around the line, all boxed in with two-inch foam. The whole skirt under the bathroom is insulated, and when the snow piles up, she banks it around the house like a blanket.
Spray foam in the walls keeps the heat in and the summer heat out. The trade-off is sound—barks and car noise come through a little louder than you’d expect.
Why she went tiny in the first place
She once owned a 3,300-square-foot place—beautiful, big, and basically empty most days. The bills made the house feel even bigger.
So she pivoted: wheels under the house, costs slashed, freedom instead of square footage. As a freelance photographer, that choice just made practical sense.
The thing is, when expenses shrink, so does the panic. She stopped hoarding jobs out of fear and started choosing work that actually fit.
Closet pulling way above its weight
The closet is surprisingly generous: folded stacks down the middle, hang space on both sides. Hooks catch tank tops so hangers aren’t doing all the work.
Outdoor layers live here too, then swap to a shed out back when the seasons flip. Keeping only one season inside makes the space breathe.
She did the classic hanger trick—turn them backward, then only flip them after you wear something. Six months later, whatever stayed backward got donated. Brutal, effective.
Up top: bins for camera gear and paperwork. Down lower: shoes, hunting stuff tucked in the corner, even a vacuum. It’s basically a real-house closet hiding in a tiny house.
Yes, that soaker tub is a horse trough
The bathroom is big for a tiny—storage for linens and all the everyday bits, plus a proper medicine cabinet. It feels like a room, not a compromise.
There’s a propane washer/dryer set that can swallow a full bedding load. In a tiny, that’s the difference between “nice idea” and “it actually works.”
Cat litter has its own corner—inevitable, managed.
The tub story is the best part: standard soakers were too pricey and too big, so she went with a stock tank. Compact, deep, and kind of perfect.
Regular flushing toilet. Regular sink. No outhouse, no drama.
The bathroom door glides on rollers, with a temporary curtain for privacy. Eventually there’ll be frosted glass, but honestly, the curtain works fine.
The painter’s ladder that became stairs
Instead of a custom staircase, a painter’s ladder got reworked by a local welder. There’s a plate and lip up top that bites onto a bar so it feels solid.
Skylights, stars, and the shelf of small things
The main loft has a low-profile foam mattress—comfy enough without stealing headroom. It’s the sweet spot where you can sit up without smacking your skull.
Skylights make the space feel twice as big and turn clear nights into a cheap planetarium. Shades slide in when sleep wins over stargazing.
Behind the bed is a shallow headboard-shelf full of tiny keepsakes. Travel bits, gifted things, and the collar from a dog she still misses. Small items, big presence.
Why this life actually buys time
Lower bills turned into extra hours she can spend how she wants. More time with family, more time helping out, more time doing things that aren’t chasing invoices.
Twice a week, she’s a farmhand at a reindeer ranch—yes, really. It’s the kind of unexpected side quest that happens when you’re not scrambling to keep the lights on.
The thread through all of it is simple: live where it feels right, build what you can carry, and keep the calendar for people and projects that matter.
