She Lives Alone on a Remote Island and Keeps Everything Running

Amanda traded city life and a sailboat for an off-grid caretaker job on a tiny island in northern British Columbia. Two years in, she’s juggling chainsaws, solar panels, and full-on solitude—and somehow making it look calm.

The Decision That Changed Everything

It starts simple: one woman, one small cabin, and a whole island to look after. The place sits cool even in summer, quiet enough to hear wind and tide before anything else.

For months at a time in winter, she’s the only full-time resident. No neighbors across the fence. Just water, trees, and the odd storm that rattles the eaves.

Wind is the big drama here. It can roar through hard enough to make the buildings hum, the kind of weather that turns a peaceful day into a checklist.

Then the real show: humpbacks surface out in the channel, with that unmistakable blow that echoes across the inlet. It never gets old.

What Daily Life Actually Looks Like

Amanda didn’t land here by accident. She spent a decade living on a sailboat, then went looking for land when her dog got older—and found this caretaker gig.

Now her mornings are for the island. She checks docks, walks the property, and keeps all the systems happy before lunch.

Heat comes from wood, period. That means splitting, hauling, and stacking every log that burns on the property—summer is basically firewood season.

On top of that, there’s mowing, keeping the greenhouse alive, charging batteries, and lighting stoves when the temperature drops. In the afternoons, she switches gears and works as a remote web designer.

Connectivity is a patchwork: satellite internet for real work, a sliver of cell service on the dock for the occasional ping. Phone calls barely happen.

The Cabin That Fits Her Life

There are two cabins and a main house. Her cabin is the cozy one—kitchen, a little eating nook that doubles as an office, and two small bedrooms.

The wood stove does all the heating, even in summer when the shade keeps things chilly. One cabin turns into an Airbnb during the warm months, so she handles that too.

Town is a boat ride away. In summer she takes the owners’ boat for supplies and appointments, but honestly, she’d rather stay put.

The Wild Neighbors and Real Risks

Winter runs happen with help from caretakers on the next island over; they’ve got a covered boat and join for monthly supply missions.

The greenhouse is a lesson in humility. It’s small, and anything planted outside gets wiped out by deer before it gets going.

Animals hop islands by riding the currents. Bears are regulars. Some days she rounds a corner and there’s a bear, just… there.

So bear spray lives on her hip all summer. It’s part of the uniform.

Winter adds cougars to the list. Once, fresh prints stopped right by her door after a snowfall; the generator likely scared it off.

If something goes sideways, neighbors mobilize fast. When she crushed a couple of toes with a log, help showed up and the hospital trip happened.

Power, Water, and the Smart Off-Grid Setup

Living off-grid forces a different kind of attention. Energy isn’t abstract; it’s a daily budget you can see.

Solar changed everything. With about 8,000 watts coming in, summer runs generator-free across the entire property.

Winter is a different game: four diesel generators top off the battery bank in three-hour bursts, then everything coasts.

Water comes from a well that fills a tank when the generator runs. From there, gravity takes over. Lines are buried, but deep cold means shutting things off and relying on deck jugs as backup.

Waste is handled by a septic field. It’s tidy, straightforward, and built to disappear into the landscape.

Firewood From the Ocean (Yes, Really)

The island is protected, so cutting trees isn’t allowed. Windfall helps a bit, but the real firewood delivery system is the tide.

When logs float by on a high tide, she’s in the kayak with a staple and rope, towing each log back like a patient tugboat.

Then comes the grind: chainsaw to lengths, haul to the splitter, stack in the woodshed. The wood sits six or seven months to season—some logs are so soaked they drip when they’re split.

The Boat That Started This Whole Story

To keep friends in the loop, she started documenting island life online. When client work is quiet, she edits and posts in the afternoons.

Solitude suits her. She doesn’t feel lonely out here; the only ache was losing her dog, Buttercup.

City life burned out years ago. She sold the condo, bought a 28-foot Catalina, and that choice steered her straight to this island.

Before moving ashore, she lived on that sailboat eight years—winters at a marina, summers exploring, then a bold run north. There were sketchy nights at anchor in 30-knot winds, but also long stretches of total calm.

Why She’s Staying—and What Comes Next

This is year two as caretaker, and she’s eyeing a summer reset: get the sailboat back in the water and explore the coastline around her new home.

She calls herself a nomad, but the fit here is obvious. If the owners ever close this chapter, she’ll untie the lines and keep moving. Until then, the island keeps teaching the same lesson: happiness doesn’t need much.