If you’re looking to read something that generates powerful feelings of nostalgia and wanderlust, this is the book for you. The story of June and Farrar Burn is incredible. Our culture has changed so much since the 1920s and 30s; no longer could you traipse all over the country with no money, jobs, plans or possessions, and not just survive but thrive, relying on the goodness of strangers, the opportunity for short-term and immediate cash-paying work, and the rural countryside to provide sustenance for days and weeks at a time. Yet that is exactly what the Burns did, and for years. They intentionally lived in such a way as to never become reliant upon material things, to always be ready at a moment’s notice to start a new adventure and follow the desire to explore.
Although the Burns wandered far and wide–from homesteading a tiny and previously uninhabited island, to spending a year teaching remote Eskimos in Alaska, from living out of their car while driving all over the USA, to living in an apartment in NYC–their home base ever remained the Pacific Northwest, specifically Bellingham, Washington and the beautifully rugged San Juan Islands. I spent much of my childhood in both those places, so the nostalgia was powerful and ever-present. It was sheer delight to flip back and forth from the prose to the map inside the front cover, following their adventures and comparing the details to places I know personally. Countless times while reading I pulled our my phone to swipe myself around the satellite imagery of Sentinel Island, Waldron, Orcas, and Bellingham, visualizing the locations of the story.
And yet. I felt a deep loneliness throughout the second half, and at the end. There was very little recounting of deep relationships they built with friends over the years, or of any rooted community within which they flourished. And there was virtually no spiritual content, beyond some light insinuations that the author was above anyone they met in their travels who express concern over their eternal souls. Their love for, and deep enjoyment of, the beauty of the natural world is tangible and infectious; I felt a deep connection over that shared joy. Yet to lack a corresponding recognition of the Creator is a saddening miss. Now, it could be that “Living High” purposefully limited its focus to just the details of the adventures and the Burns’ creative attempts to meet their basic needs. Perhaps they were indeed spiritual creatures who recognized the truth, and it was just beyond the scope of her writing for this particular book.
I intend to read more about the Burns. They produced their own newspaper, The Puget Sounder, for a few years, and June had a regular column with The Bellingham Herald. It will be fun to track those down. What I do know for certain is that reading Living High has swelled an already existing longing to spend time in the PNW again, and to share it with my wife and kids. One day.
Although the Burns wandered far and wide–from homesteading a tiny and previously uninhabited island, to spending a year teaching remote Eskimos in Alaska, from living out of their car while driving all over the USA, to living in an apartment in NYC–their home base ever remained the Pacific Northwest, specifically Bellingham, Washington and the beautifully rugged San Juan Islands. I spent much of my childhood in both those places, so the nostalgia was powerful and ever-present. It was sheer delight to flip back and forth from the prose to the map inside the front cover, following their adventures and comparing the details to places I know personally. Countless times while reading I pulled our my phone to swipe myself around the satellite imagery of Sentinel Island, Waldron, Orcas, and Bellingham, visualizing the locations of the story.
And yet. I felt a deep loneliness throughout the second half, and at the end. There was very little recounting of deep relationships they built with friends over the years, or of any rooted community within which they flourished. And there was virtually no spiritual content, beyond some light insinuations that the author was above anyone they met in their travels who express concern over their eternal souls. Their love for, and deep enjoyment of, the beauty of the natural world is tangible and infectious; I felt a deep connection over that shared joy. Yet to lack a corresponding recognition of the Creator is a saddening miss. Now, it could be that “Living High” purposefully limited its focus to just the details of the adventures and the Burns’ creative attempts to meet their basic needs. Perhaps they were indeed spiritual creatures who recognized the truth, and it was just beyond the scope of her writing for this particular book.
I intend to read more about the Burns. They produced their own newspaper, The Puget Sounder, for a few years, and June had a regular column with The Bellingham Herald. It will be fun to track those down. What I do know for certain is that reading Living High has swelled an already existing longing to spend time in the PNW again, and to share it with my wife and kids. One day.
