Another Way

Earthaven is a low-budget, backwoods advertisement for the alternative view. Its members are attempting to craft a new society, built not around economic growth but around the idea of sustainability and what they call "permaculture," the goal of creating modes of living that will never damage the planet. And even if they don't succeed in saving the world, they hope to survive whatever calamity might be coming down the pike.

FROM INTERSTATE 40, YOU DRIVE UP BAT CAVE ROAD FOR ABOUT EIGHT MILES, and if you know where you're going, you'll eventually come to a low sign saying "Earthaven Ecovillage." A gravel road leads down through the trees. A street sign gives the road a name: "Another Way."

The property has 320 acres fingering the mountain hollows along several converging creeks. You might catch a glimpse of a ridgeline overhead, but there are no grand vistas. Somewhere out there the Blue Ridge Mountains fall away toward the flatland, and in the other direction are the Smokies, but it's all a bit disorienting. You're in the woods.

The main street passes by a few structures and over a creek before reaching the humble center of the village. There's a visitor's kiosk where you sign in. The White Owl Cafe and the trading post are directly ahead. Off to the left, down a trail and over a footbridge that crosses a stream, is the Hut Hamlet, the first neighborhood on the site. To your right is the Village Green, a pasture where you might see a small cow, named Bridget.

Landscaping is minimal. Woody debris is piled along the creeks. There's even a junkyard. The place is an aesthetic mishmash, a bit shabbier than an ecovillage ideally would be. As co-founder Chuck Marsh, 55, puts it, "If we're going to make a place that's going to inspire others, we've got to make it beautiful."

At the moment, you'd call it interesting. Permaculture emphasizes such "natural" building techniques as using plastered-over straw bales as wall insulation. Windows are tall, for natural lighting, and floors are often concrete, built thick to hold heat in winter and remain cool in summer. One house, in a style known as an "Earthship," is set into a hillside, with walls made of dirt-filled, salvaged automobile tires.

Rain is precious here. Rooftops channel it into cisterns. Some people draw water from small springs on higher ground. There's a communal shower with a water-saver button on the shower head (to shut off the flow while you lather up). It is acceptable to pee on the ground, because it nourishes soil that can later be cultivated. "Pee Here Now" a sign will say in a spot that someday will be a garden. There are several communal composting toilets, which are basically outhouses. Sawdust cuts down on odor. Everything eventually is repatriated to the soil. Permaculture is pretty uncompromising.

There are a couple of satellite dishes on the property, but it's not really a television-watching culture. There's no cell coverage whatsoever. Residents rely on voice mail, e-mail and -- radically in this modern age -- face-to-face communication. At one point, my guide Greg Geis said he had to call someone, stepped outside and whistled. It didn't seem to work, but I got the point. Birds do it; people can do it.

Founded in 1994, Earthaven is less radical than some intentional communities. Members don't share income. Some older members are affluent and comfortably retired; others find work inside Earthaven, like construction, or hold jobs in nearby towns. The property is communally owned (and fully paid for), but everyone must lease his or her plot of land. Joining costs $4,000, not counting the lease and the additional cost of housing and energy. So you can't just walk up and pitch a tent. Applicants go through a six-month-minimum trial period and must win approval from everyone else -- Earthaven isn't a democracy but, rather, is governed by consensus.

There are a lot of philosophies swirling through the air here. Feminism runs strong. A men's movement searches for "the sacred masculine." There's a lot of yoga and meditation and holistic healing. You hear references to "radical honesty" and "neo-tribalism." "The white cultures no longer remember the tribal knowledge their ancestors had," says a member named Ivy Bolick.

They talk about Peak Oil. That's the hypothesis that global oil production will soon decrease, triggering a global economic collapse. (Peak Oil is, in a sense, the cure for global warming.)

One day, one of the founders of Earthaven, Arjuna daSilva, invited Greg and me for lunch, which turned out to be a veritable feast of pasta with red sauce, fish with squash and onions, and a leafy salad. We were all feeling fat and happy, even as the conversation turned toward the end of civilization as we know it.