Middle class survivalists

In the next few years, Ron Taylor plans to drop off grid. His oil-fired furnace is gone, replaced by eco-electric heat, and he is harvesting rainwater at his century-old, five-bedroom farmhouse h near Mushaboom, N.S., a seaside town immortalized by singer Feist.

The next step is to put on a new roof with solar panels, then throw up a windmill on the two-acre property.

It may sound like a save-the-planet, back-to-nature renovation. But Mr. Taylor is a Toronto-based real-estate developer. He has worked on monster projects such as London’s Canary Wharf and the redevelopment of Halifax’s harbourfront. And he is dropping big money to drop off the grid in Mushaboom. The project is budgeted at upward of $40,000.

Barton M. Biggs, a former chief global strategist at Morgan Stanley knows why this trend is gathering pace. In his new book, “Wealth, War and Wisdom,” he says we should “assume the possibility of a breakdown of the civilized infrastructure.”

“Your safe haven must be self-sufficient and capable of growing some kind of food,” Mr. Biggs writes. “It should be well-stocked with seed, fertilizer, canned food, wine, medicine, clothes, etc. Think Swiss Family Robinson. Even in America and Europe there could be moments of riot and rebellion when law and order temporarily completely breaks down.”

Survivalism, it seems, is not just for survivalists anymore, said the New York Times in a recent feature.

A diverse set of fears are driving people to consider moving off-grid — the tanking economy, the housing crisis, the threat of environmental disasters, and a sharp spike in oil prices — people are starting to tallk about doomsday measures once associated with the wierder social fringes of right wing survivalism.

They stockpile or grow food in case of a supply breakdown, or buy precious metals in case of economic collapse. Some try to take their houses off-grid, or plan safe houses far away. The point is not to drop out of society, but to be prepared.

“I’m not a gun-nut, camo-wearing skinhead. I don’t even hunt or fish,” said Bill Marcom, 53, a construction executive in Dallas.

Still, motivated by a belief that the credit crunch and a bursting housing bubble might spark widespread economic chaos — “the Greater Depression,” as he put it — Mr. Marcom began to take measures to prepare for the unknown over the last few years: buying old silver coins to use as currency; buying G.P.S. units, a satellite telephone and a hydroponic kit; and building a simple cabin in a remote West Texas desert.

“If all these planets line up and things do get really bad,” Mr. Marcom said, “those who have not prepared will be trapped in the city with thousands of other people needing food and propane and everything else.”

Interest in survivalism — in either its traditional hard-core version or a middle-class “lite” variation — functions as a leading economic indicator of social anxiety, preparedness experts said: It spikes at times of peril real (the post-Sept. 11 period) or imagined (the chaos that was supposed to follow the so-called Y2K computer bug in 2000).

At times, a degree of paranoia is officially sanctioned. In the 1950s, civil defense authorities encouraged people to build personal bomb shelters because of the nuclear threat. In 2003, the Department of Homeland Security encouraged Americans to stock up on plastic sheeting and duct tape to seal windows in case of biological or chemical attacks.

Now, however, the government, while still conducting business under a yellow terrorism alert, is no longer taking a lead role in encouraging preparedness. For some, this leaves a vacuum of reassurance, and plenty to worry about.

Esteemed economists debate whether the credit crisis could result in a complete meltdown of the financial system. A former vice president of the United States informs us that global warming could result in mass flooding, disease and starvation, perhaps even a new Ice Age.

“You just can’t help wonder if there’s a train wreck coming,” said David Anderson, 50, a database administrator in Colorado Springs who said he was moved by economic uncertainties and high energy prices, among other factors, to stockpile months’ worth of canned goods in his basement for his wife, his two young children and himself.

Popular culture also provides reinforcement, in books like “The Road,” Cormac McCarthy’s novel about a father and son journeying through a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and films like “I Am Legend,” which stars Will Smith as a survivor of a man-made virus wandering the barren streets of New York.

Middle-class survivalists can also browse among a growing number of how-to books with titles like “Dare to Prepare!” a self-published work by Holly Drennan Deyo, or “When All Hell Breaks Loose” by Cody Lundin (Gibbs Smith, 2007), which instructs readers how to dispose of bodies and dine on rats and dogs in the event of disaster.

The New York Times Style magazine noted recently that designer Calvin Klein redid his Miami apartment with reclaimed wood; Bill Gates did the same a few years back at his $100-million (U.S.) cedar-clad Seattle mansion. And Robb Report, a bible for the free- spending set, devoted an entire magazine to the concept of “Living Green: Homes that Tread Lightly on the Land.”

Proving that you can live year-round in Levi’s jeans, one California home builder is offering to replace old insulation with a layer of recycled denim.

Even the process of renovating is being revisited, with tear-downs sometimes donated to Habitat for Humanity, rather than being chucked in a landfill.

Monster home theatres and 5,000-bottle wine cellars still top wish lists when high-end homes are gutted. But developers report a growing interest in improvements that cut a home’s environmental impact.