North of downtown Gainesville, the brick buildings and brightly lit apartments eventually give way to a long stretch of two-lane roads hugged tightly by trees. Residents’ homes can no longer be seen, tucked deeply enough in the forest to be hidden from the street.
Here, two men live just a 10-minute drive from one another, unaware of their unlikely similarity: For different reasons, both choose to forgo air conditioning.
Their decision might baffle most Floridians, as our AC-chilled indoors offer an increasingly needed reprieve from the intensifying heat. But for Pete Cameron and Mycol Stevens, a life without AC doesn’t mean a life without cooling.
Meet Pete
Small patches of light trickle through the oak trees that hang over Pete Cameron’s home, shading his four-acre property. On the days he heads into town, the 81-year-old takes his motorcycle out before dawn to avoid riding beneath the sun’s beaming rays. Once his trip to the grocery store ends, so does his brief exposure to AC.
It’s the burn of the sun he can’t stand, not the heat.
Cameron has lived without central AC for half a century, since he purchased his first home in Florida in his 30s. Memories of his childhood in Massachusetts never strayed far — times when he was a little boy walking on the crunching crust of snow, surrounded by trees naked like skeletons.
“Wow,” Cameron thought as a child. “This is death.”
He’s hated the cold ever since, he said. He defines cold as any temperature below the low 70s.
While Cameron’s tolerance is extreme, research suggests that humans physically acclimate to hotter temperatures under reduced exposure to AC. After decades without it, Cameron’s means of staying cool come passively — both his body and his home are adapted to handle the heat.
On nearly every side of the house, doors and windows left ajar let fresh air pour in. The furniture, floors and french doors are wooden, as though the home were an outstretched hand of the surrounding trees.
Cameron’s bed sits on the screened-in porch, where he can stay close to nature as he flips through copies of The New Yorker or watches TV. He turns on the ceiling fan if he wants an extra breeze.
“In the summer, you open the windows, and nature comes floating in,” he said. “If you have AC, you’re shut off from that pretty much most of the time.”
Cameron has planted 50 trees around his home; the overhanging oaks, already on the land, were part of the reason bought the property. He still sweats, but he says perspiration is healthy. He sticks to breathable fabrics for the most part, drawstring pants with no shirt, though some days he’ll just as easily throw on a pair of cargo pants and long sleeves.
He rarely if ever overheats.
Though his home helps him stay cool, Cameron knows his aversion to AC makes him an anomaly. His wife, who has respiratory issues, keeps a window unit running in her bedroom indoors, where she sleeps separately.
As the afternoon air grew sticky, Cameron’s wife lay on the living room couch with their two dogs nearby, dozing off in the humidity. This house felt hotter than their last, his wife had told him earlier. Neither had central AC.
Cameron sat upright at the small wooden desk by his kitchen.
“I don’t notice it,” he replied.
Meet Mycol
When Michael “Mycol” Stevens feels the heat from beneath his signature straw hat, he has options for relief.
He could squeeze mandarin oranges and sunburst tangerines into fresh juice, plucking them from the citrus trees he grows on his property. He might retreat beneath the cover of the oak hammocks he cares for, where the sun can’t find him but he can still feel the breeze. Some days, he’ll drive to the nearby springs, joined by his farm’s volunteer that week.
At Finca Mycol — Stevens’ 20-acre permaculture homestead — nature is within constant reach. On-grid electricity, including AC, isn’t.
Stevens, 55, began living off the grid over two decades ago, back when the only sign of human life on the land was the camping tent he slept in. Still, he planted seeds.
Stevens has since turned the property into an ecological restoration site, replacing invasive plants with a diversity of native ground cover. He lists off their species like the names of old buddies: wiregrass and white wild indigo, sweet goldenrod and longleaf pine trees.
“To the laymen, it might look like some grass,” Stevens said, “but just know there’s intention.”
Stevens found his love of the outdoors early, as the overlooked middle child who could wander the woods alone and splash in creeks. He served in the Navy as a nuclear engineer before earning degrees in environmental and ecological engineering from the University of Florida. (The change to his name’s spelling comes from his fondness for mycology.)
Stevens was working as a restoration botanist and ecologist for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission when he moved off-grid. He still dressed for work in khakis, before returning to his houseless home among the trees. But today, having transitioned to living off the land, he has ditched business casual for cargo shorts and loose fishing shirts, clothes that can handle the heat of his daily activities. Between his garden, greenhouse and outdoor pantry, his land is peppered with the fruits — and herbs and veggies — of his labor.
His vegetation “is like a big crayola set,” he said. “I’ve basically been painting.”
The sunlight beaming down on Stevens’ property feeds the solar panels he wired himself, enough electricity to power small speakers. He uses them to softly stream folk music. In the afternoons, he snacks on dried persimmon skins and store-bought chocolate. When nightfall comes, he might strum his guitar around a campfire before retreating to the wooden yurt where he currently sleeps.
“Preppers do things out of fear,” Stevens said. “I do things out of joy.”
Though he lives with few 21st-century luxuries, Stevens has a cell phone and gets service on his property. He drives his car into town roughly three times a week, often for social gatherings.
When he returns to his land, he comes home to his kids: the grasses he planted 20 years ago, all grown up into trees.
