What have I done?
Have you ever had an idea run away from you? That’s my current situation. You plant a simple seed expecting a flower, and a massive tree sprouts instead. It’s a shock, but a good one.
The Winter Verdict: Finding Home in the Alaskan Wild
I didn't go to Alaska this Valentine's weekend for a getaway; I went for a high-stakes reality check. With a homestead under contract on the Kenai Peninsula, I had to know: Could I truly handle the cold and the dark before Kent and I made this permanent?
An Unlikely Welcome
The journey tested me immediately. We traveled on a Thursday, and by Friday, a full-blown flu hit me—fever, exhaustion, and that "complete out-of-itness." But a strange thing happened. Even through the haze of a fever, the moment I arrived in Alaska, the "visitor" feeling vanished. As I drove onto the Kenai Peninsula, a profound sense of peace settled over me. I wasn’t a tourist; I was home.
The Healing Power of Community
Alaska has a way of taking care of its own. Our wonderful sellers welcomed me with a toasty wood stove and Oscillococcinum, a homeopathic remedy that helped me turn a corner. By Saturday, I was already feeling much better. On Sunday, I visited the Soldotna Ward of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where the welcome was immediate and sincere. Between the kindness of the congregation and the hours spent visiting with the sellers and local friends, I felt a deep kinship I hadn't expected to find so quickly.
The Homestead Highlights
Stepping onto the property, any lingering doubts vanished. Even though I was seeing it in person for the first time, I felt that sense of belonging. I was home. It was exactly as the listing promised—rugged, warm, and inviting. Kent and I are especially thrilled about the high tunnel greenhouse and the chicken coop. Along with our acres of towering pine trees, we’ll be sharing the land with some majestic neighbors—the local moose and bears. I must admit I am more excited to see moose than I am to see bears.
A Breathtaking Verdict
I expected "drab" in February.I expected minimal daylight. Instead, I found a landscape that took my breath away: deep-green pines against pristine white snow, all nestled right against the ocean. The sun was out and we experienced clear days and the sunlight lasted until about 7 in the evening (much different than I expected). To top it all off, the Northern Lights made an appearance, dancing over the land as if to seal the deal. It wasn’t as cold as I expected or as dark as I feared.
Our Next Chapter
For Kent and me, this move is about more than just land. It’s an opportunity to build a sense of belonging in a brand-new space. We are ready to grow as we explore new skills, embark on new careers, and cultivate a life that is entirely our own.
The verdict is in: We came to see if we could handle the winter; we ended up finding exactly where we belong.
Follow Our Journey!
We are just getting started on this Alaskan adventure. From building out our high tunnel to navigating our first full winter as locals, we’ll be sharing every milestone of our homesteading life. Subscribe to our blog or follow along for updates as we trade the familiar for the frontier!
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26 Feet of "Essential"
The transition from a suburban Utah home to an Alaskan homestead isn’t just a move; it’s an audit of my entire existence. Imagine squeezing a 3,600-square-foot life into a 26-foot metal box on wheels. That is the impossible geometry currently governing my days.
I’m standing in my garage with a roll of blue painter's tape, marking out a 26-foot rectangle on the concrete. This is it. This is the boundary of my new life. Everything I own must either fit within these blue lines or find a new home.
Survival vs. The Sentimental
The math of moving off-grid is brutal. In Utah, "essential" was a soft word—it meant my favorite decor, guest rooms, craft supplies, and the accumulated layers of 30 years of marriage.
But I’m realizing a hard truth as I tape off these lines: Alaska simply doesn’t have room for my current life. It doesn’t have room for the suburban excess or the version of me that needs 3,600 square feet to feel settled. The wilderness is a filter, stripping away everything that isn't vital.
The hardest audit is happening in the living room. We both need a place to land after a long day of homesteading, but we have a seating crisis. As much as I love the "Papa Bear" chair, I’ve had to make a heartbreaking call: it isn't coming. It’s the literal seat of my comfort, but it only seats one.
On a homestead, we are a team. In the end, we really only need three seats: one for Papa, one for Grandma, and one for the pup. Taking a chair that only serves me feels like a luxury we can't afford when all three of us need a place to belong.
So, the focus has shifted to the large sectional. In a 26-foot trailer, that sectional is a monster, but I'm determined to find a way to make it fit. We need that space. We need to know that even in the wild, we deserve some of the comforts from the life we built together. Finding a spot for that sectional isn't just about furniture; it's about ensuring that when we walk through the door of our new, smaller home, we all feel like we still belong.
The Shop: Packing the Foundation
While most people would be agonizing over which rug to take, we are agonizing over the shop. In Alaska, you are your own mechanic, carpenter, and repairman. If something breaks at 2:00 AM in sub-zero temperatures, there is no "running to the store."
We are packing the "tools for our future." These heavy-duty saws, drills, and specialized wrenches aren't just objects; they are the means to create our new world. Every time I add a heavy toolbox, a piece of "Old Utah" gets bumped. The saw wins every time. We are trading a "finished" life for the raw materials to build a better one.
The Off-Grid Dilemma: Amps and Wattage
In the kitchen, I no longer look at a toaster or a food processor as a convenience—I look at them as a "power draw."
- The Power Hogs: Can I justify a crockpot that "slow cooks" for eight hours? Does an Instant Pot or a mixer earn its place when every amp is precious?
- The Freeze Dryer Paradox: Then there is the Harvest Right. It’s the gold standard of food security, but a single batch can run for nearly two days of continuous power. In the Alaskan winter, that isn't just a power draw—it’s a potential system failure. If the batteries can't keep up, we’re running a generator for 40 hours. At Alaskan gas prices, that’s an astronomically expensive gas bill just for a few bags of garden peas.
Closets, Blankets, and Christmas Lights
Then there is the practical mystery of the homestead: No closets. None.
- Clothing: How do you dress for a life you haven't lived yet? I’m staring at my wardrobe trying to decide how many sweaters are "too many" when I don’t even know where they’ll be stored.
- Blankets: In Utah, they were "extra." In the North, they are survival. Which ones are worth the cubic inches they steal from a box?
- Decorations: I love the magic of a transformed home for the holidays. But in a 26-foot trailer, is a box of ornaments a luxury I can't afford?
The Puzzle of Belonging
I’m learning that "belonging" in Alaska starts with letting go. It’s a strange, precarious feeling—realizing that your identity isn't tied to the 3,600 square feet you're leaving, but to the few essential things you're brave enough to keep.
It’s about deciding that a 4-wheeler is more important than a guest room, and that the tools to build a future are more valuable than the furniture of my past. It’s a 26-foot puzzle, and I’m still trying to figure out where I fit in the middle of it.
Coming Next: The View from the Other Side Before we taped off the garage floor and started the "Great Purge," we had to see it for ourselves. We took a trip to the North to stand on the ground that will soon hold our future. No closets, no suburban comforts, and no noise—just the raw, breathtaking beauty of a place that finally felt like home. Next time, I’m taking you with us on our first visit to the homestead. Get ready to see the view that made us say, "Yes, let's leave it all behind."
Is This Really Happening?
It was an ordinary day at work. I checked my email, expecting the usual: parent messages, scheduling updates, and the mundane, day-to-day details of school life. Instead, there it was—the digital "thud" of my old life hitting the floor:
“Your resignation has been received and accepted.”
It’s one thing to have a dream, a plan, and an awaiting adventure. But seeing it in black and white? That’s when it becomes real. That’s when the "what-ifs" started screaming.
The May 29th Cliff
In the teaching world, the end of the year is usually a celebration of "see you later." This year, it’s a cliff. On May 29th, I won’t just be on summer break; I’ll be officially, legally, and somewhat terrifyingly jobless.
There is a strange, hollow feeling in realizing that the identity I’ve worn like a second skin is being retired. I’m trading the certainty of a contract for the uncertainty of… well, everything else.
The Utah-to-Alaska Gamble
But the career shift is only half the vertigo. Then there’s the house. Every time I look at my living room, I don't see a home anymore; I see a series of questions:
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Will my house sell in time to close on my dream Alaska homestead?
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Will the equity be enough to grab that specific piece of the North that finally felt like home?
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What if I’m left standing in an empty driveway, my life packed in a trailer and nowhere to call home?"
Moving from Utah to Alaska isn't just a change in scenery; it's a high-stakes game of real estate Tetris. If one piece doesn't slide into place perfectly, the whole thing feels like it might come crashing down.
The Human Cost: Distance and Degrees
Beyond the trailers and title companies, there is the weight of the people I’m leaving behind.
Currently, my grown children and grandchildren are spread out—anywhere from a one-hour drive to a twelve-hour road trip. It’s a distance, sure, but it’s manageable. I can see them three or four times a year without much more than a full tank of gas and an audiobook.
But Alaska changes the math. I’m moving from a world of "driving distance" to a world of "flight paths."
The "what-ifs" here are the ones that hit the hardest at 3:00 AM:
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Will those 3–4 visits a year dwindle? When seeing family requires expensive plane tickets and navigating unpredictable weather, does "see you soon" become a much rarer promise?
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Will I fit in? I’m trading a community where I have a history for a place that values rugged independence. Am I "Alaska enough" to find my tribe there, or will I be the perpetual outsider?
And then, there’s the literal climate. I know Utah winters, but Alaska is a different beast. I find myself wondering: Can I actually handle the cold? Not just the temperature, but the long darkness and the physical isolation. There’s a nagging fear that maybe this dream is too big, the terrain too rough, and the transition too steep.
Is it possible to handle this much change all at once, or is it simply too much?
The Search for a New "Center"
They say belonging is about "place," but right now, I don’t really have one. I am a teacher without a classroom and a homeowner without a guaranteed roof over my head in three months.
But the lack of a physical "center" isn’t what scares me most. It’s the human math. Will I become a face on a screen instead of a grandmother in the room?
Is this really happening? Yes. Is it terrifying? Absolutely. I am staring down a career pivot, a real estate gamble, a family distance that feels like an ocean, and a climate that doesn't care if I'm ready or not. But maybe this feeling—this precarious, mid-air leap—is eactly where the new version of "me" is supposed to begin.
Next time:
I’m taking a break from the grade book and reaching for a roll of packing tape. I’ll be diving into the literal mountain of boxes in my living room and the impossible task of deciding which parts of my Utah life are "Alaska-proof."
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