I grew up in Alaska, in a nicely maintained trailer house on an acre of land. My dad spent his summers working road construction, keeping massive machinery running, and we lived right alongside him—campers in tiny towns, two fuzzy TV channels, quiet campsites and family.

Winters were another adventure. We lived in cabins along the Salcha River, no electricity unless the generator was humming, or battery-powered lights were going. We had kerosene lanterns (dad hit his head every time we went to the cabin until he got used to the lantern hanging there). Eventually he upgraded to gaslights, and the memory of the gentle hiss of gas through the copper tubes still makes me mellow.

A woodstove kept us warm, although the first day it took forever to get the chill out of the cabin and beds. Also our slippers were filled with dog food, thanks to the mice sneaking in while we were gone. Water came from a hand pump, first stored in barrels and a bucket with a dipper, later upgraded to a tank and an on-demand heater in the attic.

That meant we finally had indoor plumbing; you don’t know how great that is until you’ve used an outhouse at -40 F. If you were lucky, someone went out before you and melted the frost off the Styrofoam seat first.

Traveling to the cabin was a journey in itself—an hour towing our snowmachines (that’s snowmobiles to some of you), then another hour riding across frozen landscapes. By the time my brother and I were teens, we were fast—and thank goodness, because when the temperature dipped to -20°F (often colder), every second counted.

This life shaped me, and it’s why I write the stories I do—filled with rugged landscapes, tough heroines, and survival against the odds. If you love tales of adventure and resilience, you’re in the right place.

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I’d love to hear—what’s the wildest place you’ve ever been? Hit reply and tell me!