Born and raised in rural Southeast Alaska definitely shaped me into who I am today. As a kid, for family vacations, I spent 2–3 weeks at a time paddling through the Yukon’s wilds on a string of rowdy boats full of family, friends, and an occasional solo traveler seeking company. There to document was my grandpa, with his trusty dinosaur video camera. We hiked to berry patches at 3 AM, shipwrecked more than once, and my fascination with living off grid and the natural world around me was seeded. Also during these trips I learned considerable life lessons: don't walk downhill with walking sticks perfectly at eye level, kiddie fishing poles can catch 22 in pike, and oatmeal with dino eggs is unmatched in breakfast cuisine. Those canoe adventures taught me that simplicity isn’t deprivation; it’s freedom. Over the course of my first summer out of high school, I amassed 12 misfit sled dogs and chased freedom into Alaska’s interior. I enrolled in college—briefly—but the lecture halls felt cramped compared to open tundra. I dropped out and committed to making the dogs a serious daily devotion. I fished and scrapped from trappers to feed them, spent days in the powdery mountains staying in BLM cabins and exploring. At the height of operations, I maintained a 22 dog kennel, gave tours near daily to exuberant visitors, and lived to share my lifestyle. Then disaster struck—I lost my house, I lost my job, a pandemic struck, and I had to make some devastating changes. Over the course of a few weeks, all but 1 of my sled dogs found new homes, I moved out of town to a 600 square foot dry cabin, and I started sterilizing surgical tools for the local veterinary clinic to pay the bills. Within the next two years, I found my center again, gained a fiancé, and moved back to Southeast Alaska. This time in Southeast was a time for surviving, building a saving account working as a 911 and Fire Dispatcher, a prep cook for the school cafeteria, and trying to find a new path that didn't include sled dogs. I was disconnected, overweight, and poorly managing a spiraling mental health load. I needed to make changes and part of that was rediscovering my creativity and pouring myself into the art of making soap. For now, I’m crafting and creating from a small studio in southern Michigan while my partner and I search for that perfect property far north of the masses. We envision a forested parcel—not far from a river, but still out of sight from the nearest highway—where we can build a simple cabin, tend a garden, and run a small team of sled dogs in winter.