If one were to gaze across the interior Alaskan wilderness between Fairbanks and Nenana, he would see spruce and birch forests and barren flats blanketing the land. Alaska’s Parks Highway paves a path between the two towns. Though few and far between, neighborhoods dot the expanse along this highway. At mile 314.5, a closer look would reveal one of these neighborhoods. Near the end of an “L” shaped gravel road, 235 acres of brome hay fields and farmland would come into view. In the center stands a weathered log cabin. 

I first entered that cabin as a newborn baby and have called it home ever since. A wooden couch with homemade cushions and plywood bookshelves my dad built acted as walls, separating the area into five tiny rooms. The girls’ room and boys’ room each held triple decker pine bunk beds, the only option that could accommodate six children in a 1,000 square foot home. 

Despite being an extremely close family with relatively rare arguments, we would have likely gone insane stuck so closely together if it weren’t for the expansive outdoors. Few days, if any, occurred that our troop didn’t spend hours upon hours in the fresh air. Even during cold winter months when we would have rather stayed safe and warm huddled around our wood stove, we faced unavoidable obligations in the barn and about the property. Cows had to be milked, eggs needed to be collected, and horses needed feed. If the water lines were frozen, which happened on nearly a daily basis some winters, they had to be thawed. Occasionally, when all else failed, five gallon buckets of water had to be hauled through waist-deep snow in order to quench the livestock’s thirst. 

Gardening and hay baling never left us bored in the summer. The earliest planting began in February, and the last of the pumpkins and potatoes weren’t harvested till mid September. The two hay harvests were the most stressful times of the year. My dad and brothers began cutting only after scouring vigorously over the 10-day weather forecast. Nevertheless, we often found our fingers crossed that we’d be able to get the bales off the ground before gray clouds reached us. This resulted in long hours of hurried hay stacking interspersed with anxious glances toward the sky. The years the weather was in our favor, we enlivened the tedious trips across the field with races between bales and competitions to see who could throw the 70 pound blocks of hay to the top of the stacked trailer. 

As easy as it was to find work to do on the farm, entertainment and places to explore were just as easy to find. Some of our favorite locations included the slough by our driveway and the creek and railroad tracks that crossed our road. If nothing else, an expedition through the spruce forest surrounding the property was always fun. The woods are still littered with makeshift forts and teepees from those adventures. 

Celebrations on the farm were filled with ceaseless laughter and excitement. Summer barbeques became an annual favorite, complete with s’mores over the bonfire and long, heated volleyball games. Neighbors from down the road and friends from church would gather for the high-energy relay races and the barbecued moose ribs. Birthdays were exclusively family events; they found us mustered around our kitchen counter on wobbling wooden stools. We smiled from ear to ear as a varying number of candles were poked into what was more often than not a frosted rice krispie cake. 

I feel lucky to have grown up in a place like the Big M Farm. The unique experiences I was exposed to and responsibilities I took on at a young age taught me to be a hardworker, to be a team player, and to be thankful for the little things. For all the monthly power outages, the runs to the outhouse at 40 below, and the summer baths in ponds, I wouldn’t trade that place for the world. All the trials and tribulations the farm brought are now as important to me as the memories of the birthdays and Christmases I celebrated in those walls.