Buy shin-high rubber boots and a sturdy, waterproof rain jacket. Add a wool halibut jacket and, for winter, a Woolrich coat with a wool lining. Skip the umbrella—you won’t need it. Now you’re ready.

Ready for what? 

Living in Southeast Alaska!

I moved there in the mid ’70s with my husband and young daughter. Everyone said, “Pack your mittens,” but they were way off.

After 10 years of living in Southern California, my husband accepted a job in Alaska. One January night in 1976, we boarded the Alaska ferry MV Columbia in Seattle—truck, car, cat and two dogs in tow—and waved goodbye to our old life. Thirty-six hours and 700 miles later, after a mix of calm and stormy seas, we reached our first port of call in the Inside Passage: Ketchikan.

Mist, mountains and rain became the backdrop as now-Colorado resident Patricia Fordney left California behind and moved to Southeast Alaska.

Ketchikan, on Revillagigedo Island, is part of Alaska’s temperate rainforest—worlds away from the frozen north most people imagine. It’s one of many islands scattered among the waterways of Southeast Alaska. With no bridges or roads between islands—and only 40 miles of road that went nowhere on ours—the only way to travel was by boat, plane or ferry.

We spent our first 18 months in a trailer and learned to live with 13 inches of rain a month. Growing up in New Mexico and California had not prepared me for rainforest survival. Fungus crept inside. Moss draped over trees in thick, soggy blankets. It took years before I could even bring myself to touch it.

My husband and I had another daughter, and the girls grew up without realizing what an extraordinary childhood they had.

When my older daughter was 9, her Brownie troop took the small ferry Chilkat to nearby Metlakatla Island, a 26-mile trip that lasted just over an hour. That day, 60 mph winds and driving rain battered the ferry. I paced the floor until they returned—safe, happy and full of stories. That was the day I realized we were officially initiated into island life.

Winters meant that the girls went to school in the dark and came home in the dark. Summers meant endless daylight and floatplanes roaring off the water at 5 a.m.

My younger daughter’s soccer games were played in rain gear, with gusts of wind sometimes helping the ball into the goal. At halftime, players wrapped cold hands around cups of hot chocolate, then trooped back onto the soggy field.

Thanksgiving brought its own tradition: storms. We learned to get the turkey in the oven early, before 70 mph winds knocked out the power. Side dishes could be cooked on the wood stove, and we roasted marshmallows in the dark for dessert.

With only one high school on the island, students traveled by ferry to other islands for games and events, staying with host families. Trips to Juneau, Wrangell, Sitka and Hoonah taught them independence, how to handle money for expenses and how other kids lived. For state competitions, they flew to Anchorage.

One night, local high school students were returning from Juneau when the ferry failed to arrive. The office told me they didn’t know where it was. I nearly fainted, then calmly suggested they “find it.” The captain had anchored overnight in Meyers Chuck to wait out dangerously high seas. The next morning, we collected our tired, seasick kids at the dock.

Helicopters were part of daily life. From my home two blocks from the hospital, I heard medevacs arrive from Prince of Wales Island. One Christmas Eve, a local pilot flew over town with sleigh bells and Christmas carols blaring. My husband called our 5-year-old outside. She listened and said matter-of-factly, “That’s not Santa. That’s a helicopter.” By age 3, she could tell a floatplane from a chopper by sound alone.

Island life was close-knit and often gossipy, but neighbors helped each other. When I got a flat tire on the way to pick up my daughter from a dance, it happened in front of an auto shop owned by friends. One knock on the door and they not only fixed my tire, but they also drove me to get my daughter.

I left Alaska on December 20, 2004, after 29 years. My husband and I had divorced in 1991 and he moved to Seattle.

Since then, I have lived in Adelaide, Australia, for a year and started a degree in anthropology at Flinders University. I returned to the States in spring 2006, worked as a nurse for Presbyterian Clinic and finished my BA in anthropology at UNM in Albuquerque in May 2010. I moved to Oregon for 10 years, then back to New Mexico in and finally to Colorado in November 2024.

After nearly three decades, the rain and isolation wore me down, but I still miss it—especially the daily Marine Weather Forecast: “Showers this morning, rain this afternoon.” I never did figure out the difference.

Editor’s note: This reader-submitted story was inspired by Pam Hjorteset’s Alaska Pipeline experience featured in the July BEACON. Read it here.

YOU MAY ALSO LIKE:

One woman remembers life on the Alaska Pipeline during the 1970s oil boom

Pam Hjorteset recounts survival and success during her years working north of the Arctic Circle. Read More » 

Big things in store when you visit Alaska

Venture into the vast wilderness of Alaska, a land of breathtaking landscapes and rich cultural history. Read More »