When we weren’t busying ourselves with Yurt Life, Sean and I were on a mission to travel the world on ski and snowboard expeditions. 


A professional snowboarder since the age of 16, Sean had been backcountry snowboarding and guiding many places — including both South America and Antarctica (twice!) before we met. So naturally, we worked on ticking off expeditions to the other 5 continents.


Sean took his first descent on his 7th continent on Valentine’s Day in 2014. I remember how the snow was tinted pink from all the sand that had blown in from the Sahara Desert — a truly wild experience and a crowning achievement for Sean.



Below: Sean riding Mt. Toubkal, High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

After Morocco, without a new goal, our future was a blank canvas.



Around that same time, I’d gotten really into practicing yoga. I trained to become a yoga teacher in early 2015, and then one day, on just a regular drive home from a class, I heard a surprising, yet unmistakable Knowing:


I would open a yoga studio.


That was not on my bingo card for 2015, but I wasted no time getting to work. One month later, I was teaching my grand opening class at Yoga Hive in my first quaint, back-alleyway studio downtown Whitefish. It was intimate, grassroots, and insanely fun.


One studio led to a second in Columbia Falls, and a third in Kalispell. And while Sean was (and always has been) supportive of these ventures as my business partner, he still maintains today that his “yoga” happens in nature... not on a yoga mat :-)

While I was sending it full-speed into yoga world, Sean was forced to slow down.


He’d spent over year managing a complicated, life-altering health diagnosis that shifted his entire outlook on life. It was during that time of quiet reflection when he finally listened to a Knowing that had been knocking on his mental door for years: Alaska.


I’d heard him say “Montana is just a stepping stone to Alaska” a million times... but I never imagined it would happen. I had plenty of excuses...

• How would I run Yoga Hive from Alaska?
  
• Could I manage the constant travel back and forth?
  
• It’s so far...
  
• I’m too busy!
  

Despite my logistical reservations, I put my trust in Sean’s intuition and I agreed to make the move north — albeit slowly. Surely, the pieces would eventually fall into place.

Sean would’ve preferred a more remote homestead, but we ended up compromising on the Kenai Penninsula — it had a small town vibe like Whitefish, epic mountains, and we already had a few friends there.


In early 2017, Sean and I made a trip to Alaska to look at properties with a Realtor. Our options were... dismal. I walked up to each one and thought to myself, “It’s a no,” before we even walked in.


We nearly gave up entirely at the last house.


Before getting out of the truck, our Realtor said, “Ok, this is a great option, but you’ll need to use your imagination...” He rattled off a few facts about the acreage and pricing, and then he said something I’ll never forget:


“... and, I have to disclose that the former owner died in the home.”


Pause.


“And it was a year before they found his body—“


“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” The words barreled out of my mouth before he could go further.


Once back in our rental car, we called our local buddy Mike, laughed as we recounted the story, and admitted how bummed we were.


Then Mike had an idea. His parents had some friends who’d built an off-grid cabin many years ago that he could remember visiting via snowmachine as a child. He knew the couple was getting older, and wondered out loud: “Maybe they’d consider selling it to you guys?”


I laughed. No way this works out.


After making a quick call to that sweet elderly couple, Mike called us back with the news: They’d just decided to sell the cabin but hadn’t listed it yet! We hiked out with Mike the next day, took one look at the idyllic hand-built log cabin, incredible views of multiple glaciers, mountains and the ocean, and my mutual Knowing was undeniable: Alaska, here we come.


Below, our first off-grid homestead in Alaska:

There’s one more part to the story — and one more move north, of course. Hopefully I haven’t worn out my welcome in your inbox yet! I’ll send you the final part on Sunday.


Enjoy the weekend,
Mollie

During our recent visit to Wisconsin, Sean and I visited my childhood home with my mom and brother. With permission from the owners, we were able to spread some of Dad’s ashes in a place he — and we all — loved so much.



As Sean and I walked around the property, we agreed this (see below) was the spot where we stood together in 2010 when we knew we’d spend the rest of our lives together. 

Turns out, it was also the spot where, in September 2011, we said, “I do” in front of our closest friends and family:

This has been a theme in our 15 years together — a series of intuitive ah-ha moments that brought us from Utah to Montana to Alaska to the Arctic. Let’s call these: Knowings*.



They don’t feel like ordinary decisions. They feel... deeper. Like we’re not just deciding to do something. The moment Sean and I listen to a Knowing, it feels like we’re remembering (and executing) a plan that we — or the Universe? — set out long, long ago.



MONTANA
I knew I wanted to move from Utah as soon as I got there. It fun for a while — but I crave lakes like the one I grew up with. Sean simply requires proximity to mountains.



At the time, we worked at a college prep boarding school, and one of our students’ family generously offered us the opportunity to vacation at their cottage on Whitefish Lake, in Northwest Montana.  



Their only request: “Use the place as long as you like... as long as you don’t move to Whitefish before our son graduates.”



… they were completely serious!



I agreed to the terms and laughed at the peculiar request. I had no concept of what Northwest Montana even looked like, so the idea that I’d want to move there was so far-off.  



Months later, after making the drive north, I walked onto their dock on Whitefish Lake — mountain views in all directions — and a Knowing bubbled up:



This is where we need to live.



I laughed. How had they known?! It only took Sean and I a year to make the move. (And yes, we did wait until their son graduated!)



Below, with our Weimaraner Daisy, on a later trip to Montana. This was when we began to search for a home and put down some roots.

In early 2013, our property search dragged on for months while we rented a cabin on the outskirts of town. But like all Knowings, it came in a flash.



We’d rejected the idea of a bank-owned fixer-upper our realtor had strongly suggested. Having come from a fixer-upper in Utah, we wanted easy. (Or thought we did!)



Suddenly one night, Sean bolted upright in bed and exclaimed, “What are we thinking?!” Like lightening, his Knowing drove us to buy what our neighbors would affirm was: The best deal in the state of Montana.



On that 10 acres we bought in 2013, we were able to begin our off-grid journey, building our first home (a yurt!) and then renting our on-the-grid home on Airbnb.



Dad came out to help us with the yurt raising, too... although “yurt” wasn’t really on his list of prerequisites as a self-taught carpenter, he made do!

He and I spent a few days after we raised the yurt to build the front porch and stairs.


I don’t have a photo of us together — and I’m kicking myself I didn’t take more selfies with Dad! But he TOOK the photo below with me and our new (at the time) puppy, Glacier.

During countless trips to Lowe’s that weekend, Dad kept forgetting where to find certain things in the store and could never remember where he put his glasses (always on his head).



This is also where I experienced a different sort of Knowing: Something was definitely wrong.


It would have been easy to continue to write off the forgetfulness... to avoid the diagnosis we all had a hunch was on the horizon. But Knowings never mean the path is an easy one. They don’t even mean the path is one that we want.



Knowings push us to reach for our potential — so we can grow.



And although I’d never choose to have a family member go through what my dad endured, I can definitively say the experience has helped shape me into who I am today.



Dad would be diagnosed with Alzheimers about a year later... and that’s when Dad Jobs officially became my responsibility, whether I wanted them or not.



Stay tuned for Part 3 tomorrow, where we continue our migration north… to Alaska!


Until then,
Mollie




*PS — I first heard the word “Knowing” used in this way by my friend Kristen Cline, and it instantly resonated with me. Kristen: Thank you for sharing!

 

Sean and I are pretty good at “divide and conquer” when it comes to construction. Over the past 15 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are skills that we both naturally excel at — and skills that we don’t. 




For example: For anything electrical, solar, plumbing, fuel, wood stoves, or heaters, Sean is your guy. When it comes to framing math, design, decor, installing flooring or window blinds? I’m your girl!

This past weekend, I was installing blinds — and remembered vividly the first time I ever helped install blinds. Probably more like watched... my dad did most of the work.




In 2010, I’d moved across the country for love. My dad — a protective father who was always willing to make sure his only daughter had all her needs met, flew out to Utah in the spring of 2011 to help Sean and I with some DIY projects, one of which was installing blinds.




I can distinctly remember the feeling of gratitude that Dad was installing the blinds for us. Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to me that I could install my own blinds.  


For 23-year-old Mollie, that was: A Dad Job.


(Below: My dad and I on a trip to Chicago a few years ago)

I was fortunate to have a dad who did so much for me, growing up. Other “Dad Jobs” in my childhood included vehicle maintenance and lawn mowing. I resisted learning to operate a lawn mower till well into my 30s because I knew this very important truth: If you learn it, then you’ll be asked to do it.




A downside of avoiding Dad Jobs was that I didn’t even realize my car would need something called “oil changes” every few thousand miles. You should have seen the face of the first mechanic I hired to do an oil change for me... he was APPALLED at how long I’d gone without one!




Eventually, I had to become my own father (as I think we all do) because we’ve always lived far from the midwest, and thus, far from my dad’s toolbox. I slowly started to take on tasks that had been done for me, all my life.


(Below: My dad and I, preparing to go tubing!)

My dad passed away in March of this year — and as I’ve shared publicly, he’s been battling Alzheimers for the better part of the last decade. At the end, his death was both welcomed and devastating — like only someone who’s been in similar shoes can understand.  




I’ve been spending lots of time down memory lane since then... so it’s not weird that this specific memory of Dad installing blinds popped into my head. The projects we did in that little house in Utah set the foundation for where we are today: Living in the arctic, surrounded by cabins, domes, gardens, and dog yards that we built ourselves.




So buckle up for a trip down memory lane with me this week... tomorrow I’ll tell you part 2, where we decide to move, sell our house in Utah (pic below), and start our migration north.


Until then,
Mollie