rainy, rooted, & a little wild

I grew up in Ketchikan — the town where it rains sideways, eagles are louder than car horns, and everyone either knows your family or knows of them. We’re an island community that when you leave and realize how rare this place really is.

Growing up here wasn’t flashy. We didn’t have big stores or highways you could drive on for hours. But that’s the glory of it. We had rain gear, Refuge Cove field trips, Fourth of July parades with candy that stuck to the wet pavement, and ferries that became lifelines. Our teenage memories of riding the Inter-Island ferry and the distinct smell of fish and campfire smoke that always lingered, no matter how many times you tried to wash it out.

And like a lot of Ketchikan kids, I left. I wanted to see the world. To live somewhere with Target and Uber Eats. Somewhere you didn’t have to check the marine forecast to make a weekend plan. I left chasing sunshine, softball, and a busy social life. A place where I could wake up every single day and put on shorts and sandals in 70 degree weather. I wanted more. Or at least, 18 year old me thought I did.

But here’s the thing, when you leave Ketchikan: the rain never really washes away. It gets to your bones, in a good way. It becomes part of your peace, your patience, your priorities. After a while away, I didn’t just miss my family — I missed the way it felt to grow up here. The safety. The simplicity. The fact that you can’t run into Safeway without seeing someone who knew you in diapers.

Now, I’m back — and I’ve got kids of my own. And yeah, some days I question it. When it rains for the 20th day in a row and the cabin fever is REAL, I wonder if I’ve cursed us to waterproof jackets and endless days of wet socks. But then my kid throws rocks into the Tongass Narrows with the same joy I once did, and I know exactly why I came home.

Raising kids in Ketchikan isn’t about handing them everything. It’s about giving them enough — enough space to roam, enough freedom to breathe, enough roots to keep them steady. It’s about teaching them that fun doesn’t have to be scheduled, and that connection doesn’t come through a screen.

They’ll grow up learning how to find starfish at Bugge Beach, catch their first coho off the deck of the Lady May, and notice the specific shade of green that happens after it rains on the muskeg. They’ll know the sound of floatplanes overhead and the serenity of the mountains we live under.

They might leave one day too, just like I did. But if I do my job right, a part of them will always feel the pull of this island — the tide that never lets go. And maybe, one day, they’ll find their way back, too.

Because Ketchikan certainly isn’t perfect. But it’s real. It’s rainy. It’s a little wild. And it’s the only place I would ever want to raise my kids.