iStock-Paul Bujak

I was 23 and on my way to graduate school in Alaska. The plan was to drive from Minnesota to Washington, put my car on a ferry in Bellingham, take that for three days through the Inland Passage, disembark in Haines, Alaska, and then drive two more days along the Al-Can, through the Yukon mountain range, the interior of Alaska, and then into Anchorage. In a hatchback. In 1990, when hundreds of miles of the Al-Can remained unpaved.

Driving to Washington was the easy part. Then, there was the ferry.

I was a poor graduate student, so I didn’t bother to rent a sleeping cabin. I’d sleep in a deck chair. Of course, I had not counted on how cold it would get at night. I had no sleeping bag, so I rented a blanket from the desk clerk for $10. It was cotton and did absolutely nothing to abate the cold. So I shivered each night in my coat and boots and prayed for the heat of day.

After I disembarked, I made my way to the Canadian border, and into the Yukon. It was breathtaking — mountains’ majesty unlike anything I had ever seen. At one point, nature called so I pulled over. I hadn’t seen another car for at least an hour, so I nonchalantly walked into the woods and situated myself for the delicate task at hand. Just then I looked up to see this sign: “Do not stop here! Grizzlies feeding on salmon 100 meters ahead.”

It was another moment that took my breath away.

Once out of the Yukon, I entered the interior of Alaska. The Al-Can had just reopened that day. It had been closed due to forest fires and smoke still hung in the air. The day I drove through, it was more than 90 degrees and my car had no air conditioning. I couldn’t roll down the windows because the smoke was too thick. By the time I arrived in Tok, where I would spend the night in a youth-hostel (basically a cot with a mosquito net thrown over it), I was completely dehydrated and literally still buzzing from the unpaved portions of the highway — if you could call it that. There was no water to be found. All the public drinking fountains were closed due to a water shortage and it was completely sold out at the store. I settled for a shriveled orange, for which I paid several dollars, to serve as my hydration for the evening.

That night, I learned, Tok, Alaska is the sled dog capitol of the world. First there was one woof and howl, and then, every sled dog in the greater Tok vicinity was howling and barking and woofing, all … night … long.

By the time my hatchback and I did arrive in Anchorage, I had lost several pounds from sweat, anxiety and dehydration. I was exhausted and shaking and overwhelmed by my own stupidity.

I marvel that God puts up with me. That I wasn’t mauled by a bear or killed while sliding down an unpaved mountain pass, or that my ridiculous car wasn’t swallowed by one of the car-sized potholes on the Al-Can can only be a testimony to God’s mercy.

So, when I see others — neighbors or maybe leaders in the Church or government — doing really stupid things, I remember my trek through the Yukon and pray God protects us — especially from ourselves.

Father, how we need your guiding hand. Protect us when we step into unknown dangers. Help us learn from our mistakes and to place you in the driver’s seat.

Kelly is the award-winning author of nine books, including “Jesus Approaches.” Visit her website at lizk.org or follow her on Instagram at LizKToday.