The cabin, dubbed the Swamp, is an eight-sided geodesic structure pieced together from scrap wood. Someone hammered carpet scraps over the cracks in the building in hopes of keeping out the cold. These add to the Swamp's hand-made and post-apocalyptic feel. The structure rests at the edge of Fairbanks in a quiet birch tree forest near a picturesque, now-frozen pond. Fewer than 100 yards from railroad tracks and less than a mile from the University of Alaska, the Swamp is light years from what most Americans experience for a residence. Still, Dom has called the Swamp home since May.

Warped boards on the short porch require Dom to pull stubbornly on the cabin's door. As it creaks open, the smell of wood smoke wafts into the air.

"I guess I haven't lived in a proper house since '98," he says, sitting in a low, wooden camp chair in a corner of the cabin's only room. While the Swamp is a bedlam of books, boxes, wood, water jugs and more, Dom is very composed. Aside from his black mop of curly hair, he is tidy and reserved. This wouldn't be surprising except Dom, who asked that his full name not be used, chooses to live without running water or electricity, and he lives here without paying rent and without the owner's permission.

Squatters exist all over the world, but, unlike Dom, most do so out of necessity. Slum-like conditions often characterize these impoverished shantytowns, which are erected without the basic amenities that most people take for granted. Few can imagine voluntarily choosing a lifestyle without water, sewage facilities and electricity, but Dom does so without trepidation. Something about owning next to nothing has given Dom a profound sense of freedom.

Two large windows dominate the one-room cabin's walls and reveal a vast forest of white bark birch and skinny spruce. Tapestries cover the rest of the walls and ceiling creating the ambiance of a Bedouin's tent somewhere in a far-off desert. Dried flowers, minature cars, political buttons, a decent rock collection and more litter the windowsills. The sky outside is a pearly white smattered with vibrant, pink clouds that look as if they were created by a painter's palette, not by nature. A passing train's low whistle and gentle chugging bring romantic notions of pioneer life to mind. Dom tilts his head and listens reflectively. There is a peace in the Swamp that doesn't exist where phones ring and televisions blare, and it shows in Dom's demeanor. He is comfortable with himself and his choices.

Dom moved from Vermont to Alaska in 1993 to enroll at the University of Alaska Fairbanks and study geology at the world-renowned Geophysical Institute. As a student he lived in cabins around Fairbanks, getting used to life with an outhouse and without running water. After graduating, he moved to a cabin without electricity because the rent was so cheap.

"After I graduated, I got a job building houses. I guess I wanted to stay here in Fairbanks," he says. "I really liked the area and all the people I met up here compared to what I know of home. I was just more comfortable up here."

The comfort Dom finds in Fairbanks partially stems from his urge to live near the edge of wilderness. The sun barely sets during the summer solstice, and at the height of winter the daylight lasts less than four hours. Northern lights fill the sky with dancing bands of green, red and purple. Rustic log cabins are a common sight throughout the town. City businesses provide shower facilities and public water pump stations for those who live without water. Residing in the heart of Alaska often necessitates an extreme lifestyle, and Dom has chosen the most extreme.

He discovered the Swamp during a solitary walk down the train tracks. Seeing several trails diverging into the surrounding woods, he journeyed down one and came across a variety of cabins. No wires, pipes or roads lead to these structures, only footpaths. Personal items and stacks of wood made the community of homes look lived in, and Dom chose not to enter any because he felt like he might be intruding. The realization that people were living out there intrigued him, and in the spring of this year a friend who lived in a squatter's cabin near the Swamp told him that the people living there had moved out.

"I remembered the trail from when I first came here and found the place and knocked on the door and it was vacant, so I stayed."

Dom's nonchalant attitude speaks to his autonomous spirit. He was used to living without water and electricity, and here was a free place to live. When most people may have been concerned about illegally inhabiting a hand-built and somewhat unstable place that's filled with other people's belongings on yet another person's property, Dom acts as if it would have been foolish not to move in.

The one thing Dom does worry about is how to keep the Swamp warm. The insulation is made from wood and tattered plastic and carpet scraps, and he must gather and chop firewood daily. A rusty 50-gallon barrel stove takes over one corner of the cabin. The stove spits melodiously as water drips from wrist-width logs hanging in a rack above it. He uses this method to dry wood as best he can before burning it. Outside it is around 30 degrees and dropping, but the cabin seems to hold its own against the cold. Dom takes pride in living off the grid and is unconcerned about the coming winter's weather. Still, he has yet to live here through Fairbanks' toughest season.

Directly opposite the stove is an enormous two-sink mantelpiece attached to the wall. There are no pipes running from its drains, and the white beast serves as a shelf more than a place to wash dishes. A bucket sits beneath one sink, should any liquid enter its basin. Glasses, plates, silverware, dried flowers, rocks, incense, books, CDs, and more are strewn across it. Dom is at ease with the chaos.

Saying he doesn't feel his lifestyle is that much different from everyone else's, Dom ignores the shaky foundation and lack of basic amenities. Although protection from the elements is slight, he isn't worried. He believes a leaky roof will keep out the snow, and the decaying walls will keep the cabin somewhat warmer than the temperature outside. He is willing to constantly feed the wood stove to stave off frostbite and says he can always crank up his portable propane heater if needed. Any misgivings Dom has about living in the Swamp go unspoken. If anything, he expects that living here will only make him stronger.

In his book "Walden," Thoreau wrote, "I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life ... to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion." Similarly, Dom chooses to live his life with the barest of necessities, and, come winter, he too will know the meanness and sublime nature of the world.

Dom left Fairbanks for several months in 1998 to travel to Vermont. Before going, he rented a storage unit and filled it with everything he owned. Upon his return, he found the container entirely empty. The storage facility manager was unsympathetic and claimed he had no responsibility for lost or stolen items. Dom then went to the police, and they had him fill out a form, but nothing was ever found, and no one was ever caught.

He knows little about how or when the cabin was built. Most of the items were here when he moved in: the couch, the shelves, the propane gas lamps, the broken slide trombone, and the glass floats hanging in a fisherman's net that dangle from the loft's rafters.

"This is all my personal stuff," he says, gesturing proudly to a two-foot area on the carpeted floor. Several books, a short pile of clothes, two mismatched gloves, a water bottle, a CD, and a hat fill the small space. He appreciates living with only the fundamentals and doesn't act like it's some enormous achievement.

Dom currently volunteers his time to a local not-for-profit bookstore where he shelves books and fills people's coffee cups. He lives off his summer earnings, which he received flagging for road construction near Coldfoot, and he hopes the funds will last well into the winter.

"I like to work as little as possible," he says without shame. "I like free time."

Dom manages to disregard the convention that people must work and make money to live how they want. He finds a personal liberty in working sparingly and owning just the essentials. Squatting somewhere may not be most people's idea of luxury, but for Dom, it provides the most luxurious of lifestyles: freedom. It seems that this alone allows Dom to survive as he does in one of nature's harshest environments.

Audio extras:

Listen to Dom talk about squatters and agressive possesion.

Listen to Dom discuss his thoughts about land ownership causing war.