Caroline’s writing merges the personal with the scientific, a perspective shaped by her early research into beak deformities in black-capped chickadees. That work led to a broader focus on wildlife health, studying everything from parasites in polar bears to harmful algal blooms and their effects on seabirds — and how disease, toxicants, and environmental stress ripple across entire ecosystems. Because a change to one species is never isolated, it’s a community-level shift. For a long time, that work felt heavy, like serving as a gatekeeper at the morgue, documenting decline. But more recently her focus has begun to shift. In her new book, tentatively titled “Upwellings,” she looks for moments of surprise, places where the natural world resists the expected ending. Because she believes that by recognizing what’s possible in the wild can reshape what feels possible within us. It’s a shift that also reflects a deeper question about science itself: whether data alone can still move people, or whether it requires a more engaged, more human voice.

He jokes that writing is his drug of choice because he’s able to step outside his body, away from old injuries and the noise of the world, and can move freely through story. It’s something he’s always turned to as an escape. It’s his way of traveling back to his youth in Southwestern Alaska, back to the tundra, the mountains, and the places that have defined him. It’s a place where survival wasn’t abstract, it was part of daily life. That time in a tight-knit community and nature has been a constant reminder of how much he still has to learn. It's also a reminder that Alaska isn’t a place of extraction, but a place rich with stories, culture, and meaning. Across his writing, he returns to these themes again and again. There’s survival, love, an appreciation for the fleeting nature of time, and a kind of magic rooted in the mystery of the world. He says that for too long these stories have been told from the Outside, but now it’s time they’re told from within.

But Sam also looks at what gets left out of these shows. The recurring image of Alaska as an empty, unpeopled wilderness erases the Alaska Native communities who have lived on and stewarded this land for thousands of years. She points to how exaggeration, assumption, and spectacle can flatten the complexity of a place into something consumable, and how that flattening has consequences. Some shows approach that responsibility with more care than others, but the broader pattern of Alaska as novelty, extremity, and myth persists. From fishing boats to gold mines to even dating shows, the state has become a stage where outsiders project their fantasies. And what Sam’s newsletter does is turn that image back onto itself, reflecting both Alaska and the assumptions and expectations of the people watching it.

In Alaska, where fresh ingredients were often scarce and communities had long relied on shelf-stable foods, brought in through supply chains and institutional systems, cake mixes made a lot of sense. For generations, Alaskans have adapted to what’s available—working with canned goods, powdered ingredients, and foods designed to travel long distances before reaching the table. A box of cake mix fit easily into that reality. Julia has been tracing these stories through old cookbooks and community recipes, even digging into ones from boomtown Fairbanks in 1909, to understand how something as ordinary as cake can tell us about women’s lives, shifting ideas of feminism, and the creativity that unfolded in Cold War kitchens. Because food, Julia says, is always a story. It’s one of history, origin, climate, and longing. And in the Cold War kitchen, when the threat of nuclear annihilation hovered in the background of daily life, even something as simple as baking a cake could feel like a small act of reassurance.

Jeremie and Amund collect and document products from around the world that call themselves “Arctic,” or borrow the image, the light, or the myth of the Arctic to sell something. Even when those products have no connection to the place itself. Deodorants that promise Arctic purity, chewing gum that offers polar freshness, outdoor brands that are marketed around rugged endurance and masculine extremes. Again and again, the Arctic appears as clean, untouched, and invigorating — a blank canvas for refreshment or conquest. As Jeremie points out, much of that marketing is driven by an outsider fantasy: the idea that you’re the first, the only one to witness the wilderness or the Northern Lights, even as that experience is packaged and sold en masse. Amund says that the Arctic’s power as a word may lie in its perceived remoteness. Because it feels unknown, it can be filled with whatever we want it to mean. And in that process, the realities of the place itself and the people who live there often fall away and what remains is a brand. And then, beneath all of that, is a deeper question about power: who gets to define a place, and whose version of that place becomes the story that guides our understanding of it.

Paul pushes back on some of the most common narratives about forests and climate. He points to those industry ads that promise for every tree cut down, three more will be planted. It’s an argument that sounds reassuring until you realize a young sapling can take a century to store the amount of carbon held in the massive tree that was felled. Trees are about 50 percent carbon. Through photosynthesis they pull carbon dioxide out of the air, lock that carbon into their trunks and roots, and release the oxygen we breathe. Southeast Alaska’s Tongass National Forest alone holds more total carbon than any national forest in the country. That scale of storage is central to Paul’s point: the science doesn’t say we’re powerless. It suggests that we can still influence the climate back toward something more stable. If fossil fuels loaded the atmosphere with excess carbon, then forests, if protected and restored, can help draw it back down. Forests have stabilized the climate for thousands and thousands of years. Whether they continue to do so depends largely on us letting them do their job.

Emily’s path to this work started when she was just a kid. She’s always been an observant person, someone who noticed small shifts in light and weather — that’s where her photographic eye comes from — and that sense of awe never really left. It grew out of curiosity, and later, into a belief that anything capable of stopping you in your tracks is probably worth paying attention to. And then, through her work and time spent in Alaska, climate change became personal and immediate — visible in rivers that don’t freeze when they should, unstable ice, unfamiliar weather patterns, and disrupted fish runs. 

Much of her education in climate change came from Alaska Native peoples, specifically women who have been leading this work for generations. That learning shaped Emily’s commitment to bringing Indigenous knowledge, solutions, and sovereignty to the forefront of her storytelling — using careful observation and conversation to explore the forces shaping our collective future.

He was still early in his career when he moved to Juneau to work as a Sous Chef. There, and later in Sitka, he recognized the realities of Alaska’s food system, how kitchens relied heavily on frozen and canned goods because they were dependable. Orders had to be placed seven to ten days out, and even then, fresh vegetables and herbs might arrive frozen and mushy. It was a lot different from working in California, where you could order produce in the morning and expect it that afternoon. The learning curve was steep, but learning to adapt is what good cooks do. So, given Alaska’s abundance of fresh seafood, he adjusted his cooking and learned to let fish become the focus. And now that there’s more access to farm-fresh produce than ever before, the constraints that once defined cooking in Alaska have eased, expanding what’s possible on a menu.

In more recent years, he’s authored two graphic memoirs: My Degeneration, about his Parkinson’s diagnosis in 2002, and Nuking Alaska, about the nuclear dangers Alaska faced during the Cold War. Both books were something Peter never thought he’d be capable of creating after being diagnosed. But he says that with the help of medication and brain surgery, he’s been able to curb the effects of the disease and accomplish some of the most rewarding and successful work of his life. But he’s careful not to frame the disease as a gift because it’s not. In My Degeneration, he writes that "it’ll take everything from you, everything it has taken you a lifetime to acquire and learn." What is a gift, though, is his reaction to it — the power of medicine, human ingenuity, and perseverance are incredible things. Overall, it’s taught him that he’s not in control, and that on his best days he’s sharing the wheel with Parkinson’s.

One of Charles’ early Arctic projects was about the Distant Early Warning Line, a network of Cold War radar stations built across the Arctic to detect incoming Soviet bombers. He began thinking about how the remnants of that global conflict were already entangled with what he called an emerging “Warm War,” where rising temperatures and melting sea ice would turn buffer zones into contested shipping routes and resource frontiers. 

Sound is one of his primary tools for understanding these places. He says that what you hear often tells a different story than what you see, and so his work uses sound to help people experience aspects of a place that visuals alone can’t capture. That instinct connects back to his own life — long days spent alone in the Rockies with his dog, camping, hiking, and snowboarding in the backcountry. Those solitary experiences were a refuge, a place where existential questions emerged naturally. It’s where he learned that when you confront the world on your own terms, you gain a clearer understanding of yourself and the people around you.

When Kikkan crossed the finish line to Olympic gold, it was a breakthrough for American skiing. What once seemed out of reach had become reality. But her team had done more than stand on a podium, they’d changed the culture. They trained together, got to know each other outside of training, and showed up to races in face paint, neon and novelty socks. And in that show of teamwork and connection, they built something so strong that other national teams started to emulate. 

That same spirit followed Kikkan beyond sport. After retiring at the top of her game, she faced a breast cancer diagnosis, and her athlete mindset took control. She broke the treatment into pieces, taking it on one small battle at a time. It kept her focused on the day-to-day work rather than the big picture. It’s the same mindset that carried her through five Olympics—one that relies on optimism and patience. Today, she’s back where it all started, leading the Nordic Skiing Association of Anchorage and shaping the future of the sport she helped redefine.

Alev’s story isn’t just about winning or switching sports, it’s about staying grounded and leading with intention. A lot of that mindset comes from her mom, who taught her the power of discipline and the value of seeing things through. Whether it was encouraging her to try out for boys’ varsity hockey or helping her reframe setbacks as stepping stones, her mom’s belief in her gave Alev the confidence to pursue whatever path she chose. That, combined with a natural gift for athleticism and a relentless work ethic, shaped how she moves through the world. These days, Alev carries a philosophy of being kind to herself, staying mentally tough while also giving herself grace in hard moments, and always pushing the edge of her own potential.

Ben grew up in Los Angeles, where he rarely questioned the role nature played in his life. It was just background, something peripheral to human activity. But years later, after spending time in the Brooks Range, that perspective shifted. He began to grasp the scale and the power of natural systems, and how his own lifestyle—comfortable, urban, and screen saturated—was directly connected to changes happening in some of the most remote places on Earth. He reflects on how many people today, especially younger generations, are growing up in a world mediated by screens, and how that can make it harder to engage with nature. He says that the tools we rely on are easy to use, and they’re culturally reinforced, which makes stepping away from them feel unfamiliar, even alienating. But it was that discomfort, of feeling out of place in the wild, that ultimately opened the door to seeing it more clearly.

Luc has shaped his entire life around the wilderness, in the miles he’s traveled and in how he approaches risk, safety, and growth. These days, it’s not about proving himself — it’s about what it means to be a good partner, to make it home safely, and to keep going year after year. He’s hesitant to call himself an explorer, knowing the deep Indigenous history of Alaska’s landscapes, and instead calls himself a visitor — someone who’s still learning. And what he’s learning now isn’t just coming from trips or new tech, but from sociology and self-help books — tools that help him slow down, stay aware, and better care for himself and the people he travels with. Because progress comes from the lessons that follow our mistakes, the moments that remind us of how awareness, humility and patience are what keep us moving forward.

Tessa’s been coming to Alaska for the past 14 years, and says that there’s nothing that makes her feel more at home than being alone in the backcountry. Drawn by the scale of Alaska’s wild places and the way they offer a kind of perspective she hasn’t found anywhere else. It provides her with moments that dissolve ego — when the vastness of the landscape reminds her of how small she is. The people are in tune with change, and the shifting seasons shape daily life and identity. It’s freeing and grounding at the same time. 

The outdoors has shaped nearly every part of Tessa’s creative life, and it played a major role in the writing of “Feeding Ghosts.” It offered her the solitude and clarity she needed to confront her family’s story, and it was during a stint working as a chef in Antarctica that she first began teaching herself to draw comics. She says she didn’t have a choice when it came to writing it — it wasn’t a passion project, but a responsibility. She felt summoned by her family’s ghost to break the silence and carry their story forward. And while she has no plans to write another book, she’s now thinking about how to use the attention the memoir has brought her to uplift other artists in Alaska.

Photo courtesy of Gavin Doremus

Nicholas is also a musician, a collaborator in projects like Ya Tseen and Indian Agent. He talks about music as something fleeting but emotionally precise, capable of transmitting what words often can’t — that it’s a mindful practice rooted in listening, gratitude and presence. He describes the creative process as a kind of alchemy, where different skills and experiences come together in unexpected ways to produce something that transcends the moment. Be it through art or music, his work challenges artificial boundaries — between genres, between people and between past and future. He unravels divisions that are often rooted in systems of control rather than necessity, and makes room for something more fluid and expansive — something grounded in genuine connection, shaped by feeling and driven by the possibility of imagining a different way forward.

Elizabeth says that she approaches her work like a classic futurist: she reads widely — from academic research to news articles to social media — absorbing as much as she can across disciplines. She also draws inspiration from science fiction, especially dystopias, usually the ones that highlight problems and pathways forward. But her job isn’t just about anticipatory practices and strategic foresight, it’s about preparing museums for the future. So, she’s careful to distinguish trends from fads — trends have direction and persistence, while fads fade. For example, when it comes to climate change, she sees museums as cultural institutions as well as potential anchors of community resilience, helping people adapt to extreme heat, cold and severe weather. Still, she says the biggest challenge right now is twofold: how museums can remain economically sustainable and intellectually independent — and, more importantly, how they can hold on to public trust. Museums are among the most trusted institutions in American life, and she believes that trust is a powerful tool for reshaping a better world.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

In the work she does now, Julie envisions the Anchorage Museum as less a keeper of artifacts and more of a living platform for Alaska’s stories. It acts as a collaborator and a partner — a place that listens to communities, amplifies the voices of Alaskans and connects local narratives to global conversations. In her view, Alaska’s relatively small population allows individual creativity and innovation to ripple widely, making it vital to highlight imaginative thinkers, cultural disruptors and non-Western ways of knowing. That means rethinking what it means to collect — not simply holding objects, but being a responsible host and steward of the stories they carry. 

In Alaska, where the natural world shapes identity and guides daily life, the museum’s role is to reflect how environmental change, Indigenous lifeways and community resilience intersect. Some projects take the form of exhibitions, others emerge as films, books, podcasts, newspaper series, or collaborations with musicians. Whether the work is local or part of an international conversation, Julie believes it must be rooted in place — fluid, adaptable and focused on a shared future that feels possible and inhabitable.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

He was also one of the first racers to bring a technical mindset to the event, experimenting with waxes, analyzing the terrain, monitoring snow temperatures, tracking weather patterns, adjusting his line based on changing snowpack, and timing his transitions to maximize speed and efficiency throughout the course. After nearly three decades of running the course — his last race was in 2018 — Eric says he’s run it more than anyone else. 

Eric's path to becoming a high-speed athlete started early. He learned to ski when he was just four years old, and by six he was skijoring. That early exposure to speed and unpredictability planted the seed for a lifelong pursuit of elite competition. In college, he raced for the University of Alaska Anchorage and set his sights on becoming a world champion downhiller. As a world-class athlete, he was comfortable reaching 90 miles per hour on his skis. That kind of speed requires more than just fearlessness — it demands focus, precision and the ability to see what isn’t always visible. Eric says downhill skiers rely heavily on visualization because when you're racing across long stretches of terrain at speeds so fast they blur your vision, you can’t always react in real time — you have to anticipate. That means memorizing every feature of the course ahead of time and trusting your muscle memory to guide you through. He says that even now, he can close his eyes and mentally replay the details of every downhill course he's ever raced.

At UN Live, Annesofie is helping shape what she calls a “borderless museum” — one without a physical building — designed to meet people where they already are. UN Live operates through the power of popular culture, creating immersive experiences that extend beyond traditional museum walls. It aims to tap into the cultural spaces people already love — like music, film, sports and gaming — and use those genres to spark awe, empathy and meaningful action. Rather than asking people to enter a curated space, UN Live enters theirs, collaborating with local communities and cultural traditions to develop initiatives that feel relevant and transformative. Whether it’s amplifying unheard voices or suggesting new ways of being in the world, the work of UN Live is about using the material of society to imagine better futures.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

The Ubuntu Lab began as an academic project, Mike’s dissertation on nonviolence. It’s since grown into a living, breathing network of workshops, learning spaces and small-scale initiatives in over 40 countries. Its mission is to foster empathy and understanding — especially among young people — by encouraging honest, sometimes uncomfortable conversations about identity, belonging and conflict. At its core is the African philosophy of ubuntu: “I am because we are.” Mike and his collaborators co-create experiences that are less about delivering answers and more about sparking dialogue — sessions built around provocation, open-ended questions and the idea that everyone in the room has something to contribute. Rather than build a single institution, they embed within communities, remaining flexible, responsive and grounded in relationships.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

The NN Cannery History Project is more than just about the processing plant, it’s about preserving its historical importance and honoring its workers. The cannery itself was a cultural crossroads with a workforce that included Alaska Native peoples, Scandinavians, Italians, Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino laborers. Canned food revolutionized how people ate. It made it possible to preserve and transport perishable foods across vast distances, reshaping global diets and economies — and the NN Cannery was a key player in that transformation. Originally built as a saltery in 1897, the NN Cannery went on to produce more canned salmon than any other cannery in the state. Katie’s work on the NN Cannery History Project ultimately led to the site being listed on the National Register of Historic Places, a recognition that underscores its national significance. Throughout the project, Katie explores how Alaska fits into the global history of canned food and how preservation — both of fish and of stories — can change the way we understand place, labor and legacy.

Futurium isn’t a traditional museum, it doesn’t have a permanent collection or fixed exhibitions. Instead, it operates as a dynamic, evolving space designed to spark curiosity and conversation about the future. Dr. Brandt describes this absence of static artifacts as both a freedom and a challenge: it allows Futurium to be more agile and responsive, but it also requires continual reinvention. At its core is a question posed to every visitor: “How do I want to live?” To help people grapple with that question, Futurium presents ideas and scenarios grounded in science, media trends and public discourse. Each major theme — like the future of housing, health, nutrition, or democracy — is developed over time through in-depth research and collaboration with experts. Rather than offering definitive answers, Futurium encourages people to imagine and help shape a sustainable, participatory future.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

When Brian joined the faculty at UAF, he knew exactly what he wanted to focus on. Even though he hadn’t covered the Fairbanks Four case as a reporter at the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner, it had always raised unanswered questions for him, ones he couldn’t ignore. So, when he was asked to identify a research area, he returned to that case and built a class around it. At a glance, it might have looked like a traditional classroom, but in reality it functioned more like a working newsroom, with students knocking on doors, flying to remote communities, and surfacing details that hadn’t been fully explored in court. And then when their findings began to gain traction in legal filings, Brian realized they were no longer just reporting on the case, they were influencing it.

Ben says that the investment he’d like to be known for hasn’t happened yet, but his goal is to demonstrate what’s possible in Alaska. That includes moving beyond our dependence on oil, and considering where Alaska’s people and economy might be in 50, 100, or even 1,000 years from now. While the specifics of future technology are hard to predict, some needs remain constant: food, clean air, clean water and reliable energy. These are the issues he focuses on when he thinks about the problem he would like to be known for solving. They’re ones that meet basic human needs. And writing helps him work through these ideas. He says it’s a tool for making sense of complex decisions, checking assumptions and mapping the long view. It’s also how he slows down, reflects and emotionally processes what he’s building. Because, for him, it all comes back to family and community.

Today, Jamar is focused on giving back to the community that raised him. As a youth coach and founder of RBI Alaska, he’s spent the last 10 years helping young athletes grow — as players and as people. He’s currently leading the development of the Mountain View Field House, a year-round indoor training facility that will give local kids access to the kind of resources he didn’t have growing up. For him, coaching isn’t just about skill development, it’s about building character, creating opportunity and showing kids that their environment doesn’t have to limit their ambition. He mentors with intention, using his own experiences in professional baseball to help young players navigate the mental, emotional and physical sides of the game. Through that work, he’s helping shape confident, resilient athletes who are prepared for whatever comes next, on the field or off.

This May, the Anchorage Museum will be exhibiting a selection of Roman’s photographs from his early days exploring Alaska. These photos, many of them taken during the 1970s, 80s and 90s, document more than just rugged landscapes and remote journeys, they capture the spirit of youthful exploration, innovation, backcountry friendships and the raw beauty of Alaska before GPS, satellite phones and other digital safety nets. When Roman looked back at these photos, he didn’t just see the wild places he traveled through, he saw his wife, his kids and the partners who shaped his journey. It was a reminder of how those relationships influenced not only the paths he took but the person he became. These weren’t just snapshots of adventure, they were glimpses into a life built on trust, shared risk and curiosity. His adventures took him across tundra and glaciers, into rainforests and river valleys, and his perspective speaks not only to the power of wild places but to the relationships that shape our journeys through them.

Photo by Taylor Roades

As a volcanologist, Matt is part of a network that assesses volcanic risk using the National Volcano Early Warning System, which ranks volcanoes by threat level. In Alaska, five volcanoes are classified as “Very High Threat” — including Mount Spurr, Mount Redoubt and Mount Augustine — not just because they’re active, but because they’re near population centers and critical infrastructure. Mount Spurr is currently under close observation due to signs of volcanic unrest, making it one of the most closely watched in the state. When Spurr last erupted in 1992, it launched ash clouds up to 60,000 feet into the sky and shut down Anchorage’s airport for nearly a full day. Ash fall can disrupt air travel, damage engines and electronics, clog air filters, and cause respiratory problems. Today, with Anchorage serving as the second busiest cargo hub in the U.S. — and the fourth busiest in the world — the stakes of an eruption are even higher.

Staying motivated was important to progression, especially in a place like Anchorage, where the weather isn’t always conducive to skating and it’s easy to put limits on yourself. But Adrian was never about that. He was about making the most of his environment, which meant skating tennis-court-skateparks and schools in the summer and cold parking garages in the winter. It was a struggle, but he and his tight-knit group of friends made it work. It’s this perseverance that molded Adrian’s style into what it is — calm, technical and driven. And a lot of his perspective, he learned from his older brother, Angel, who actually got him into skating and remains one of his biggest influences.

His part in Business As Usual, Think Skateboards 2013 video, marked a major turning point for Adrian: Not only did it prove he could hold his own among the best skaters out that year, but it also signaled the beginning of the end for Think, the company he had skated for since 2007. When Think went under, it was a blow to his career. He was now out of a board sponsor and everything that came with it — skate gear, a travel budget, connections to photographers and filmers, and the momentum that comes from being part of a functioning team. It was a jarring reset after years of building toward something bigger. But it never dampened his love for skating. He just had to pivot. So, he picked up more traditional jobs at companies like UPS and Amazon and always made sure that skating stayed a priority. Lately, though, that priority has shifted. In search of more consistent, less physically demanding work, Adrian recently enlisted in the Air Force Reserves, where he’ll be training in Heavy Aircraft Integrated Avionics. It’s a new chapter, for sure, but the same mindset: Still rooted in dedication, persistence and putting in the work. But even with his focus shifting to a new career path, skating will always be a part of who he is.

In her book “Floating Coast: An Environmental History of the Bering Strait,” she compares how Soviet Russia and the United States approached the Arctic, specifically around the Bering Strait. What she discovered was that despite their ideological differences, both nations treated animals and sealife in similar ways — primarily as resources to be managed or harvested. For those living outside the Arctic, the region has undergone a series of shifting narratives, it’s gone from a place of extraction, to a geopolitical flashpoint during the Cold War, and now, to the forefront of global climate change. Both of those perspectives stand in stark contrast to how many Indigenous Arctic communities have historically related to the sea and the land, their focus being on reciprocity rather than domination.

She says that there’s a power in fiction, an empathy that forms between the book, the reader and the author. As a storyteller, she strives to create feelings and experiences that resonate — moments where a reader might think, “That’s exactly what I felt, but I’ve never been able to put it into words,” or, “I’ve never felt so seen.” This is true for situations she’s personally experienced and ones she hasn’t — that’s where her research comes into play. For Éowyn, writing is about more than just crafting a narrative, it’s about discovering the metaphors and the poetry within the concepts she explores. When she set out to be a novelist, she never imagined it would go beyond the Pacific Northwest. But it has. Her writing is known by people all over the world. But at heart, she still writes for her fellow Alaskans.

Her deep relationship with her dogs helped carry her to victory in the 1985 Iditarod, and in the years since, she’s become an advocate for the sport, working to help people understand what dog mushing is really about. These days, it can be tricky for people to grasp— most of us see dogs as companions, not as athletes bred for endurance and work. But those who rely on working dogs, like service animals, tend to understand the dynamic better. And when people see sled dogs in action — on a dogsledding tour or in a race — they get it. They see the excitement, the energy, and the joy these dogs have for running, and they start to understand why mushing isn’t just a sport, it’s a way of life.

The idea for Arctic Man came from a bar bet between Howard and two other guys. He wagered he could beat them to the bottom of the mountain. So, they all gave the bartender $100 and agreed the winner would take all. Howard won that bet and soon after created what would become Arctic Man. The first one was in 1986. 10 teams competed that year. The next year, there were 25 teams. And then in the 90s, there were 65 teams. It kept growing, becoming more and more popular among racers, families and partiers. For the racers, it was an opportunity for glory and cash; for families and party people, it was spring break. Over the years, it’s become a lot of different things to a lot of different people. And Howard’s been there the whole time organizing and keeping the peace. 

He’s 75 now and he’s amazed at what Arctic Man turned into, but he’s unsure of how much longer it will continue. This year, maybe next year. Maybe even the year after that. It’s just so much work and he’s getting older and can’t do everything he once did — setting the course, for example, by putting up fences, flags and gates. Even the idea of passing it on is funny to him. He laughs and says, “First of all, nobody’s that stupid.” 

To this day, Jason and Jesse have continued to pursue their love of snowboarding and skateboarding. Jason is the owner of Blue & Gold Boardshop in Anchorage and Jesse is the co-founder of Think Thank, a series of snowboard videos with the motto "Progression through creativity."

Skater Micah Hollinger and snowboarder Andre Spinelli also join this conversation. Micah is one of the most celebrated skaters from Alaska. He filmed for all seven JB Deuce videos and went on to bring a unique, creative and artistic vision of progression to skateboarding. Andre, also known as Big Air Dre, filmed for numerous snowboard videos, including JB Deuce and Think Thank. His signature style involves hitting big jumps in the backcountry.

This conversation was recorded in front of a live audience in the Anchorage Museum Auditorium on Friday, January 17, 2025. That event was brought to you by the Northern Boarder’s exhibition. The exhibition celebrates snow and skate culture and community in Alaska through art. 

A lot of people helped make this episode possible. Julie Decker, Alex Tait, Danni Crombie and Max Kritzer at the Anchorage Museum. DJ Spencer Lee, and everyone on the panel. 

A quick note about the episode: About 42 minutes in, DJ Spencer Lee asks a question, and at the end of the episode there’s an audience Q&A. There, you’ll hear questions from Ollie Burtner, Sharon Liska and Les Burtner.

Photo by Hank Davis

For 20 years, she’s been a ski guide in places like Alaska, Wyoming and Norway. When she was 14, she worked as an assistant guide, and her first trip was to the Alaska Range. It was a bit of a disaster. She and another skilled mountaineer were multi-pitching a mountain called Dragon Spire in an area known as Little Switzerland. It was 40 pitches and they were out for 42-hours, causing them to miss their pick-up, which resulted in a search party being sent out for them. That was actually the first time her parents grounded her. She’s learned a lot since then, though. Now, when she guides, she knows that it’s important to make a plan and to stick to it, to never take unnecessary risks, and that it’s important to design a trip so that it accommodates all skill levels. 

She’s done a lot of work getting to where she is now. She’s a proud mom and a co-founder of Tromsø Ski Guides in Northern Norway. Along the way, there’s been sexism, divorce and death. But regardless of the drama and the tragedy life can bring, she knows she can always find refuge in the mountains.  

Photo by Martin Andersen

Jonthan credits the Sitka High School Debate Team for giving him the intellectual and ideological versatility that he still relies on today. He says that in debate, it’s common to flip a coin and on the basis of the coin flip you have to argue diametrically opposite sides of the same issue. So, you not only have to understand both sides of an argument, you have to be able to clearly communicate it. In 2014, House Bill 216 was signed into law. It made the twenty Native languages in Alaska official languages of the state. Jonathan sponsored that bill and his efforts were, in part, aided by what he had learned in debate. He says that, like all things in politics, it was accomplished through compromise and teamwork. 

But why do museums have items from other cultures in their collections? This is an important question that museums around the world have been grappling with. For their part, the Anchorage Museum has put a lot of effort into decolonizing their collections. Sometimes this means working with Alaska Native communities to ensure that cultural materials are displayed accurately. Other times, it means giving them back. In both cases, the goal is to honor the origins of the materials and the culture and lifeways they represent. To understand this from a western point of view, you only have to imagine having something like a family heirloom or a personal keepsake or a diary taken from you without permission and then displayed for all the world to see.

How about climate change, though, does that have a sound? This is a question Erin has been thinking about a lot lately. She says that one way we hear it is in the lack of sound, an animal that no longer exists in a certain area, for example. Acoustic Phenology — the study of how climate affects plants, animals and microbes — is another way we hear it. Like with Springtime, we begin to hear birds and all their different songs. So, it’s important to record these soundscapes because they’re always changing and sound can be a measure of change. The soundscapes recorded today, for instance, could be completely different than they will be in 50 or 100 years. These areas could be more developed, causing it to sound more urban or industrial. Or if human activity is reduced, it could mean more sounds of wildlife and nature. It all depends on how we treat the natural environment today.

The work that Jonny does finds itself at a cross-section of people and the places they live. That includes how people interact with each other and their environment, and how both of those things shape them. But how do humans interact with each other and with their environment? For Jonny, this is an ongoing and ever-evolving question. It applies to the work he does at the Museum, as well as his insight into city planning. So, he’s always thinking about how the city of Anchorage can be improved, be it through building construction, public spaces, or how roads impact communities and transportation. Because if we’re better oriented to our environment — both natural and urban — then we’re more equipped to live within the world that’s around us.

Alaska, as it existed in the ‘70s, continues to influence Keys’ idea of Alaska. There was a renegade spirit to it back then, he says, and there wasn’t much influence from the Outside. There were no food chains, no big box stores and people lived how they wanted to live. That’s why he came to Alaska and he never left. It was unpretentious, just like Keys. In fact, at one point, he had a rule that he would never go to any entertainment-related event if they didn’t serve nachos. So, he laughs when asked what he thinks his legacy will be because he’s just a normal guy looking for a good time. Not someone to be put on a pedestal. But he says that if he did have one — if he did have a legacy — it would be that he spent his life telling Alaska’s story. 

She says that each race is an opportunity to prove something to herself. Sometimes that’s overcoming her fear of the route — like with cycling around the world and the Iditarod Trail. Other times it’s about being capable of doing these increasingly long and difficult rides. Her desire to chase these rides, these proving grounds, is all-consuming. To the point that when she finds herself thinking about them, she stops eating or she stops talking to focus on the idea and her intent. She imagines it all fitting together like a puzzle — every piece is important and it all fits together to form a bigger picture. Sometimes that involves spontaneity — she loves that. Adjusting to weather, keeping an eye out for places to sleep, seeing wildlife, meeting new people, experiencing other cultures and visiting new places.

At 21, he moved to Unalaska and worked as a police officer for three years, then he moved to Anchorage and was an officer for the Anchorage Police Department for 20 years. In that time, he worked in a number of different departments: burglary, theft, felony assaults, the crimes against children unit, and the major crimes unit. His work in law enforcement and his research into the Unangax̂ region — in addition to a local murder he remembers from when he was 16 — eventually led him to his work with Murdered and Missing Indigenous Persons.

More recently, Mike’s been focused on ways to integrate ancient sod housing design into the construction of modern houses. Traditional sod houses were used in the Aleutian Islands and the Alaska Peninsula for at least 10,000 years. They were so energy efficient that their carbon footprint was virtually non-existent. 

He’s also been working on correcting historical inaccuracies of Benny Benson, the boy who designed the Alaska flag in 1927. The research he’s involved in found that Benny was not of Alutiiq heritage, like it’s been believed for decades, but of Unangax̂ heritage.

In 2016, Kristen graduated from Harvard and then took a job in New York and then in San Francisco as an investment associate. She was in her mid-twenties when she quit that job and started pursuing a career in cycling. It was a decision that she agonized over — to leave a lucrative job for an uncertain one. But she eventually determined that the pros outweigh the cons, that she would rather live with no regrets. 

Her approach to cycling, like everything in her life, is about assessing what you’re good at and what you’re bad at. And then when you’ve identified what you’re bad at, you focus on it until it’s a strength. This is one of the reasons she excelled in cycling so quickly: She made her weaknesses her strengths. She approached it with the mentality of, “It’s not that I’m bad at it, it’s that I’m just not good at it yet.”

Photo by Anouk Flesch

In 2019, while Paddy and Roman were collecting their datasets they stumbled upon something concerning and out of place: The once gin-clear Salmon River had turned orange. They noticed other rivers and streams had turned orange as well. In all the years they’d been coming to the Brooks Range, they’d never seen anything like it. So, they decided that they needed to sound the alarm, to let other scientists know what was going on up there. And hopefully, with their help, they could figure out what the implications were for humans and the surrounding ecosystems. Because something like this — an occurrence that trickles down into other ecosystems — has the potential to trigger ecosystem collapse. This happens when the rules of an environment are altered in a way that forces wildlife and vegetation to change how they interact with their environment.

Laine says that when she first started reporting on the Alaska fishing industry she tamped down her criticism of it, and instead chose to be its cheerleader. But when she retired two years ago, she felt a new sense of responsibility and freedom to point out areas of the industry that could use improvement. She was no longer beholden to only reporting on the good or acceptable news. So, in retirement, she’s been focusing on issues like the lawful waste of seafood caused by bycatch — the catching and discarding of unwanted sealife. She says that every other protein industry has a philosophy of using the whole animal, what they call ‘from the rooter to the tooter.’ But in Alaska, they take the filet and the rest goes. This has always been important — avoiding waste and maximizing profit — but it’s especially important now, when the economy of Alaska needs new revenue streams.

She’s been working in kitchens since she was 14, and then when she became a chef she decorated wedding cakes in New York. It was a dream job, until it wasn’t. She realized that she wanted more out of her work, an opportunity to make a difference. So six years ago she took a job in Antarctica as a sous chef — today she splits her time between there and Alaska. Her surroundings and the scientists she worked around in Antarctica eventually inspired her to create something that could help share their science. That’s when she began creating cakes that convey scientific ideas.

Rose has traveled to and worked in some of the most extreme and remote environments in the world — Antarctica, a volcano summit in Kenya, underground in the Australian Outback, on a ship in Svalbard. She says that nothing is controllable in these places, and that the control lies in the planning she does before she goes into a given environment. She has to be flexible and able to pivot because the weather and the conditions could change at any minute. 

Given the seriousness of the environments she works in, she appreciates the levity of cake. How it allows people to let their guard down and be receptive to scientific ideas about issues like climate change. However, she does struggle with the potential impact of what she’s doing — she says she doesn’t want to be seen as a “little cake maker just posting on Instagram.” She wants her work to carry meaning and to create larger conversations.

He says he loves surrealism because it’s something you can’t really explain rationally. It’s bizarre, almost dreamlike, and it speaks to you on a gut-level. It might be visually appealing, it might convey a message or it might be a joke. Much of Ray’s art comes from a place of humor, but a lot of truth can be said in jest. Musings on deep-time and nature and culture all wrapped up in a dad joke. For him, art is about learning and cataloging — with planes when he was a kid and later with fish after he moved to Alaska in 1983. He says that drawing is about learning to see. It’s about the accumulation of knowledge and wisdom that you gain throughout your lifetime.

David Holthouse is an investigative journalist, and his perspective comes from the intersection of belief and propaganda. How the idea of Sasquatch can be used to enforce territorial claims, or as a warning to keep people in-line, as was the case with his 2021 docu-series, “Sasquatch.” The concept of the show is based on a story he heard in 1993, about a Sasquatch killing three people on a weed farm in Northern California — an area that David says reminds him of Alaska. The story goes beyond Sasquatch, though. At its core it’s about long-standing social issues like racism, the war on drugs, gangs and violence.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody talks to storytellers and knowledge holders about Sasquatch, in its many variations, and its personal and cultural importance to the people of Alaska.

Angela’s perspective is of interior Alaska. Growing up, she says that talking about Bigfoot was taboo, but that there are certain times of the year — mainly winter — when it’s appropriate to talk about it. Bigfoot is a powerful being, so it’s important to give it a lot of respect. While the curious might seek out stories of Bigfoot, others will avoid them out of fear of inviting that presence into their life. Angela says that it comes down to respecting the land, the animals and the water. Because in order to survive, we must live in harmony with our surroundings; we have to respect the symbiosis that exists between humans and nature. 

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody talks to storytellers and knowledge holders about Sasquatch, in its many variations, and its personal and cultural importance to the people of Alaska.

Studies that consider the number of people who have been wrongfully convicted in the U.S. since the late-1980s estimate that up to 5 percent of the prison population is wrongfully convicted. In Alaska, that would mean about 150 innocent people are in prison. Nationally, the average person who is wrongfully convicted spends 12 years in prison before they’re exonerated. And Alaska is among about a dozen other states that do not have a wrongful conviction compensation statute, so exonerees don’t get any money following their release. Even convicted felons receive things like re-entry services, recidivism prevention, education, job services and drug counseling. But Jory says that, despite all of this, he still has faith in the criminal justice system because, for the most part, it gets it right and wrongful convictions are rare.

She says that, for a long time, she didn’t tell her story. It was just too hard to relive those memories, and the violence and the pain that came with them. But right now, she’s at a point in her life where she sees how much power and strength there is in telling her story. How it can potentially help a young person understand that they might be in the middle of the worst moment or moments of their life, but it won’t last forever. Things can get better. 

Heidi says that the issues of homelessness and human trafficking — another issue that she deals with a lot at work — are ones that we have to care about because they involve young people and they are the future of Alaska. They will one day hold the political, economic and social power. So, if we want our state to be healthy, we have to care about what is happening to our young people.

As the years went on, he became a local child celebrity. He continued being in Bailey’s Furniture commercials, and he was becoming a rising basketball star. When he was 15 or 16 years old, he remembers the Anchorage Daily News came out with a list of the most recognizable faces in Alaska and Buddy was number two, right behind U.S. Senator Ted Stevens.

He says the lessons he learned from working at Bailey’s Furniture helped him on the basketball court. In basketball, like in retail, you’re dealing with personalities and egos, but you’re not always worried about money. So, basketball was easy. All he had to do was focus on scoring points and winning. This mentality, as well as his skill on the court, brought him all the way to playing college ball.

Today, he no longer works at Bailey’s Furniture, he quit in 2013 to pursue a career in finance and then in 2020 he founded a virtual lease-to-own business. He no longer plays ball semi-professionally either, but he does play recreationally. He says he’s probably a better shooter than he ever was and a better overall basketball player. He plays one-on-one almost every day at his local gym. He also coaches both of his kids’ basketball teams, teaching them that it’s not always about winning, it’s about learning life lessons and values — accountability, work ethic, the ability to fight for what you believe in, and how all of that will eventually filter over to your family.

Shyanne is in the process of revitalizing her Native language, Han Hwechin Athabascan. There are only four people left who can speak the language, and she says the process of learning it has been difficult because people have been resistant to teaching her. This is because land, subsistence rights, language, culture and even children were taken away from her people. So, the insistence on guarding these things is understandable. To learn the language, Shyanne resorted to a more academic setting, mainly through classes.

Lately, for about six hours a week, she’s been working with her aunt to continue learning and documenting the language. Usually they get together and cook, chatting with each other in Han Hwechin the whole time. And for all this, she wanted to be back in Eagle, on her traditional lands; to have that sense of place and belonging. Because learning and documenting her culture and lifeways is one thing, but it’s also about creating a reservoir of culture that future generations can learn from.

In 2016, Mario tore his achilles tendon. It was a pivotal moment in his career, one that eventually led to him retiring from the NBA. But before he was comfortable with retiring, he tried making his way back by way of playing in G-League and overseas. Overall, he enjoyed his time playing outside the NBA, but he found himself reflecting on his career more than he was trying to regain it; he found himself being proud of his accomplishments and accepting this new chapter of his life, where he’s a full-time dad. He says it really dawned on him in 2021 when the Miami Heat signed him to a 10-day contract. He says that even though he didn’t get to play, it gave him the closure he was seeking — being able to walk off the court, healthy and on his own terms.

From her time at Fish Camp, Angela also learned the importance of work — that if you want to succeed, then you need to work. Today, this manifests itself in her beading. It’s easy for her to sit down for a few hours and focus on a project. She’s beaded earrings, pins, the tops of gloves, slippers, coasters. A recent project she finished included caribou tufting, raised beadwork and silverberry beads that she harvested herself. She says she’s inspired by the beadwork of her late grandmas and aunts. Their color choices, designs, and techniques. She likes to think about the stories and the experiences that led them to create their art. 

It’s been 20 years since he served in Iraq, and he says he’s still working through it. He talks about an experience when one of his fellow infantrymen shot and killed an Iraqi man under questionable circumstances. It was a moment that made him start questioning everything — what were they really fighting for, and how was this man’s act so much different than the one that put his step-dad in prison for life? There was so much to work through after finishing his military service — on top of his family history, he was now thinking about the fog of war. So, he found himself dissociating from his memories and isolating himself for days at a time, smoking weed and drinking. 

It took him years to step away from his substance abuse and to gain some clarity and accept the things he had seen and the things that he had done. He spent some time in India and Nepal doing yoga retreats and meditations. He would sit there and visualize the situations he struggled to understand — he would work through them as if he were the people acting them out and then he would embrace them with love and understanding of what led them to making the decisions they made. It’s a technique that helped him understand what he didn’t understand. 

Today, in times of personal crisis, he regains his equilibrium by going on walks on his property in Happy Valley, Alaska. Peaceful walks in the woods, among the trees and the birds and the mountains in the distance. He thinks of his wife and his daughters and the man he wants to be — loving, dependable and present.

So much of his spirit and his determination comes from the ATV accident that rendered him a paraplegic. He was 13 when it happened, and he says it was the worst thing he could have imagined — going from being a champion high school wrestler to losing the use of his legs. But as time went on, he learned to adapt and the trajectory of his life changed course. He would continue to wrestle for a few more years before getting into sit-skiing.

Years later, trauma visited him again. When he made his first Paralympic games in Sochi, Russia he crashed and broke his back off the first jump. Not long after that, he broke his femur after being hit during training. He says that it was after this last injury — the broken femur — that he learned about the mental and emotional aspect of growth, that just because you failed doesn’t mean you’re a failure. Now, with all the failures and the successes he’s experienced, he looks back on his ATV accident as a learning experience because it made him who he is today.

Kaitlin grew up in Homer, Alaska. There, she says she had an idyllic upbringing in the small, tight-knit community. But her understanding of what goes into creating this idyllic place changed over the years. That the land had to be conquered first and then it could be made into the place she grew up in. That knowledge and curiosity extended to her own Honduran heritage, of which she knew little about as a kid. Because, for so long, it was just too difficult for her mom to talk about. But every summer, Kaitlin’s grandma would visit and she would connect with her heritage through her. But, Kaitlin says, she always felt more Alaskan than anything else.

His path to playing pro basketball has been one of perseverance, luck and opportunity. He tells this story from his college days that encapsulates all of this. He was working at a 24-Hour Fitness and he noticed these guys running the court during his lunch break. So he got in there and started showing everyone up. Meanwhile, a scout for San Francisco City Junior College was watching him. So afterwards the scout approached Travante and got his number. Six or seven months later, Travante was offered a position on the team.

For the last seven years, he’s been living overseas and playing pro ball. He started his career in Tskaltubo, a city in the country of Georgia. Then he moved to Portugal, first playing for U.D. Oliveirense and then Sporting de Portugal. He says that, as a teammate, he has what he calls a dishwasher mindset. He likes to do the dirty jobs and he likes to work hard. That’s his way of leading by example. He tries to connect with all his teammates because, at the end of the day, this is a job and when one of them succeeds, they all succeed.

Fast forward to college and he’s playing $5 poker games in his dorm at Virginia Tech. There, he had a solid group of friends he’d play with. Sometimes they would travel to play poker too, they’d go to places like Atlantic City where they would play until all their chips were gone. Some days they would do better than others. Poker’s unique in that way, Adam says, if you can afford the buy-in, then you can play. And because of that, you get so many different people — from beginners to experts — that come to the table every day.

He says that his upbringing contributed to his worldliness and his understanding of people — both of which are essential qualities in a poker player. His dad worked in oil, so his family traveled a lot, living in a number of different states and countries. In high school, he lived in Egypt. It was an experience that introduced him to a lot of different people and cultures. Looking back on it now, he says that his time in Egypt made him the poker player he is today. Because, after all, poker is also a game of psychology. The better you can read people, the more formative a player you’ll be.

Photo courtesy of Omar Sader

When putting together an exhibition, one of MOD.’s main tenants is for people to leave with a feeling of hope, not one of anxiety or depression. Because these are big issues they’re tackling — populating other planets, climate change, the future. Next year, they’re opening an exhibition called Broken, about the general feeling of anxiety and ambivalence about the future. In order to instill hope in this exhibition, people are asked a series of questions based on psychologist Charles Snyder’s Elements of Hope: “Do you have a positive vision of the future that brings you forward?” “Do you feel positive about that vision?” “Do you feel like you have agency to make a difference?” And, “Are there multiple pathways for you to reach your goal?” 

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

Permanent Fund Dividend co-creator and state legislator Cliff Groh says that, for decades, oil has been the primary driver of Alaska’s economy and fiscal system. However, oil production has been in decline for about 35 years. In the late 1980s, the state had more than 2 million barrels of oil going through the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System every day. Today, it’s well under 500 thousand barrels a day. Right now, many people are betting the economic future of Alaska on finding another Prudhoe Bay oilfield. There’s the Pikka Oil Field, the Willow Project, and the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, or ANWR. There are arguments for and against each of these projects.

Tim Bradner has been writing about Alaska’s natural resources since 1966, he’s also the co-owner of the Alaska Legislative Digest. He doesn’t believe oil in Alaska will ever completely go away because oil fields have a way of producing for decades, but oil will become less and less important to Alaska’s economy. Ultimately, he’s hopeful for the future, though, that there are other things that will come along to stimulate the economy. Commercial fishing and tourism, for example. He says that if we’re smart, we’ll use the Permanent Fund to sustain our public services and diversify the economy, meanwhile educating young people and giving them a reason to stick around.

Right now, NEMO is focused on sustainability and the climate crisis. This year, staff came together to create The Green Team, a cohort dedicated to putting sustainability high on the museum’s agenda. Among other things, this means creating sustainable exhibitions — reusing parts of previous exhibitions for future ones, for example. It also means helping to create exhibitions that talk about the climate crisis. Currently they have an interactive exhibition called Energy Junkies where you can make decisions about the world’s energy system that will determine a more or less sustainable future. The idea is for people to understand the climate crisis and how energy production is related to it, and the different solutions that are available for individuals, businesses and governments.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

Anne May says that the museum is focused on documenting these changes, to keep a record of the past and the present in order to inform the future. That there’s a strong possibility that northern countries will be looked at for guidance in a future affected by climate change. She has a vested interest in Norway. In addition to her work at the museum, she’s a farmer, her husband is a reindeer herder, her kids are farmers and reindeer herders, and she’s of Sámi heritage. 

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

Miranda says that appealing to a rationalist perspective doesn’t work. That’s actually how she found her way to creating the Climate Museum. It was 2012 and Hurricane Sandy was wreaking havoc on New York City. She lives in the city, so she watched as the effects of climate change were brought to her front door. Before that, she had understood climate change on a rational level, but faced with the destruction caused by the hurricane she was compelled — emotionally — by the urgency and the challenges of the climate crisis. So, she made a radical shift, she quit her job as an attorney and created the Climate Museum. Her mission then as it is now, was a deep civic shift toward climate dialogue across people’s personal and professional lives. A ubiquitous understanding and acceptance of the crisis that will lead to meaningful climate policy.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

The Museum of the Future opened its doors in 2022 and since then over 20 world leaders have visited. Lath says that this is important because climate change is an issue that requires international collaboration. These leaders are among the ones in a position to make changes that will positively impact their countries. Because climate change is an issue that requires large-scale structural changes, the best thing individuals can do is lobby their governments for change. Lath goes on to say that the best hope we have for addressing some of these complex challenges is more Indigenous knowledge than scientific understanding because scientific understanding and reductionist understanding is, in a lot of ways, what got us to where we are today.

In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.

John says that when he writes music, he thinks of snowboarding. Of cliffs, jumps, rollers and powder. Hatcher Pass — the mountains John grew up hiking and riding — is in his rhythm and his lyrics. That association is intuitive for him. Simply put, throwing yourself off a cliff or off a jump is like throwing yourself into music and performing. Sometimes you lose and sometimes you win. But you learn from your failures and you’re buoyed by your wins. And it’s in those winning moments that give you the strength and the reassurance to continue. Like snowboarding or the Iditarod, there are always going to be struggles, but it’s how you work through those struggles that define you.

This new album, “Chris Black Changed My Life,” was marked by struggle and uncertainty. Three band members went to rehab, John broke his jaw, their good friend Chris Black passed away and John and Zoey’s daughter Frances was diagnosed with DHDDS, a rare neurodegenerative disease. It’s been a lot, and navigating it is ongoing. The three who went to rehab are doing much better now and John’s jaw is on the mend. Chris is missed and thought about often, and after an exhausting amount of research, Frances is in treatment.

PHOTO / Maclay Heriot

There was this moment when he was mixing his first album, “Cold Weather Survival Guide,” at Unique Studios in Time Square. He was looking out of a 10th story window thinking, “We’re here. We made it.” Partly because all of the action outside — the Puerto Rican Day Parade was going on and he had a clear view of Total Request Live — and partly because of all the greats who had recorded at that same studio. James Brown, Ice T, Tupac, Nas, Madonna, Public Enemy, Big Pun, Mobb Deep, the list goes on. And now, at 21 years old, Josh was there too. It was a dream come true. The rebellious kid who had little to no supervision and a tumultuous upbringing, just running up and down the streets of Muldoon causing trouble, was now on the path to being a household name.

But he had to make a choice: Chase this rap dream or be a family man. He and his wife were in their 20s and they were starting to have kids — they would eventually have six — and he wanted to give them the upbringing that he never had. Although he never wanted for anything, including love and affection, he grew up in a rough household with lots of partying, drugs and alcohol, and he knew that’s not the environment he wanted to raise his own kids in. So, he chose to be a family man instead of a rapper. It’s a decision he’s thought a lot about over the years. Did he give up on his dream or did he follow his destiny? Ask him and he’ll tell you, what happened is what was supposed to happen.

PHOTO / Leif Ramos

She says that in her line of work people often use the term “cultural conflicts” to describe disagreements that arise because of different values and belief systems. However, she prefers the term “cultural contrasts” because not all the time do those things conflict. She gives an example: Whenever her mom’s Inupiaq family would visit, she was expected to tend to and revere her elders, whereas when her dad’s parents would visit from Washington state they wanted to tend to the children. She recognized that these behaviors weren’t in conflict, each one just had a different set of expectations. So, it’s important to learn and to talk about the contrasts before they become conflicts. It comes down to recognizing, understanding and respecting other cultures — their values and their tenets.

Cordelia grew up in Wasilla. The first time she visited the lands of her heritage — Utqiagvik and Wainwright — she was a young adult. She remembers seeing the environment that her mom had been describing to her for so long and how striking it was. Her biggest takeaway was seeing other Inupiaq people. It was her first time in an Inupiaq community and so much of it reminded her of her family. It gave her an incredible sense of belonging because until that point the only other Inupiaq people she encountered were part of her family. It was the first time she realized that she was part of this bigger network of people.

At its core, this is a conversation about what a place means to its inhabitants. How it shapes and molds them. It’s about why David, Julia, Aaron and myself all continue to try and capture the Anchorage we grew up in, before Alaska was so connected to the rest of the world. For my part, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to capture the essence and the feeling of the Alaska snowboard and skateboard scene of the 90s and early 2000s. Holthouse talks about his memories of the Anchorage punk scene in the mid-90s, another lively and sometimes provocative group of people. Aaron remembers a heavy metal group of Alaska Native guys who wore leather jackets, had long hair and smoked cigarettes. They were metal and they were Native. When recalling these stories, there’s fondness, melancholy and nostalgia — a feeling Julia says is a cousin of grief. That if you become too nostalgic, you might lose track of how to listen to the present moment.

Her artwork always comes from a personal place. In 2008, after numerous surgeries and trips to the hospital, she was diagnosed with Celiac disease. It was a painful journey. For so long, she didn’t know what was wrong with her. So, the diagnosis was a relief. She finally had a word to attach to what she was experiencing. That’s when she became interested in food. Specifically, she became aware of the inaccessibility to fresh foods — how expensive they are and how many rules and regulations prohibit people from growing their own food in public spaces. At one point, she learned about how a community garden had been shut down due to a real estate development. That was when she realized that spaces like that weren’t protected and could be easily taken away.

Her interest in the idea of consumption and resilience goes back to her childhood, when she didn’t always have the things she wanted. She was born in Rockville, Connecticut, but she grew up in Summersville. Both are small towns that are close to nature. She tells this story about how, when she was a kid, she and her siblings would make a game out of running as fast as they could to reach a neighbor’s barn before he let off a warning shot. So, when she moved to New York City, where manmade structures dominate the landscape and overconsumption is common, she began to think about how that affects us, how being so reliant on outside inputs can deprive us of our independence. The sheer scale of the trash cycle in New York City, for example, devastated her. Three nights a week, she would see trash piled up on the sidewalks, sometimes taller than her.

Ian is also a public historian known, most recently, for his work on the history of the Alaska Railroad and a book he co-authored with Alaska public historian David Reamer about the history of the black experience in Alaska. The book, Black Lives in Alaska: A History of African Americans in the Far Northwest, details how Black men and women have participated in Alaska's politics and culture since before statehood. How Black history in Alaska is almost by default a history of the bottom up. It’s a history that involves racial discrimination, but also involves people mobilizing themselves in the face of that discrimination. How they were, and are, agents who are capable of forging social movements and solidarity. They rose up and involved themselves in the workings of the state. 

His work on the Alaska Railroad will soon be on display — along with the work of other experts — at an Anchorage Museum exhibition titled All Aboard: The Alaska Railroad Centennial. The exhibition highlights crucial moments, technological innovations and human stories connected to the railroad and its operations in Alaska. An interesting fact about the people who originally worked on the Alaska Railroad is that the majority of them came from Alaska. They were already in the state working the Klondike Gold Rush and, when that ended, workers — who were generally young, single men — found more work helping to construct the railroad.

She lives in Anchorage now and talks about the importance of little, wild places. How Alaska is known for its size and its scale — its large, open spaces occupied by trees, grass, mountains and wildlife — but little patches of wilderness are important too. They can be an untamed patch of grass that grows on the sidewalk or a lake in the middle of town. Anything that brings you back to the earth, back to being one with a natural environment. 

When Erin thinks about being one with her natural environment, she doesn’t recall one single image. She recalls moments and sounds that create a feeling — like running water or fishing in the rain with her mom. Thinking about this one morning when she and her mom were out dipnetting on the Kasilof River and it was pitch black, there were seals fishing in the water, it was raining and they could see dark clouds on the horizon and an incoming thunderstorm. She says that she felt in-community with the natural elements around her — with the seals and with all the other people who were out fishing.

Glen says that we can intellectualize why people commit heinous crimes as much as we want to, but the reason is ultimately very simple: People do it because they want to. Now, that choice might be corrupted by other things like anger, deviancy, mental illness or drugs, but at the end of the day it’s a conscious choice. The outcome of which is devastating to all those it affects. He says that, so often, the crime perpetrated on someone becomes their identity. It becomes all consuming and can result in a lifetime of guilt and bitterness. But recently, Glen has found ways to let go of those feelings. One of them is digitizing all of his dad’s 35 mm slides. He’s going through so many family photos and it’s giving him the opportunity to see his sister through a whole new lens, as the beautiful young woman she was.

Years ago, Glen was teaching a homicide class and one of his students asked him if having a murdered sister made him a better detective or did it make the job more difficult. He’d never thought about it before that moment, but he’ll always remember his response. He said, “You don’t have to have a murdered sister to be a good homicide detective, but it helps.” That became the first sentence in his true crime memoir, “Finding Bethany.” The book details his upbringing all the way to him becoming a detective for the Anchorage Police Department, with a focus on finding a young woman named Bethany Correira. He says that, in addition to his sense of duty to her and her family, working Bethany’s case — a case that had so many similarities to his sister’s —  also helped him process his sister’s murder.

In the early 90s, Rick brought punk bands to the King of the Hill competition in Thompson Pass twice. The first time, it was Pennywise and The Offspring. The second time, it was Pennywise again, but this time with Blink 182. He admits they were all out of their element in the mountains, but when they took the stage they were right back in their element, rocking a crowd. Before all of that, though, they were on a plane — Rick, the bands and their entourages. There were about 20 to 25 of them and they had flown from LAX to Anchorage, then they hopped on a smaller plane that took them to Valdez. This moment, in that small plane, is one that Rick will remember for the rest of his life. How some of the most influential punk rockers of this generation were buzzing along, headed to some of the most iconic mountains in the world.

Thank you to Loft 100 Studios in Carlsbad, California for letting Rick use their studio to record.

Growing up in Yakutat, Martin always wanted to play in the NBA or be an actor. It was always gonna be one of the two. The path to being a professional basketball player just involved so much coaching, travel and practicing around those who were also pursuing it at that level. So, acting won out, but it hasn’t been an easy road. Before he made the move to pursue acting, he worked in longshoring, in a logging camp, in construction, as a welder and on oil rigs. He was actually  fired from his job in Prudhoe Bay, something he now considers to be a blessing in disguise. If he hadn’t been, he might still be up there waiting on an opportunity or the courage to leave and be an actor.

Martin pursues acting like he does everything in his life, like a warrior. He’s of Tlingit and Koyukon-Athabascan heritage and says that, in traditional Tlingit culture, young men started their warrior training at the age of seven. They learned how to test their bodies by training, running and hunting. He mentions one exercise where they would sit in the ocean and soak in cold water. Thinking about what it means to be a warrior today, he says it means being responsible, having good values and being an example of what it means to be a good person. This goes for how we treat each other too. Rather than getting caught up in divisiveness, we can break negative stereotypes by creating positive new ones.

Whether she’s weaving among a group or teaching others how to do it, she finds her happy place in human connection. When she’s with a group of other weavers, there’s commiserating, there’s camaraderie, there’s knowledge sharing. When she’s teaching, she’s passing on tradition and she’s helping her students understand techniques. Seeing them finally wrap their minds around the intricacies of a technique and implement it is one of her greatest joys.

Lily weaves ceremonial regalia for museums now. She says that her mom helped her understand and be comfortable with the idea. That they’ve been making these Chilkat blankets and robes for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and many of them live in museums. And, for right now, museums operate as incubators, taking care of these pieces and sharing their stories, until it’s time for them to be released back into the world.

Making Slash/Back was important to Nyla for a couple reasons. For one, she was able to film the script she’d been working on for years. It also helped her recover from a liver transplant. When she got the news about needing the tranplant, she was told that she had a 50/50 chance of surviving the month. It was a grim and scary situation, but she made it through the month and received a transplant in May of 2017. That September, she went to Nunavut and shot the proof of concept for the movie. She wasn’t wasting any time. Facing her mortality brought things intro focus and helped her recognize the things that she believes are really important in life. Friends, family and the relationships we build with them. It also helped her understand the importance of pursuing the things she wants in life.

Michele's albums have their roots in Christmas. Her first one — Beginnings — she gave out as Christmas gifts. She borrowed a digital keyboard and recorded the album onto a cassette tape. Her mom loved it and would play it in her car. So, Michele made 30 copies of that tape and decided to give them away as presents to friends and family. The feedback she got was so encouraging, that it motivated her to keep making albums. Maybe give them away for presents next Christmas. That was in 2000. By 2003, she had put her music online and that was the beginning of her career.

She calls her time at the piano her musical diary. It’s when she can express her raw emotions and raw feelings. And you can tell. Her music is contemplative, dramatic, triumphant, melancholy and joyous. It’s the result of her sitting down and pouring her heart into it. At her performances, before she plays a song, she tells the story behind it. Stories about her family, her hardships, her travels, her pursuit of love. All of the emotions and the experiences that are so integral to her music. She says it’s one of her favorite parts of her concerts: Sharing intimate pieces of her life so that her audience might, for at least a moment, feel those same emotions.

She recently released a book — a memoir — that focuses on her upbringing. Homesteading in Alaska before it was a state, living off the grid and off the land. They hunted and they gathered. It was a self-sufficient lifestyle that her father sought out and he found it in Alaska, a place where he believed he could live simply. They settled on land about 15 miles from the nearest town and accessible only by a trail in the forest or on the beach at low tide. They used horses and a wagon to transport goods back and forth. Mossy says that she wanted to share all of this because it’s what led her to another way of looking at life, another way of looking at the world. That everything matters and we need to be good, thoughtful stewards of the planet. It’s a connection with nature that she has applied to every aspect of her life.

There were bands with names like Skate Death, Psychedelic Skeletons and Filipino Haircut. There were bands interested in the occult, bands interested in performance art, bands interested in making genuine punk music. There was even a band that lit themselves on fire. And they were all performing in venues and eventually warehouses. But for it to be sustainable, there needed to be the right mix of culture bearers and promoters. Bands that created the music, venues that hosted shows, an alt-weekly newspaper that promoted the shows, and a college radio station that played the music. It was a mixture that sometimes worked out and sometimes didn’t. When it worked out, the scene would flourish; when it didn’t, the scene would fade. 

Josh looks back on that time as some of the happiest moments of his life. He remembers going into local music stores and buying local music. How special it was to buy a tape and listen to a local band, knowing that these musicians were walking the same streets that he walked. They understood his interests and his point of view.

Crystal says that having her murals displayed downtown is significant because that’s where people come together. It’s where locals hang out, do business, have dinner, and it’s where visitors are often introduced to Alaska. In many ways, art helps us understand a city, the land and the history of both. She says that the art of formline can help us understand the future of Alaska. It can help us visualize and plan for the future of a state that reflects our ideals and our values. Her mentor, Haida artist Robert Davidson, taught her about the power of visualization. He told her to focus on the end goal, not the process because so many things will test your strength along the way, so it’s important to be persistent. To imagine herself standing in front of the finished piece and celebrating it.

Priscilla grew up recognizing and honoring her Inupiaq heritage. Her dad, William Hensley, is a key figure in Alaska Native land rights. He’s known for his role in the creation of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act. As a result of the act, Alaska Natives retained 44 million acres of land and about 1 billion dollars to settle Indigenous land claims in Alaska. Growing up around all of this is a big reason she pursues telling the stories that she does. The first documentary she worked on, for example, was “We Up,” a film about Indigenous hip hop of the circumpolar North. It was produced by the Anchorage Museum. In addition to it being a family affair — her husband also worked on the film and their children tagged along — it introduced her to the power of filmmaking.

Priscilla has tattoos that commemorate her roots and her heritage. She gets them with her cousin every time she goes back to Alaska. The most recent one is on her hand, so she sees it when she’s writing or operating a camera. She says that she loves seeing her tattoos when she works because they’re a visual reminder of who she is, how she wants the world to see her, and her responsibility to being true to herself, her family and her community.

She’s currently in-residence at the Anchorage Museum, exploring the Filipino diaspora through research and interviews. To help make sense of all this information, she’s putting two podcasts together. “Drift: Immigration and Identity in America” is an interview series, and “Land and People” looks at practitioners and people with ancestral ties to the land. There’s also a component of cataloging what the land looks like right now for future reference. She says that as she’s interviewing people they’re also unpacking the psychology of internalized racism and what that looks like and what it feels like. It’s complicated because there are so many facets to this project — there’s immigration, there’s the socioeconomic issues, the cost of living and it’s all under the umbrella of capitalism.

Photo courtesy of Josh Branstetter

Everything that he’s doing right now — whether it’s talking to an auditorium of 500 people or hosting a workshop for youth or working on a commission for Google — it’s bigger than him. It’s for his ancestors, for his culture and his traditions. It’s a reminder of the destruction and human toll of colonialism. It’s more than creating a beautiful piece. It’s about understanding history and sharing Tlingit knowledge. He does it for his clan, for his family and for his contemporaries — all of the other northwest coast artists striving to reach the golden age of their artform that occurred in the 1700s and early 1800s, after steel was introduced to their culture during the fur trade.

He works for the food non-profit NATIFS now, where he promotes food relief, education, awareness and accessibility of traditional foods. He says that this position is a one-of-one, there’s nothing else out there like it. It’s not so much a job as it is what he does, and who he is as a chef and as a person of Tlingit heritage. 

In his late-40s now, Rob says that he started to really notice the negative effects that alcohol was having on his body and his lifestyle. So, over two years ago, he became alcohol-free. He says that, right now, he’s proud of being exactly who he wants to be — he has more hours in the day, and his mind is clear and he’s confident.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Through research, interviews and recollection, Kim would write about her parents to try to work out her feelings and understanding of them. She found that her dad was a complicated man, and that her mom was a tragic figure — loving and caring, but in the throes of mental anguish.

She’s always put a lot of thought into describing and understanding Anchorage as a city and the people who live there. In her book, she describes it as neon — both physically neon and existentially neon. The bright, flashy lights of downtown Anchorage and the pioneer spirit of the 60s influenced her perception. It was a place of endless possibilities, where anyone could do anything; a place you could run away to and remake yourself in whatever image you wished.

Today, Kim says that she’s enjoying getting older and that she feels like she’s finally mellowing. She lives in Louisiana — teaching journalism and trying to get used to the fact that her kids have moved out of the house — but she still considers Alaska home.

When he first started listening to old Alaskan albums and radio programs, he thought he was going to hear a lot of tourist music and songs about things like reindeer and caribou. But he soon realized that there was a lot of diversity in what he was hearing. There was hip hop, psychedelic rock, metal, punk. He even found a record of soundbites from people talking about their experience during the 1964 earthquake. 

His motivation is that of a fan, driven by interest and excitement. If he can provide a service that is useful, in exchange for all the information and all the stuff that he’s getting, then that’s what he’s looking to do. His fascination with the music of Joe Paul is a good example. Joe Paul is a country and gospel singer originally from Kipnuk, Alaska, a community along the Kuskokwim River. And one day, while out digging for Alaskana, Jimmy came across one of his albums, “Eskimo Songs, Stories and Country Music.” He was floored by it and says that it rejuvenated his interest in collecting.

Even when he was snowboarding all the time and filming video parts, Dre worked for Spinell Homes. He’d work his shift and then he would meet up with a film crew to get a shot. He did this often enough to get enough shots for multiple video parts a year. So, to say that his work ethic was unmatched, is probably a huge understatement. Today, he’s the president of Spinell Homes. He’s responsible for everything from home design to meeting with buyers to hiring employees to land development. That need to excel and go higher has always been there, he says. As a kid, he would jump off everything — playground equipment and even roofs into snow. Nowadays, he’s a weekend warrior, riding whenever he can and introducing his kids to it. In fact, his son, just like Dre, is starting to go big too.

Nyabony doesn’t remember much from her childhood. She knows that she was born in Ethiopia and she knows that she and her family came to the United States when she was 3 or 4 years old. Other than that, she’s had to rely on stories from her parents and her aunts and her uncles. Those stories are helpful in understanding her identity, but they’re not a perfect substitute. She says that only personal experience can fill that void.

Today, she works with Alaska’s immigrant and refugee community. She helps them overcome challenges and achieve their goals. And in that process, she says, they’re helping her better understand her background and herself.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

He says that a lot of what he does cannot easily be translated to words. It needs to be experienced and understood through our senses. To sit with it and to meditate on it opens us up to its energy and allows ideas to gravitate toward us. When this happens, we create a situation that nurtures a deeper conversation with the world around us. 

Right now, he’s in-residence, at the Anchorage Museum, working with poets, artists and musicians, and developing a light and sound installation called "To Hear the Earth Before the End of the World." It features sounds of elements — air, earth, fire, water, and aether. And field recordings from Europe and North and South America — sounds of our changing earth. He says that, unlike a painting, this exhibition is an experience that encounters you, you don’t encounter it because it’s going to be playing whether you’re there or not.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Most of the work that he does is a first person narrative. He creates gonzo journalism, infusing himself into a story and becoming part of it. This was true when he quit a steady job to work on a political campaign that he believed in; It was true when he hitchhiked across the United States, photographing people and talking to them about their lives; It was true when he tracked down his birth mother; And it’s true now. Because, more often than not, his life and his work are one and the same — they’re forever intertwined and feeding off each other.

Young’s sense of community has, at times, been reinforced by growing up in the restaurant industry. Specifically, he remembers the staff dinners, when everyone would sit down together for a meal after their shift. Today, Young is the co-owner of Akela Space, a community gallery and photography studio in Anchorage. It’s a place that he and his co-owner, Jovell Rennie, hope to be a hub for community and for knowledge. 

The photography that Young is working on right now is about his mom and how their relationship is changing. When we’re younger, our parents are the caregivers, but as we get older those roles can switch. So, it’s important for our expectations to be flexible because things don’t always play out the way we imagine.

Phonetic hasn’t performed on-stage since 2016, the same year he decided to stop making music. He had moved to Seattle to pursue being a rapper and things were going good there, but he was also struggling with mental health issues and living away from his kids. So, he eventually moved back home, and for eight years he’s been trying to find a balance between the things he loves and the things he needs. Coaching high school basketball has been a big part of finding that balance. It was actually the inspiration for his new album, Mindful of the Menticide, which deals with uncertainty and mental illness. Where he’s at right now, mentally and physically, he says that he’s found a way to do all the things that he loves — he gets to coach and he gets to rap.

Before the pandemic, Juneau saw about a million tourists a year. Many of which purchase what Rico calls knockoff Alaska Native art. A small percent of that money actually goes back to the communities that developed the art form. Rico recognized this and came up with a plan: He would design and sell art that blends modern and traditional styles and make sure the proceeds go back to the Alaska Native communities from which they came.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Watch any of his parts in Turnagain Hardcore or Slednecks and you’ll see the type of rider he is. He goes huge, he tries new tricks and he’s not afraid to fall. He says that at a certain point, he realized that the more time you can spend in the air, the more time you have to register what’s going on and make corrections before you hit the ground.

In 2021, his uncle was strong-armed into signing a piece of paper that gave the Taliban permission to marry-off his daughters. So, five days before the weddings, Dane found himself helping his cousins escape from Afghanistan. Then, when Russia invaded Ukraine, Dane got a call from a guy who had helped coordinate the resources that helped get his cousins out of Afghanistan. He said that women and children were disappearing, possibly to human trafficking or possibly to disorganized evacuations. So, Dane made an easy decision: he would go to Ukraine and he would help safely evacuate those women and children who were in impossible situations just like his cousins.

He’s 80 now, and his list of achievements are extensive. They include the president of the NAACP of Alaska, the recipient of the St. Francis of Assisi Award and working with HistoryMakers, an organization that collects and preserves the well-known and unsung stories of African Americans. Considering his current work with HistoryMakers and the Anchorage Museum, Cal says that he chases the dead — he reads obituaries and attends funerals in order to collect the stories that would otherwise be lost forever. 

Photo by Jovell Rennie

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Much of his work is interested in exploited landscapes, in the things that we’ve brought to places. His recent book, Atomic Island, details the U.S. military occupation of Adak Island during World War II and the aftermath of their departure that left so much abandoned infrastructure and debris.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In 2019, James and his producers released Midnight Son, a true crime podcast that explores the story of Teddy Kyle Smith, who went from being an actor to a fugitive in a quick succession of tragic events. What followed was a case that involved Alaska Native folklore and the United States justice system. In the podcast, James talks about how this story gave itself to him — how it showed its neck. So, for two years he and his producers worked on Midnight Son — collecting interviews, listening to courtroom audio, writing and just generally wrapping their minds around the case. James says that he was genuinely obsessed with Teddy’s story and that if he didn’t tell it, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

She says that she lives her life like it’s an endurance sport, so finding a balance between work and rest is important. That balance hasn’t always been easy to find, but she’s getting better at it. 

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Julie got out of philanthropy and development at 60 years old and began pursuing another career with the Anchorage Museum. The first exhibition she worked on was "Black Lives in Alaska: Journey, Justice, Joy." It’s told through archival photos and collected materials, and showcases the richness and resilience of Black lives in Alaska. Julie says that exhibitions like this one can help people be more open to the stories of other people’s lives and experiences, that their way of experiencing the world is not the only way or the best way or even the right way.  

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

More often than not, the stakes were high. And every year, they got higher—bigger jumps, bigger tricks and more serious consequences. Their thinking at the time was, “If it can’t kill you, no one’s gonna watch it.” That was key to the mentality that drove THC. They wanted the videos to be an example of what Alaskan snowmachiners brought to the table. They wanted Alaskans to be proud to share the videos with anyone, anywhere in the world.

Turnagain Pass, from which Turnagain Hardcore gets its name, was homebase. It’s located about a half-hour from Girdwood, where Giles and Sebastian live, so it was an easy commute. In the beginning, they would go out there with tape measures to measure distances from potential take-offs and landings. They wanted to find spots where riders could go huge. But as the jumps and the consequences got higher, Giles and Sebastian made a point to find spots close to roads and cellphone reception. Thinking back to those times, they say that their biggest accomplishment was that they always brought everyone home.

Above all, Chloe wants to be a lifelong learner. With kelp farming, that means being adaptable. So, if a storm hits or her grow lines become tangled, she needs to go to work, regardless of time or weather. She looks to other local farms for understanding and inspiration. For what works and what doesn’t.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Before he got sober, Ralph said that his life was a revolving door. He would go on binges and lose everything and then he would get sober. Sick of the revolving door, he went to residential treatment. In total, he went three times and during the last time, he thought of doing a podcast. It would be something that would hold him accountable to his own sobriety. He would have conversations with other people about their stories of addiction and sobriety, conversations that could help other people going through the same thing understand that they’re not alone. And so The Anonymous Eskimo Recovery Podcast was born.

Preston is on a lifelong journey of inspiration, knowledge and understanding. He reads constantly. In fact, among the many people he considers to be his mentors are both living and deceased authors, entrepreneurs and faith leaders. To understand his motivation and faith, all you have to do is look on his bookshelf. He says that these people opened up the world to him, they taught him that there’s more to life than the insulated worlds we generally create for ourselves.

In 2014, Pika and Jesse had their son Ollie. At that moment, Pika says that she went from working on Think Thank to being a mother. It was a transition that caught her by surprise. So, in response, she began pursuing things she’s always been interested in. She says that as you get older, you feel like there’s less room for error, but that it’s also important to not be afraid to fail.

This is an episode of GLOSS, or the Gorgeous Ladies of Shred and Ski—an ongoing series between Crude and Blower Media.

Perata says that the rate of progression in sports moves quickly, so most athletes have about seven or eight years to be at the top of their game. After that time is up, the next generation of riders are on a higher level of progression. So, to continue his presence in the snowboard industry, Perata made a transition from being a professional snowboarder to an event promoter. It was a move that spawned King of the Hill and also set him down a path that would forever include Alaska.

Coffey says that there was a sense of camaraderie and community at King of the Hill. That it was such an undertaking it took the whole town to do the event, so everybody had to be part of it. But between alcohol, illicit substances and young bravado, there was a lot of room for error. A number of times in this conversation, he makes a point of mentioning that nobody was ever seriously injured. Which, I think, could be a testament to skill and preparation or it could be a testament to luck. In a separate conversation we had—when talking about the equalizing quality of the Chugach Mountains—Coffey told me, “Those mountains will bring the skiers and snowboarders with the biggest egos down to earth.”

Brooke says that YoBeat needed to die so that she could run a more mature snowboard publication. She was 15 years old when she started the site, and that voice persisted throughout the lifespan of the publication. Now, with her new online publication, Blower Media, a more mature Brooke is re-entering the conversation surrounding the culture of snowboarding during a time when so many legacy publications have died out. There are only a few people left in the industry with the same knowledge and first-hand experience as Brooke. So, her perspective on the past, present and future of snowboard media is one to listen to.

This is the first episode in an ongoing series between Crude and Blower Media—where I’ll be talking with influential women in snowboarding—I talk to Brooke Geery, a longtime snowboard journalist and publisher of snowboard media. 

In the following conversation, Cody is joined by four Teen Climate Communicators. Sofie Chisholm, Eleanor Poe, Emma Ellison and Emma Haas.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

With help from Kass and Daymen, Matt is about to release a documentary about comedy in Alaska. It’s called “Why Not: A Year in the Life of The AK Comics” and in it Alaskan comedians talk about their hopes, struggles and their lives within a small, but intimate scene. One that’s easy to enter, but difficult to rise to fame because there are fewer opportunities in Alaska than in other places with an infrastructure that supports comedy. So, you have to create your own opportunities, and many times that means promoting yourself, filling the audience with friends and family or even creating a comedy festival, like Kass did with the Alaska B4UDie Comedy Fest. Matt says that Alaska has big city problems with small town attitudes, but that in a small town you can build your own thing. And that’s what they’ve done with comedy in Alaska.

Often, maps are viewed as objective and above reproach, but maps—just like any piece of art—come with the bias of their makers. They can be made with the intent of acquiring land and resources, as has historically been the case. So, it’s important to consider how they affect our perspective and understanding of land and our place in the world. It’s also important to consider ways we can re-imagine the traditional idea of mapping because an image can’t always document or express the reality of a place.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Artwork by Dan Mills

With its many research institutions located in arctic environments—including universities and weather stations—Alaska is important in the global conversation surrounding climate change. Brian says that, in a lot of ways, the state is a research laboratory with a collection of intellectual firepower located in close proximity to locations that are experiencing quick and dramatic changes. Changes that affect our ways of life, societal infrastructure, transportation and cultural identity.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Dr. Oakley says that when she’s working, she has to adapt veterinary medicine so that it can be applied in the field in Alaska. And, oftentimes, that means being a jack-of-all-trades. When she’s outside of a sterile clinic, in remote areas and it’s 20 below and her hands are freezing, she’s just trying to give the best care possible with the tools and the medicine she has. In some cases it might not look great, but she’s doing the best she can.

Dr. Oakley’s daughter Maya also joins the conversation. Maya was 14 when they started filming “Dr. Oakley, Yukon Vet,” so she’s been there through all of the change and growth of the show.

Aaron is the president of the Native Village of Eklutna and the Anchorage Museum’s ​Senior Curator. He’s a shareholder in Cook Inlet Region, Incorporated, or CIRI, one of the​ regional Alaska Native corporations set up by ANCSA​. ​He’s also a shareholder and has served on the board of Eklutna, Inc., one of the village corporations set up by ANCSA.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

The dinner table was a sacred place in Julia’s household. Sitting down and sharing a meal was important and everyone had a role, be it cooking the meal, setting the table or clearing the table. That affection for food also extended outside of home cooked meals. Growing up in Anchorage in the 1980s, there wasn’t a big variety of restaurants and what was cooked in homes. Ingredients were scarce then. So, when they were available, new meals were an experience that Julia cherished. When she thinks about food today, she says that it’s more than just sustenance, it expresses love, culture, care, identity and nostalgia.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In 2014, Roman’s son, Cody-Roman, was on an exploration in Costa Rica when he went missing. Over the course of the next two years, Roman traveled to Costa Rica in search of his son. He says that he felt it was his duty and that he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he hadn’t. Then, in 2016, Cody-Roman’s body was found and it was determined that he had been killed after a tree had fallen on his campsite. In the aftermath of all this, Roman had a realization: That all the adventuring he’d been doing was selfish. That he’d been doing dangerous things because he got a thrill out of it. So, he started to back away from the activity of scaring himself. Today, when he goes to nature, he’s more conscious of his mortality and how his death might affect his loved ones, and there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t think of his son.

Mitch says that he’s still not sure how to categorize his cancer diagnosis and everything that followed it. He experienced a mixture of emotions. In the beginning there was denial, followed by shock, then exhaustion and guilt. There were moments of despair and ones of overwhelming gratitude. It’s a story that he hopes has the potential to help other people going through a similar experience, but he also doesn’t want being a cancer survivor to define his life and his identity.

Matthew Kristoff also joins the conversation. He works on Good Fire with Dr. Christianson. He’s also the host of YourForest, a podcast that explores the natural world through conversations about environmental issues.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Madison found her way into snowboarding by way of Volcom’s Peanut Butter and Rail Jam competition. Fresh out of high school, she won the competition at Brighton in 2007. From there, she made it to the finals, where she got 3rd place and Best Trick. It was a formative moment in her career—it put her riding in front of industry people and it introduced her to other riders who have continued to be part of her life.

These free competitions, with gear and prize money, are few and far between now, making it difficult for many newcomers to enter the sport as aspiring professionals. The elimination of them has bottlenecked the industry into invite-only competitions, where only certain riders are chosen. And if this trend continues, then less and less new riders are able to enter the industry.

Madison has an encyclopedic knowledge of women in snowboarding. She collects their stats like baseball cards—the spots they’ve hit and the tricks they’ve done. This helps her understand her peers as well as her place in snowboarding. As a woman, she says that in order for there to be more equity in the sport, the industry needs to stop marginalizing women. For example, she says that all-female videos have the potential to alienate them from the larger culture of snowboarding rather than allowing them to be part of established projects that feature both men and women.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

It’s taken her a while to get to where she is now—being a regular at the Comedy Store, performing on sold out tours, working on her next comedy album and she just released a country song. It took a lot of self-reflection and recognition of self-worth. She says it’s about shifting your perspective and setting goals. That it’s about being present. And comedy is where she feels most present. On a stage in front of a bunch of strangers, making them feel like they’re not so alone. This is her calling, and she believes that when you find the thing that you’re meant to be, it’ll happen. That when you direct energy and perseverance in a certain direction, the doors will continue to open.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Jovell holds many of his formative experiences close. He considers them often and applies them to his life and work. When taking photos, for instance, he believes in staying out of the way and not being a burden. His mom remains a constant presence in his life, and his dad is his biggest supporter. He says that, above all, his motivation is making them proud by always conducting himself with integrity.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Tina was among the first women in snowboarding who redefined what it meant to be a female pro-snowboarder. This meant making constant decisions to push against conforming to a man’s world. Because what you do in the present determines the future. It meant bucking stereotypes—taking the same lines and riding the same courses as the guys did. It meant creating a lane where women were respected for their abilities rather than overlooked or talked down to. Snowboard gear was a big piece of this. Back then, all the clothing and the gear were made for men—the clothing was too baggy and the boards were too wide for women. So, for things to fit somewhat properly, they had to modify everything. But once snowboard brands began making gear specifically for women, Tina says that their abilities and skills improved drastically. Another big move toward equity in snowboarding was the freedom to be herself—to be that girl on the mountain with a DayGlo orange scrunchie and snow pants.

These days, Tina says she’s narrowing down her responsibilities, preferring to focus on the simpler things in life. There’s her business—a gift line of designs called My Favorite Things—her art and she helps her daughter Addison navigate the medical and social aspects of having scoliosis. It’s a diagnosis that requires as much support as possible. For this, Tina draws courage and inspiration from many facets of her life, including snowboarding.

After high school, Ryan left home to pursue his dream of becoming an actor, but bad decisions and addiction got in the way. Because of a DUI, he moved home to Alaska and eventually found himself in an even worse spot, where he had to have some type of mind-altering substance in his system just to get out of bed in the morning. It was a full-blown addiction that ended in a drug bust in Ketchikan, where he was charged with 12 felonies and was looking at 8 to 10 years.

Early in Deb’s career, her mom told her that she didn’t want Deb getting tattoos because she didn’t want people to judge her by the way she looked. Deb responded by saying, “If people are going to judge me by the way I look, then those aren’t the kind of people I want in my life.”

Deb says that the difference between tattooers today and tattooers in the past is that their journey is different. When Deb entered the scene, there was a lot of inequality and even violence. Deb has a history with domestic violence. One that she tries to talk about as openly and honestly as possible. She talks about those seedier origins of the tattoo culture, the sanctity of the tattoo shop and how people with tattoos need to be responsible for their actions if they don’t want to be mislabeled.

Recently, Ted has become more introspective about his life and his art. He’s learned that life may not play out exactly how we want it to, but—and this is something that he’s been saying a lot lately—everything happens for a reason.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

This episode originally came out in 2016, and Ryan has since turned his life around—he’s clean and sober, happy and recently married.

Back in Ft. Nelson, he reunites with some old friends and makes some new ones.

This episode originally came out in 2016, and Ryan has since turned his life around—he’s clean and sober, happy and recently married.

This episode originally came out in 2015, and Ryan has since turned his life around—he’s clean and sober, happy and recently married.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Perata says that the rate of progression in sports moves quickly, so most athletes have about seven or eight years to be at the top of their game. After that time is up, the next generation of riders are on a higher level of progression. So, to continue his presence in the snowboard industry, Perata made a transition from being a professional snowboarder to an event promoter. It was a move that spawned King of the Hill and also set him down a path that would forever include Alaska.

Pika grew up watching and studying snowboard videos with the technical eye of an auteur. At 14, she started renting snowboard videos from Fairhaven Bike and Ski in Bellingham, Washington. She would always rewind the videos and return them on time. Fairhaven eventually offered her a job, which is where she worked until she went to college. At 18, she got a photography job at the University of Washington. It came with all the traditional benefits, including a steady paycheck, a 401k and healthcare. Because of that job, Pika—alongside her husband Jesse Burtner and Sean Genovese—was able to help create and fund Think Thank, a snowboard video production company. Think Thank would go on to create a category of snowboarding that focused on riding urban environments rather than backcountry ones. Pika describes Think Thank as an ongoing piece of art.

In 2014, Pika and Jesse had their son Ollie. At that moment, Pika says that she went from working on Think Thank to being a mother. It was a transition that caught her by surprise. So, in response, she began pursuing things she’s always been interested in. She says that as you get older, you feel like there’s less room for error, but that it’s also important to not be afraid to fail.

Preston is on a lifelong journey of inspiration, knowledge and understanding. He reads constantly. In fact, among the many people he considers to be his mentors are both living and deceased authors, entrepreneurs and faith leaders. To understand his motivation and faith, all you have to do is look on his bookshelf. He says that these people opened up the world to him, they taught him that there’s more to life than the insulated worlds we generally create for ourselves.

Coffey says that there was a sense of camaraderie and community at King of the Hill. That it was such an undertaking it took the whole town to do the event, so everybody had to be part of it. But between alcohol, illicit substances and young bravado, there was a lot of room for error. A number of times in this conversation, he makes a point of mentioning that nobody was ever seriously injured. Which, I think, could be a testament to skill and preparation or it could be a testament to luck. In a separate conversation we had—when talking about the equalizing quality of the Chugach Mountains—Coffey told me, “Those mountains will bring the skiers and snowboarders with the biggest egos down to earth.”

Cody and Jim talk about how Jim is "a beer drinker with a writing problem," some suggestions for the curious and the uninitiated beer drinker, how there's a niche for every beer drinker in the world in Alaska, and the time Dr. Fermento was invited to the Playboy Mansion.

In 1997, Brooke started an online snowboard publication called YoBeat. It began on an AOL message board with 2 megabytes of free space and grew into an internationally recognized website. She says that it was a satirical site that gave a voice to people who snowboarded rather than a mouthpiece for the industry. Brooke and the content YoBeat hosted were children of the Internet, conveying unfiltered opinions and candid ideas. Many of which garnered love and hate in the comment sections that often drew just as much attention as the articles. And this all started back when there were only a few online snowboard publications.

Brooke says that YoBeat needed to die so that she could run a more mature snowboard publication. She was 15 years old when she started the site, and that voice persisted throughout the lifespan of the publication. Now, with her new online publication, Blower Media, a more mature Brooke is re-entering the conversation surrounding the culture of snowboarding during a time when so many legacy publications have died out. There are only a few people left in the industry with the same knowledge and first-hand experience as Brooke. So, her perspective on the past, present and future of snowboard media is one to listen to.

A soundscape is made up of all the sounds of a given environment. Artists and musicians were given a soundscape that they remixed using their distinctive styles. Their music styles range from acoustic and classical to hip-hop, ambient and electronica.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

For both of them, Thompson Pass—during those nascent years of snowboarding—was an outlaw world of guideless backcountry runs, heavy partying and the criminality that King of the Hill attracted. It was far from the world Julie and Steve had come from. In many ways, it represented a more primitive order to life, where everyone was able to adhere to their baser instincts. Today, you can see the lasting impression King of the Hill made on more modern day snowboard competitions like the Verbier stop in the Freeride World Tour and Kings and Queens of Corbet's in Jackson Hole. Although the extracurriculars of those competitions are much more tame and less primitive.

Today, she’s able to look back on her childhood and realize that she’s always been the person that she knew she was—she’s always been an artist.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In addition to his fiction work, Don has also co-authored two non-fiction books—Never Quit with Jimmy Settle and Warrior’s Creed with Roger Sparks. Both Jimmy and Roger are former pararescuemen—or PJs—with stories of perseverance, wisdom and heroism. Both books detail the path that led Jimmy and Roger to become PJs and the extraordinary experiences that made them who they are today. Don says that when people have experienced that kind of high-level, intense trauma, we have to listen and learn from it.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Throughout his life, Matt has been drawn to live performances. When he was a teenager, he performed in local plays. From 18 to 26, he played the drums in a number of bands. And then from 26 on he’s done stand-up comedy. When he was younger, Matt says that he was a basement dweller and that he was intimidated by the world. But as he got older and more involved in stand-up comedy, he became more comfortable with the world and his place in it.

Forest points to his grandmother as his biggest inspiration. She survived the Holocaust and then went on to get a PHD in chemistry despite the gender barriers of the time. In her 50s, she went back to school to become a nurse, which is what she worked as for the next 20 years. Her life story—her determination, her intelligence and what she went through and ultimately became—continues to guide Forrest in all aspects of his life.

In pursuing a project, Jeroen feels that it’s his responsibility to tell a story in the most accurate way he can. This involves patience and experience and letting the story tell itself, rather than molding it to a narrative of your own.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Arctic flow unofficially disbanded in 2010. Jerremy says there was no big falling out, the group had just become stagnant and everyone wanted to go their separate ways. He also acknowledges that some of his actions most likely caused the disintegration of the group. And while it may be unlikely that we’ll ever hear an Arctic Flow reunion, the albums they put out and the shows that they did will forever be etched into the history of the Alaskan rap scene.

Jerremy doesn’t go by AKream anymore, his new rap alias is Kream Soda. Recently out of prison, he’s now on the path of clean living, self-discovery and self-awareness. He’s working on new music and he’s putting out a new episode of The Kream Soda Podcast every week.

When Cody originally contacted him about being on the podcast and talking about potentially sensitive things like Arctic Flow, drug addiction and prison, he said he was an open book because otherwise, what’s the point?

He says that if telling his story can help somebody else get sober and stay alive, then it's worth telling.

For a good portion of this conversation, John talks about his struggle with depression and PTSD. He talks about the psychological aftermath of spending 8 months in active war zones. How it was a continuous evolution of “hurry up and get ready” or “hurry up and get used to this.” But by the time you acclimated to that environment, it was time to go home. And then once you were home, you were forced to deal with everything you had been through—among civilians who have no frame of reference for war. In 2011, everything kind of came to a head and John had a mental breakdown. He called the Veterans Crisis Line and they helped him work through it and also directed him toward local mental health resources.

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline and Veterans Crisis Line is 1-800-273-8255.

Mike’s relationship with The Pio goes all the way back to his childhood, when his dad was a regular there and he would bring Mike with him. That was around 1980. Mike and his business partner Dave Croffut bought the bar in 2013, and they quickly learned that the idea of owning a bar is much different than the reality of it. In reality, you have to deal with controlling crowds, local politics, and all the repairs that come with owning a 100-year-old building.

Francesca says that a large part of unpacking all of this includes subverting cultural myths like ones that depict the brave, masculine explorer conquering landscapes. And, instead, portraying a cultural landscape where Indigenous people have lived for thousands of years. 

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In addition to being an artist, Thomas is also an assistant professor of Art at the University of Alaska Anchorage. There, he continues to champion diversity, equity and inclusivity. 

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

The entire event—on hill and off-hill—was characterized by an anything-goes, outlaw attitude. Every day was a party and every night that party intensified. Drugs and alcohol were everywhere and it wasn’t unusual for guns to be added to the mix.

Although my dad, Scott Liska, and my uncle Jay were key figures at the event, I wasn’t old enough to experience it firsthand. Instead, the stories and the infamy that surround it have followed me around since I was a kid. And what I’ve found is that the story of King of the Hill is not just the story of the Alaska snowboard scene, but the story of a brave and reckless group of pioneers. Valdez in the 90s represented an era of unmitigated freedom, and that group of pioneers took full advantage of it.

In the first issue of Crude Magazine, back in 2013, Cody interviewed Robi and he described himself as, “tangential, not scatterbrained.” And that still holds true. He always seems to make it back to his original point. In this conversation, like many others Cody and Robi have had, they talk about following the unconventional path of an artist and a musician, and where that leads. How there are benefits and there are pitfalls to pursuing that tumultuous and uncertain road.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

When Jimmy got back home from war, he felt broken. His career as a PJ had ended long before he had planned. On top of that, he was experiencing serious physical pain and PTSD. And he couldn’t find any help. As a result, he went through a period of suicidal depression and homelessness. Since then, Jimmy has found help in therapy, family and college. He says that “Life’s funny like that. You don’t always see the spot you’re gonna land when you let go of the thing you’re holding onto.”

In this conversation, Aaron talks about his responsibilities as the president of Eklutna and how the Museum fits into the larger conversation surrounding Alaska Native equity.

Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In Part 2 of this conversation, Acacia talks about creating a record of stories, of people and place. About how, through photography, she has the opportunity to start important conversations about polar regions—about the people who live there, climate change and, ultimately, the lessons we can learn from it.

Chatter Marks is now on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."

In part one of this conversation, she talks about subverting the stereotype of what it means to be an explorer. And that means reframing the image of a man conquering landscapes to an image of a symbiotic relationship between people and the landscapes they live on.

Follow and subscribe to Chatter Marks on Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Coming to Stitcher and Apple Podcasts soon! 

In this episode, Cody talks with Sebastian Garber, the Senior Designer at the Anchorage Museum. Sebastian has been a graphic designer for about 12 years now, and in that time he’s worked for large companies, small firms and a magazine. He says that the most important things he’s learned in those 12 years is being able to adapt to changing trends in design and communication, and the importance of a strong team. 

Sebastian is currently working on designing a typeface that includes Alaska Native languages. It will be a typeface stripped of geographic references and that will encompass all the necessary diacritics. Diacritics are accent marks that indicate pronunciation. And when finished it will become the official font of the Anchorage Museum.

Follow Anchorage Christian Schools alumni speaking out against the historical racism at ACS on Instagram @a.christian.school.

From owning a gym in the 80s to being a stockbroker in the 90s, her working life has been a series of careers, many of which have been in male-dominated professions. To be successful in that atmosphere, she had to navigate the sexism and male egos of the time. Which, a lot of the time, meant having to temper her intelligence. 

From 1989 to 2007, she was an integral part of Boarderline Alaska Snow and Skate. Boarderline was founded by Cody's dad, Scott Liska, and his uncle, Jay Liska, in 1989. Sharon's job was damage control. Whenever there was trouble with the business or Scott had personal issues, she came to the rescue. She was routinely responsible for keeping track of and contributing to the financials of the business, even when it took precedence over her family. She says that to create a successful business, everything takes a backseat. And that “a business owns you, you don’t own that business.”

Mike’s relationship with The Pio goes all the way back to his childhood, when his dad was a regular there and he would bring Mike with him. That was around 1980. Mike and his business partner Dave Croffut bought the bar in 2013, and they quickly learned that the idea of owning a bar is much different than the reality of it. In reality, you have to deal with controlling crowds, local politics, and all the repairs that come with owning a 100-year-old building.

Julie is uniquely qualified for the position she's in, having grown up around her dad Don Decker, a prominent Alaskan artist whose work goes back to the 70s. When she was a kid, she watched as he did the artist thing—struggle and appreciate the creative process and then learn to let his art exist outside of himself. She understands this dance between the indefinable creative process and its payoff because she's an artist as well. Today, she talks about how she finds things like the sound of pencil on paper soothing because of what it represents: a quiet and contemplative meditation.

Early in Deb’s career, her mom told her that she didn’t want Deb getting tattoos because she didn’t want people to judge her by the way she looked. Deb responded by saying, “If people are going to judge me by the way I look, then those aren’t the kind of people I want in my life.”

Deb says that the difference between tattooers today and tattooers in the past is that their journey is different. When Deb entered the scene, there was a lot of inequality and even violence. Deb has a history with domestic violence. One that she tries to talk about as openly and honestly as possible. She talks about those seedier origins of the tattoo culture, the sanctity of the tattoo shop and how people with tattoos need to be responsible for their actions if they don’t want to be mislabeled.

Full disclosure: Cody and Tim are friends.

Duke has been in the Alaska art scene for over 50 years now. In that time, he’s experienced a lot of failures, growth and success. He’s not afraid to voice his frustrations, and he’s not afraid to talk about the lessons he’s learned. In fact, he’s able to find humor in most things. In this conversation, we get a glimpse of how Duke’s mind works. It considers everything—the importance of telling the truth and the transient nature of life. How life is constantly in flux and the more we accept that, the more we’re in rhythm with it. 

Alexis says that she’s always asked a lot of questions and that she’s always learned best by listening. She feels like that must be connected to her indigenous background of oral storytelling that keeps tradition alive. When she thinks about the future, she hopes that there will be more indigenous representation in the media. That they’ll be able to fund their own projects and make the final decisions on those projects because then they’ll be a genuine reflection of how they see themselves. 

The following interviews were originally conducted with the intention of making a short documentary. Back when Crude was transforming from a physical magazine to digital media, and then eventually to this podcast. In that shuffle, the documentary was scraped, but the intention of producing something out of the content remained. There was just too much good audio and the interviews were just too great to forget about. 

NOTE: FLOW has since disbanded due to interpersonal conflict. So, this episode stands as a snapshot of where this organization and its wrestlers were at that time.

Cody talks with rapper and community activist Michael Cofey, journalist Zakiya McCummings, and high school teacher Mike Thompson. Each conversation comes with its own unique perspective, but there is a common theme prevalent in every one of them—it is of deep-rooted, generational trauma and how it affects everyday life.

PHOTO / Jovell

Kerry says that in a hyper-competitive field like photography, you can’t stand still, you always have to be moving forward. That the reality is, you’re only as good as your next project because people generally only see the last thing you did, not the last 10 years of your work. Which isn’t always a bad thing, if you believe in natural progression, or Malcolm Gladwell’s 10,000-hour rule. That the longer you do something, the better you become at it.

PHOTO / Jovell

Zach says that the feeling of success is a carrot on a stick. That his idea of success is always changing. At first, it meant playing a show and having the crowd sing your lyrics, then it was the first time he played in a big city or traveled overseas, then it was the first time he played at a big music festival. Now, his idea of success is tied to the band’s current work with the rights of indigenous peoples, through the PTM Foundation.

If you or someone you know is currently in an abusive relationship, you can call AWAIC's 24-hour crisis support hotline at (907) 272-0100.

To ensure a stable of future professional riders, snowboard companies promote amateur riders who show the most promise. That support helps boost their exposure and helps solidify their place in the industry. Louie says he never had that support as an amateur, so he had to find his own way in. He did that by proving himself, competition after competition. Forcing his name into the conversation. Looking back on it now, he’s happy it turned out that way. He’s glad he was brought up to persevere. He remembers something his dad would tell him in those moments of frustration. He said, “If you’re good enough, then they can’t ignore you.”

Note: This episode was recorded before the COVID-19 quarantine.

When Jimmy got back home from war, he felt broken. His career as a PJ had ended long before he had planned. On top of that, he was experiencing serious physical pain and PTSD. And he couldn’t find any help. As a result, he went through a period of suicidal depression and homelessness. Since then, Jimmy has found help in therapy, family and college. He says that “Life’s funny like that. You don’t always see the spot you’re gonna land when you let go of the thing you’re holding onto.”

Andy would like to thank the Alaska Emergency Medicine Associates management team. Dan, Sami, and Ben, and all the folks in the back hall of the ED, Jaime, Brenda, Liana, Karen, Matt and everyone else who has put countless hours into making their team and facility as ready as it can be. Also, a shout out to the parallel teams at the other Alaska hospitals as well.

Malcolm was born in 1988, so he’s part of the generation that he writes about. His work is probably best described as academic and contemplative. Malcolm is what Cody's friend Aurora Ford would call a patient thinker. He works from research, historical precedent and statistics to understand how the world is changing.

Although Malcolm isn’t from Alaska, his reporting and his perspective on millennials is universally important.

Peter grew up in a family of explorers who pushed the limits of what it means to adventure. His mom Tandy founded Circumpolar Expeditions, a business that curates and leads personalized adventures in the Arctic. Peter’s first tour was at 8 years old. He walked a group of Russian dancers all over downtown Anchorage and set them up with a Russian translator. A more recent adventure that Peter points to happened in 2016 and involved reuniting a family that had been separated since the Cold War.

Thank you to Carrie Hambach and Whitney Branshaw for help with questions.

Carrie has been there since the beginning of Crude, and is just as much responsible for any of its success as Cody is. She has always been on the Crude masthead as Managing Editor, because, as they joke, she manages him, the editor. But realistically, she does so much more. She has always proofread and given feedback on his articles, she helps with business decisions, and she’s always there to suggest questions, and give praise and constructive criticism about the podcast. Everything she does adds more perspective and ultimately makes the content better. 

On October 25th, 2013, she packed Cody a lunch and wrote him a letter on the day he was quitting his job at the time, so that he could work on Crude full-time. In that letter, she said, “Happy Friday, Codeman. I know it’s a bit scary for both of us to be so financially unstable at the moment, but I know deep down this was the right thing for you to do. No matter what, we will get by, and we won’t have to look back and wonder, what if? I love you and trust in our futures. Love, Carrie. P.S. We’re out of zip lock bags.”

Looking at Callan’s life, she’s always fought against injustice. She’s always been on the side of the under-represented and the disadvantaged. She knows that to achieve success, you need to be mindful of all the small decisions along the way. She understands that change can be slow and meandering, which is why patience is important. She says that “as humans we can get very narrow and very linear, and the reality is you can’t do anything if you have a linear perspective because it’s just not the truth of our world.”

For a good portion of this conversation, John talks about his struggle with depression and PTSD. He talks about the psychological aftermath of spending 8 months in active war zones. How it was a continuous evolution of “hurry up and get ready” or “hurry up and get used to this.” But by the time you acclimated to that environment, it was time to go home. And then once you were home, you were forced to deal with everything you had been through—among civilians who have no frame of reference for war. In 2011, everything kind of came to a head and John had a mental breakdown. He called the Veterans Crisis Line and they helped him work through it and also directed him toward local mental health resources.

If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline and Veterans Crisis Line is 1-800-273-8255.

He says that if telling his story can help somebody else get sober and stay alive, then it's worth telling.

If you were skating or snowboarding in Alaska in the 90s and early 2000s, then you’re probably familiar with Micah. He’s the skater that everyone in Alaska looked up to, he’s the guy who hit rails on his skateboard that snowboarders thought were too big, he’s one of the guys who showed us that the Alaska snow and skate scene was relevant, and could hold its own.

Lately, Micah’s been working with Jesse Burtner—the creator of Think Thank films—on a documentary about the old Boarderline Alaska Snow and Skate days. From the late 1980s to the early 2000s, Boarderline was a major figure in the Alaska snow and skate scene. Through interviews and archival footage, Micah and Jesse are working to capture that era.

This episode originally aired on January 31, 2019. 

This episode originally aired on January 3, 2019. 

After a 25-year-long career in special forces, Roger is now a tattoo artist and author. It’s taken him a long time to be where he is now—with the understanding and the self-analysis that comes with soul searching. His perspective is a reflection of a life spent in uncomfortable situations, be it as a Recon Marine, an Air Force pararescueman, or a tattoo artist. Because, as he puts, “if you’re risking virtuously, it leads to better and more things.”

This episode originally aired on Friday, October 25, 2019. 

This episode originally aired on Wednesday, March 13, 2019. 

This episode originally aired on Thursday, September 5, 2019. 

They also discuss how the urban/wilderness split doesn't exist in Alaska, meaning things like bear maulings and ATV accidents exist alongside things like inner-city gun violence and drug overdoses.

This episode originally aired on Wednesday, May 1, 2019. 

Dan has a new show called Adventure for Ava, where he helps families with special needs create memories in the Alaskan outdoors. He got the idea after his daughter Ava was diagnosed with Tay-Sachs, a rare, fatal genetic disorder. After all the hospital visits and time spent at home caring for Ava, Dan realized that his most important memories were those spent outdoors with his family. So, with the help of his fiancé Kristen, he decided to use the culmination of his professional and personal experience to help families in similar situations.

John likes to make people laugh, but more importantly he likes to watch his friends make people laugh. His experience in the Alaska stand-up scene—telling jokes, hanging out and laughing with friends, and opening up for headliners—is something he wants to share with other fans of comedy. So, he started Bear Bones Comedy, a small promotion company that’s trying to bring comedians up to Alaska. The idea is to establish a consistently funny show that features headliners and local comedians.

For those listeners who grew up during those old Boarderline Alaska snow and skate days, this conversation is a trip down memory lane. If you still recall years of your childhood based on what snowboard videos came out that year, then you’ll be right at home. If you weren’t a part of that time, then all you really need to know is that those days symbolize a period of great adventure and growth in the Alaska snowboard and skateboard scene. And Ben represents how so many kids felt during that time, and how it continues to affect them well into adulthood.

It’s no surprise that the road to Hollywood success is turbulent. It’s something many pursue, but very few achieve. For those few, it usually comes in the form of the illusive big break, such was the case with Kate. After years of pursuing a career in show business and working odd jobs to make ends meet, she landed an interview with The Duffer Brothers—the creators of Stranger Things. This opportunity didn’t just come out nowhere though, it was the culmination of years of hard work and false starts and bad meetings and rejection letters. But that’s what she realized separates the successful from the unsuccessful in Hollywood—the ability to endure the hardships and not give up.

When Kyle left the army, the camaraderie of his friends, and the extreme experiences, he said civilian life made him feel alienated. So, he was constantly searching for those extreme environments and battle-born friendships. That’s how he eventually found himself in Alaska. Now, as a reporter and the owner of Chilkat Valley News, he does his part in helping to tell the story of Haines, Alaska.

In 2018, Rosie tore both of her Achilles’ tendons during practice at the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, South Korea. Three infections and eight surgeries later brings us to where she is now: daily rehab. If you’ve ever been badly injured, then you know that rehabbing an injury correctly takes patience. Otherwise you run the risk of injuring it again, and having to start the surgery-rehab process over. Rosie is all too familiar with this process. She’s been injured before and knows what it takes to get back on her board. She understands the importance of patience to physical and mental health, and that being happy always takes precedence over her athletic career.

Thanks to Elliott Condon for help with interview questions.

This conversation came about by way of a LinkedIn message. Jeff Salzgeber, with New American Economy, a bipartisan immigration advocacy and reform organization, messaged Cody about a tour making a stop in Anchorage, Alaska called “Looking For America,” of which Philippa's organization Curiosity Connects Us is part of. The goal of the tour is to answer a fundamental question: “What does it mean to be American?” 

Philippa says that it’s impossible to universally answer that question because everyone’s American experience is unique. Which is why, throughout the conversation, she emphasizes the importance of face-to-face interaction and civil discourse. Because, she says, when we listen to each other, we learn more.

A lot of David's work is concerned with Anchorage's historical relationship with race. Generally, how Anchorage has never been as tolerant as it likes to believe. He points to Alaska's self-identification of exceptionalism, the idea that Alaska is better than other places because our morals and our values have always been ahead of their time. David says this has never been the case because, unless you're Alaska Native, you or your family moved here from somewhere else, bringing with you the beliefs and disposition of your original home. However, above all, he believes in change and the power of self-determination. That precedent matters because change begets change. 

The transformation of One Hot Mess from a mommy blog to a social justice blog comes from Libby’s sense of a moral imperative—if she doesn’t call these people out, then who will? If she’s not critical of the powers that be and the injustices that they effectuate, then who will be? She believes that when push comes to shove, Alaskans will always band together for the greater good. For the values and the morals that make us who we are. Because, at the end of the day, she believes that we have a lot more common experiences than we think we do.

Probably Sean's most important professional attributes are his persistence and his willingness to invest in himself. Back when he was doing the rap thing, he seized every opportunity that was available to him. And for the opportunities that weren't available to him, he created situation that would, in time, make them available to him. He did this by cold calling television and radio stations, paying for the production of his own music videos, and buying plane tickets for hip-hop journalists to come to Alaska. This is how he found success: he manifested it. He didn't wait around expecting someone else to recognize his talent. Although he doesn't really go by Joker anymore—preferring people call him Sean instead—he still pursues potential ventures with the same vigor and tenacity he did when he was a young rapper. 

Gus has always been a dreamer. He's always chased his passions, usually resulting in something strange and uniquely Gus. That's what he did as a professional snowboarder, and that's what he's doing now with his music. He's a self-described monomaniac, meaning he can only be obsessive about one thing at a time. And when Gus obsesses about something, it becomes all-consuming. 

Gus phoned in for this conversation from his Canadian home in the woods.

Lauren phoned in from her house in Texas. After a few technical difficulties and dropped calls, the conversation officially started. There is an overall message in this conversation about the importance of surrounding yourself with the right people. Because everything in life flows from that. Those people can either frustrate you or support you, they can either drag you down with them or encourage you to become a better person. Lauren knows about toxic people and bad habits better than most. She's been down that road. But with the help of her husband, her son, and all the other healthy relationships in her life, she's now fully recovered and thriving. 

Thanks to Aurora Ford for help with interview questions.

PHOTO / Mike Squire

Julie is uniquely qualified for the position she's in, having grown up around her dad Don Decker, a prominent Alaskan artist whose work goes back to the '70s. When she was a kid, she watched as he did the artist thing—struggle and appreciate the creative process and then learn to let his art exist outside of himself. She understands this dance between the indefinable creative process and its payoff because she's an artist as well. Today, she talks about how she finds things like the sound of pencil on paper soothing because of what it represents: a quiet and contemplative meditation.

If you're a pastor, or part of a church, then you know there are proven ways to grow a church. The most time-tested method is to target a specific demographic. Rather than following that method, Pastor Kent has spent decades creating an all-inclusive culture at his church. And he'll be the first to tell you, he doesn't have all the answers. And that, ultimately, he believes the best thing to have is faith. Because a pastor's responsibility to their community is, according to Pastor Kent, "to help people navigate a broken world, headed to an unbroken eternity."

Thanks to Sharon Liska for her help with interview questions.

Using a hotspot on his phone, Josh connected a mic to his son's computer and phoned in from his home in Fairbanks, a kind of adventure compound in the woods where he and his family skateboard, come up with stunts, and generally just have a good time. 

Thanks to Brandon Smith for all his help with interview questions. 

More information can be found at awaic.org, and their 24-hour crisis support hotline can be reached at (907) 272-0100.

They also talk about Evan's upcoming true crime podcast, Alaska Unsolved, which focuses on the disappearance of Erin Marie Gilbert, who vanished from a festival in Girdwood, Alaska on July 1, 1995.

They talk about how Jim is "a beer drinker with a writing problem," some suggestions for the curious and the uninitiated beer drinker, how there's a niche for every beer drinker in the world in Alaska, and the time Dr. Fermento was invited to the Playboy Mansion.

They also discuss how the urban/wilderness split doesn't exist in Alaska, meaning things like bear maulings and ATV accidents exist alongside things like inner-city gun violence and drug overdoses. 

In this episode of lost anchorage, we look at crime in Anchorage from the perspective of a criminologist. Allan Barnes is a professor of justice at the University of Alaska Anchorage Justice Center. He's been teaching for over 35 years. His students have gone on to become police officers, lawyers and judges. As a criminologist, Allan focuses on why people commit crime. 

In this episode, we look at crime from the perspective of a retired police officer. Aaron Roberts was an officer for the Anchorage Police Department for over 20 years. He patrolled downtown Anchorage, was a detective in robbery, assault, and metro with a focus in narcotics. At the time of his retirement, he was the team lead negotiator and worked closely with SWAT. 

We also discuss why he moved to Seattle to pursue a career in hip hop and why Alaska will always be home. 

With guest host Tubby. 

We also discuss Governor Mike Dunleavy's proposed budget cuts to Alaskan education, and teaching government class during the 2016 presidential election. 

With guest host Tim Davis.

We also discuss mansplaining, equality and how the corporate structure doesn't allow for women to have schedules that accommodate motherhood. 

With guest host Aurora Ford

With guest host Jered Mayer, whose stepdad, Terry Stahlman, owned The Showboat.

With guest host Aurora Ford.

Exclusive first listen, "What's In Your Hear"  featuring Tayy Tarantino off Starbuks' upcoming album Black Polar Bear. 

Crude weed columnist Whitney Branshaw sat in on the conversation.