Ben Weissenbach is an environmental journalist and the author of “North to the Future.” It’s a book about Alaska, but also about uncertainty, responsibility, and the quiet, sometimes uncomfortable process of learning how to see. Ben spent time in the Brooks Range and Fairbanks with Roman Dial, a professor of biology and mathematics; Kenji Yoshikawa, a permafrost scientist; and Matt Nolan, a research professor and founder of Fairbanks Fodar, a remote sensing and mapping company. What Ben came away with was a better understanding of climate change, and a deeper reckoning with what it means to pay attention, to feel out of place, and to try to belong in a world that’s changing faster than we can map. 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 Mehl is an adventurer, educator, and the author of “The Packraft Handbook.” He’s traveled over 10,000 miles across Alaska using only human power — by foot, ski, paddle, bike, and even ice skate. He’s traversed all of the state’s major mountain ranges, competed in more than a dozen Wilderness Classics, and has become one of the most trusted voices in wilderness risk management. But what makes Luc’s story especially compelling isn’t just the miles he’s covered, it’s how those experiences shaped his philosophy around safety, decision-making, and the responsibility we all carry in wild places. He says that it took the loss of a friend for him to wake up to the dangers of packrafting. So, over the past 10 years, he’s made a point of developing a safety culture within the packrafting community, and within the Alaska recreation community at large. 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 Hulls is an author and multi-disciplinary artist, and she recently won the Pulitzer Prize for her graphic memoir, “Feeding Ghosts.” It’s about three generations of women in her family — her grandma, her mom, and herself — and the ways their lives were shaped by political violence, migration, silence and survival. The book moves across continents and decades, weaving together personal history and national trauma. It examines what it means to be stuck in time, and carrying the reverberations of inherited trauma. It also confronts the fallibility of memory — what we remember versus what actually happened — and the tension between being Chinese and being American. Tessa’s grandma would have been the keeper of the family’s history, but she was a locked box — often medicated and unable to speak much English. So, at 30, after spending most of her life running from the weight of her family’s story, Tessa realized that if she didn’t confront it, she risked becoming the next generation of collateral damage. 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 Galanin is a Tlingit and Unangax̂ artist and activist whose work includes sculpture, installation, music and performance — and it’s always in conversation with history, land and power. He creates art that honors Indigenous traditions and confronts the structures that have sought to erase them; it challenges colonial narratives while inviting reflection on language, identity and the legacy of removal. He says that art can be a driver of change, a way to shift perspectives and push systems toward accountability and transformation. Whether he’s calling out institutional inaction, reclaiming ancestral knowledge or amplifying a suppressed language, his work insists that Indigenous culture is not a relic of the past, it’s a living, evolving force for justice and transformation. 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 Merritt is the founding director of the Center for the Future of Museums at the American Alliance of Museums. It’s her job to track cultural, technological, environmental, political and public health trends — and figure out what they might mean for museums and the communities they serve. She thinks about things like: what role could blockchain play in the art world? Could it allow artists to permanently bake royalties into their work, so that they get a share on future resales? Could museums help lead that kind of change? For Elizabeth, this is personal work: growing up, museums were her favorite places to learn and explore. She did well in school, but she learned more wandering the halls of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History on her own. It was a space that nurtured her curiosity. And that curiosity, a belief that museums are places where we can choose to learn, shapes how she sees the future. 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.

Julie Decker is the director and CEO of the Anchorage Museum. But before that she practiced as an artist and ran her own art gallery. Since then she’s fostered a belief in the power of museums to spark action — whether that means picking up a paintbrush, reading a new book, or seeing the world differently. Her connection to the Anchorage Museum runs back to childhood, when it was little more than a single room with a borrowed collection. Her dad was a visual artist and an art teacher; he was her earliest and most influential guide into that world. He taught her to be an observer — to notice the small things — and she watched as his own work appeared in solo shows and juried exhibitions at the museum. So, for Julie, the Anchorage Museum isn’t just a workplace; it’s been a constant presence in her life, shaping her sense of art, community and possibility. 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.

Annesofie Norn is the Head of Communications and Lead Curator at the Museum for the United Nations, or UN Live for short. With a background in placemaking and art practice, she specializes in designing experiences that resonate across borders and mediums. Her work often explores how art and storytelling can serve as powerful tools for social transformation on a global scale. Before joining UN Live, she worked on art exhibitions and contemporary theatre productions, which often explored hidden stories by posing unexpected questions and making surprising connections. She brings that same curiosity and creative instinct to her work today, helping reimagine how global stories are told and shared. 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.

Mike Radke is the co-founder and executive director of The Ubuntu Lab, a global education nonprofit that teaches people how to navigate cultural differences with curiosity, humility and empathy. Mike approaches the world with a learner’s mindset, believing he almost always has more to learn than to contribute. For him, that belief isn’t abstract, it’s personal, shaped by years of travel, work in public health and education, and a formative interaction nearly two decades ago with Archbishop Desmond Tutu in South Africa. The two met after a sermon in Cape Town, where Tutu spent hours speaking with Mike about his research on post-apartheid reconciliation. That conversation planted a seed: that forgiveness and collective healing aren’t just moral ideals, they’re practical tools for building communities that can hold disagreement, endure pain and still move forward together.  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.

Dr. Stefan Brandt is the Director of Futurium in Berlin, a hybrid museum experience and public platform dedicated to exploring the future. With a background in literature, philosophy, cultural studies — and a lifelong interest in music — Dr. Brandt has worked at the intersection of culture, science and civic life. Before leading Futurium, he held senior roles at major cultural institutions across Germany, where he championed interdisciplinary thinking and public engagement. He says it’s always been his intention to make a change, to improve the institutions he leads and, more broadly, to contribute to a better society. At Futurium, that mission continues: creating a space where people are invited to learn about the future and how they can help shape it. 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.

In this episode, we explore the lingering impact of the Cold War on Alaska, a state that stood on the frontlines of a global standoff. Through perspectives rooted in art, journalism, history, and geopolitics, we trace how Cold War-era decisions reshaped Alaska’s communities, economy, environment and sense of identity. And how it continues to influence Alaska’s security policies and relationship with the rest of the world.

Ben Kellie is an entrepreneur, a writer and someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about how to build things that matter. He grew up in Alaska, learning to fly planes with his dad. It was a hands-on education in problem-solving, resilience and staying calm under pressure. That mindset carried him through early work on rocket launches and landings at SpaceX, and later, into founding The Launch Company, a startup that developed modular, scalable launch systems for rockets. He sold it in 2021. These days, he’s working on a new venture called Applied Atomics, building compact nuclear power systems that are designed to provide energy-intensive industries with clean, reliable power. More than anything, though, he’s interested in where Alaska fits into the global future: how we move beyond boom-and-bust cycles, invest in our own talent and create businesses that are both rooted here and relevant everywhere. 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.

Jamar Hill is a coach now, but before that, he was a pro baseball player in the Mets organization. He grew up in Anchorage, where playing baseball wasn’t always easy: limited facilities, long winters and not much opportunity to play year-round. He says that in Alaska, you get about a quarter of the playing time compared to other places. But in a way, that made him love the game even more. As a kid, he followed the Alaska Baseball League, one of the best summer leagues in the country. It brought in top talent every year — future first-round draft picks — and watching those games gave him an early sense of how the baseball world worked. By the time he was 16, most of the teams he played on included at least one future Major League player. And by the end of high school, he was drafted by the Mets. He became one of their top power prospects — a lefty bat who hit right-handed pitching especially well. He went on to hit over 100 professional home runs. But beyond the stats, it was his early exposure to high-level talent, and his ability to adapt, that shaped his perspective. That perspective is still with him today — as a coach, a mentor and someone who’s all about creating opportunities for the next generation. 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.

Roman Dial is a scientist, educator and pioneering adventurer. For more than four decades, he’s charted paths through Alaska’s most remote and unforgiving landscapes — sometimes alone, sometimes with students, friends or family. He came to Fairbanks in the 1970s, a place he says was a hotbed of outdoor innovation — a kind of ground zero for reimagining what adventure could look like in Alaska. In the ‘70s, backcountry travel still looked a lot like it had for decades — heavy leather boots, wool layers, metal-frame backpacks and cumbersome skis. And then, in the 1980s, things started to look different thanks to a small community of skiers, cyclists, runners and packrafters who began to experiment with lighter gear, faster travel and more self-reliant approaches to the backcountry. They weren’t following guidebooks, they were writing the playbook as they went. Influenced by competition, camaraderie and a love for the land. And through it all, Roman was taking photos — capturing the people, places and moments that would come to define a generation of exploration. 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

Dr. Matt Haney is the Scientist-in-Charge at the Alaska Volcano Observatory, where he leads the charge to monitor and communicate the activity of Alaska’s volcanoes — some of the most closely watched in the world. He explains that there are several ways to count Alaska’s volcanoes, but one of the most striking is this: 54 of them have erupted in the last 300 years. That’s more than any other U.S. state. Most of these volcanoes are found along the Aleutian Arc, a seismically active chain that stretches from Mount Spurr — just 80 miles west of Anchorage — through Cook Inlet and out across the Alaska Peninsula and Aleutian Islands. A few outliers, like Mount Edgecumbe in Southeast and Mount Wrangell near Glennallen, add even more complexity to tracking volcanic activity across Alaska. 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.

Bathsheba Demuth is an author and historian. She grew up in Iowa, a place she describes as having an extremely cultivated landscape — shaped and managed by people at nearly every turn. Her first exposure to the North came through the writings of Jack London, books her parents read to her aloud. As a kid, London’s tales of adventure resonated with her, but as she got older she began thinking about his reflections on how economic and political systems can crush people. At 18, she made the decision to head to the Arctic. There she spent time mushing dogs in the Yukon. She says that experience was utterly transformative. It shifted her idea of what it means to be a human being — not as a lone agent of individual destiny, but as a life that is part of a broader ecology. 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.

Pulitzer Prize finalist Éowyn Ivey is the author of "The Snow Child." The book captivated readers with its blend of folklore and the Alaska wilderness. Raised in Alaska, Éowyn’s connection to the land is woven into her storytelling, creating atmospheric and emotionally resonant narratives. Before becoming a novelist, though, she worked as a journalist and then as a bookseller. Both shaped her approach to research and storytelling. As a journalist, she says she often felt constrained by the need to report just the facts, realizing that the full story often involved emotions, complexities and more nuanced truths that couldn’t always be captured in a news story. This naturally led her to fiction, where she could immerse readers in themes like isolation, survival and the mystical interplay between humans and nature. Her latest novel, "Black Woods, Blue Sky," continues her exploration of myth, survival and the untamed beauty of Alaska. 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.

Libby Riddles was the first woman to win the Iditarod. Back in 1985, she made the decision to push through a storm — a choice that would cement her place in history. While others hunkered down, she bet on her team’s strength and her own resilience, forging ahead into whiteout conditions and brutal winds. It was a bold, calculated risk, and it paid off. But for Libby, just doing the Iditarod was a big deal. She says that as long as she did her best and gave it 100 percent, she really didn’t care where the chips fell. And part of that was breaking the race down — not thinking about the entire 1,000 miles, but just getting to the next checkpoint. Manageable goals. That mindset, along with her deep connection to her dogs, helped her make history. 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.

Howard Thies is the founder of Arctic Man, a winter race that combines snowmachines, skiers and snowboarders. It takes place at Summit Lake in Paxson, Alaska and it pairs a snowmachiner and a skier or a snowmachiner and a snowboarder. It’s one of the fastest and most unique races in the world. Skiers and snowboarders start at 5,800 feet and descend to the bottom of a canyon. There they link up with their snowmachine partner, who passes them a tow rope and hauls them uphill for over two miles. Once they’re at the top, skiers and snowboarders separate from their snowmachiner and point it 1,200 feet to the finish line. The fastest competitors have reached speeds of up to 90 miles per hour. 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.”

Jason Borgstede is one-half of JB Deuce, a local snowboard and skateboard video that ran from the late-1990s to early-2000s. It was funded by Boarderline Alaska Snow and Skate shop — a retail business host Cody Liska's dad owned — and featured snowboarders and skateboarders from Alaska. Jesse Burtner was the other half of JB Deuce, and together he and Jason filmed their own video parts for it. They also produced all seven videos: Polar Bears, Dog Sleds and Igloos was the first. Then came Northern Exposure, 100%, Survival of the Tightest, The 49th Chamber, In For Life and Steezin’ For No Reason. At first, the video premieres were small — projected onto a screen outside of Boarderline in Dimond Center. But as they grew, so did the venues. Until they were selling out the 4th Avenue Theatre in downtown Anchorage.  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

The best way to describe Merrick Johnston is that she’s an athlete. Rock climbing, ice climbing, snowboarding, mountain biking, gymnastics, surfing, whitewater kayaking. You name it, she’s probably at least tried it. But professionally, she’s a skier and a mountaineer. It all started at a young age. She showed interest in the outdoors and her mom was more than happy to oblige because she loved being in the natural world too. So, Merrick learned about the outdoors from her mom. Always pushing her to go bigger, higher and faster. Together, they would do month-long trips skiing across the arctic or teaching cross-country skiing. And then when Merrick was 12, she became the youngest person to summit Denali. Her mom’s teaching style was spartan, sure, but it never overshadowed her love and compassion for her daughter.  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