My stay in Anchorage, Alaska has been filled to the metaphorical brim with surprises, revelations, and observations to ponder. Perhaps nothing has quite captured all this, and particularly the last, as an ongoing dialogue on climate. While admittedly there are limitations to the inferences and conclusions that will be a part of this post, what is abundantly clear is that the collective narrative on climate change here in Alaska is prescient, vibrant, and on public display. Climate change is not some taboo topic to hide away in the recesses of thoughts and conversations exploring life here now and in the future.
I acknowledge that such a claim goes against the established external reputation of Alaska as the "wild and lonesome, deeply conservative to a stereotypical fault, fend for yourself and conquer the last frontier" type of place, steeped in notions preconceived and at times misplaced. I believe that Alaskans deserve their proper credit. What perhaps is unclear to others - looking at you everyone back home in southern California - is that residents here, merely hours from the Arctic Circle, live very much in rhythm with certain aspects of the natural world, such as the seasons, marked by solstices and equinoxes. I am not contending that the people of this great state are perfect environmental stewards who live in idealistic harmony with the land. In fact, I shall work to deconstruct that notion as part of a subsequent post.
Alaskans live closer to nature in a sense because they have to, if nothing else. Some of it is fleshed out in the extremes. The mountains are surveyed vigilantly in the Fall for that fateful "termination dust" harkening the end of Summer, the changing leaves bleeding into the eerie darkness brought on by the endless Winter - a wonderland to some, the toughest of times for others. They know that after the Winter solstice approximately 6 minutes or so are added to the day as the landscape hurdles towards the Spring equinox and warmer and brighter days. They know it's been a year marked by earlies: an early snowmelt, an early Spring, an early - and at first dry - Summer, and early Fall. Knowing this means turning one's attention towards the future. Is this the new normal? What will "The Last Frontier" be when the Polar Bears are gone from the ice sheets of the far North, when the glaciers have disappeared in Kenai, when the temperate rainforests of the Alexander Archipelago are up in flames because of warmer and drier conditions?
I've come to be reminded of observations from my research in the Morongo Basin, nestled within California's mighty Mojave Desert. They know that in the Summer it doesn't cool down at night as much as it used to in decades past, that instead of a low of 72 degrees Fahrenheit, 77 is what everyone - and everything - must now get accustomed to. They know that record breaking monsoons mere months after having closed trails in Joshua Tree National Park to allow Bighorn Sheep the opportunity to access rare water sources in the midst of a record breaking drought hallmarked by unusual, enduring intensity, are harbingers of a new natural order and not just a blip on the radar.
Whether wandering downtown Anchorage or enjoying a hike in one of Alaska's majestic National Parks, it is virtually impossible to ignore the broader climate conversation. Downtown murals depict daunting dawning realities of strikingly chaotic extremes. Interpretive signs at trailheads provide pointed, purposeful evidence of changes in the land at a hastened, frenetic, hold-on-to-your-hats pace. Whether or not you, the reader, believe humans are to blame, or are otherwise responsible for climatic instability in short order, the evidence of change occurring in general - numerical, practical, tangible, intuitive - is irrefutable and clear. The Great Debate can therefore continue on with respect to how to address a challenge of this magnitude, together. For as one of the murals above communicates to passersby, "it will take us all to stop this fall".
Here I'd like to take special note of the "Warming Stripes of Anchorage" installation on behalf of the Anchorage Museum, installed at the intersection of 6th avenue and D street. According to anchoragemuseum.org, the stripes "...illustrate the average annual Anchorage temperatures from 1919 to 2019'....'blue shades represent cooler years and red, warmer years". I'm interpreting that this means cooler and warmer than the climatic (at least 30 years of data) average. While there are inherent limitations in terms of detail, the strength of this installation is its ability to readily visualize long term climate data and a broader warming trend in a way that is accessible to virtually any passersby. And by placing it in the heart of the city and in a relatively high-traffic location, it is accessible in more ways than one. If we are to have any hope at accomplishing climate related goals, easy to understand educational tools that are also publicly available in this fashion are essential. A fantastic play by the Anchorage Museum to bring dialogue on climate change to the public sphere in Alaska's largest population center, frequented by native Alaskans, transplants, and visitors from all over the globe alike.
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