In Alaska, mother nature rules the day. A rough and edgy environment where people and all the related constructs live in the shadows of ancient volcanoes, economic uncertainties, remoteness, exploitation, and the collision of old ways and new ideas. And in spite of what the clock may tell you, the passing of time is measured differently here. Geologically. Glacially. Seasonally. Length of daylight. Movement of tides. Salmon runs. Caribou migrations. Times of harvest. Here you can still catch a glimpse and imagine what frontier life is and was. A place where you can see people living with and as part of the environment. Places where time and nature slowly erase the tracks of those who have come and gone, and where faceless others work to control the uncontrollable.
Alaska is tightly connected to its natural resources. Mineral extraction, fossil fuels, timber harvest, commercial and sport fishing, hunting, trapping, subsistence harvest, camping, sightseeing and tourism, and as I cruise the backcountry, sometimes gawking at things I don’t always fully understand, I sometimes feel like an interloper. But even as an outsider, I feel an affinity and responsibility to this place.
Renowned conservationist Aldo Leopold wrote, "One of the penalties of an ecological education is that one lives alone in a world of wounds. Much of the damage inflicted on land is quite invisible to laymen.”
And I might add, likely invisible to the passing tourist who arrives mostly to use and consume in some way, while leaving behind dollars, traces, and tracks.
Perhaps it’s best if we don’t look too hard. Ignorance is bliss. Accept things as they are and hope everything is okay. Perhaps this is why many people cover their ears and eyes when it comes to climate change, threatened and endangered species, plastic pollution, forever chemicals, etc. How can you enjoy your vacation when you’re reminded that you, me, we at some level or another are a problem? Yet the wadded toilet paper and more strewn in the brush on public land along the Kenai River serves as a metaphor I cannot ignore.
And when the captain of our tour boat out of Seward maneuvered close to a glacier, the distance the ice had retreated since my previous visit was stunning and I wondered how long it would take before there would be no glacier to witness. Alaska's glaciers are among the fastest melting glaciers on the planet. The captain described what we could all see and I waited for some mention of climate change which never came. A lost opportunity to interpret an unnatural event.
And when I saw a humpback whale and multiple orcas I was thrilled but my feelings changed a bit as I watched a half-dozen other boats converge from different directions, flocking to see these magnificent creatures as boat pilots radioed sightings to one another. A couple boats followed the orcas unnecessarily close as our pilot wondered why the whales seemed to be dispersing strangely, as he smartly backed away from the congestion.
And I was surprised to learn the beach at Ninilchick was closed to clamming in 2015. On our first trip to the area 25 years ago we timed our visit with a minus tide so we could take advantage of the razor clam harvest; what great fun and delectable eating. Since then, the harvestable adult clam population on this beach has crashed. A number of factors played a role in the crash and closure, including a 2010 winter storm which churned the beach, exposing and killing clams; however, it’s not a great leap to conclude unsustainable harvest played a significant role.
And when I purchased a permit to fish Kenai River salmon, I was told the legendary Kenai River king salmon was a no-go. A once revered fishery has now become relegated to one remembered. Kenai River king salmon are now designated a fishery of concern. I wondered what happened, and I learned the issue was bigger and more complicated than I could possibly imagine. Kings have been in trouble for some time, and the Kenai run has been declining for more than a decade. The pressure on the salmon fishery in general is intense, from the drift nets of Cook Inlet, the set-netters fishing the beaches, personal use dip-netters, and sportfishermen lining miles of the Kenai River. Add to the list the impact of bycatch (fish caught accidently by commercial harvesters), and you end up with a story where the least impactful people with the most to lose, are no longer allowed to keep a single king salmon of any size. For many, this restriction touches their essence of being and identity. A loss of tradition and diminishment of culture. Now, accusations of mismanagement, ignoring science, favoring commercial harvest of sockeye over kings dominate the discussion. A sad outcome in the times of modern conservation.
And through my membership with a conservation group, I have opposed the controversial Pebble Mine, a project in the Bristol Bay watershed, a place where many millions of salmon spawn and are harvested, a salmon fishery of global significance. I tend to feel the fishery should be given priority over state tax revenue and a small number of mostly temporary jobs. I’m sure there are Alaskans who feel differently, although survey numbers suggest I’m on the right side of public opinion and from a conservation standpoint, a view becoming more and more idealistic for many, I hope to be on the right side of history when all is said and done.
And during a ferry ride across Prince William Sound I thought about the day in 1989 when 10 million gallons of crude oil spewed from the tanker ship Exxon Valdez. The impact of this event to the environment and the people living in the area was immense. The most powerful binoculars and telephoto lens are incapable of finding the scars, largely unseen and unknown to the casual visitor, yet after 35 years the scars remain. I squinted and looked but couldn’t see them, but I know they are there, and when I watched people clean fish harbor-side in Valdez, I tried to imagine the terrible chaos felt by locals during those frantic days, weeks, and months following the spill.
And as we departed our last stop on our trip, I looked out to see a cruise ship had filled space in the Seward harbor, arriving in the night with 3,000 or so passengers. And I wondered, what will they see, what will they consume, and what will they leave behind. And I wonder, at what point have we taken too much and exceeded nature's ability to heal.
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