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

Ever since Jonathan Kreiss-Tomkins was a kid he’s been interested in politics and sports. Electoral politics and baseball, to be specific. But when it came to politics, he was a prodigy. He could recite groups of politicians — the 50 state attorneys general and all 100 U.S. senators, for example. He was interviewed on NPR at 14, and at 23 he dropped out of Yale, moved back home to Sitka and ran as a Democratic candidate for the state House of Representatives. He would go on to represent Sitka and 21 other rural Southeast Alaska communities in the Alaska House of Representatives, until leaving politics in 2022. His self-proclaimed fanaticism toward sports is what drew him to politics. Like sports, politics is statistical, numeric, and there are winners and there are losers. But with politics, unlike sports, the stakes are higher. They shape the world we live in. 

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.

Monica Shah is the Deputy Director of Collections and Conservation at the Anchorage Museum. She’s interested in the things that we surround ourselves with, the things that bring us comfort, familiarity and memories. Manifestations of culture and identity. These materials are important to us because they embody our stories. In areas affected by war, for example, we see people rallying behind architecture, art and religious structures. These things are targeted because by destroying them you dehumanize the people they belong to and subjugate them. The opposite is also true, that by creating these materials people are reinforcing their connections with each other and with their community. These concepts — creation, destruction and subjugation — weigh heavily on Monica in the work she does at the Museum.    

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.

Erin Marbarger is the Senior Education Director and Director of Climate and Sustainability at the Anchorage Museum. And for the last six years Erin, Museum staff and schools and communities have been collecting soundscapes from around Alaska. Anchorage at first and then other locations like Nenana, Nuiqsut, Portage, Seldovia, Sitka and Soldotna. They recorded sounds from rivers to traffic. Everything that punctuates an otherwise quiet environment because much can be learned from these sounds — weather patterns, animal behavior, human activity. It all shapes the world we live in, both natural and manmade. 

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.

Jonny Hayes is the the Chief Design Officer at the Anchorage Museum. But before he was at the Museum, he worked in architecture firms where he preferred to spend his time on projects that improved peoples’ lives. Like playground design and transportation. He enjoyed what he was doing there, but the more he learned about the Museum, the more he appreciated it as a community learning space, a place of knowledge where people came to learn. And then he realized how much the local community could benefit from the knowledge that comes from the archives and the artists and the community members that the Museum works with. He believed then, as he does now, that by sharing more voices visitors get a better sense of who we are as Alaskans. 

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.

For over 50 years, Mr. Whitekeys has been entertaining Alaska with his music, his shows and his books. He started playing music in Anchorage in the 1970s at Chilkoot Charlie’s. In those days, the bars didn’t close until 5 am. So, a band could play for as long as 7 ½ hours — from 9 pm to 4:30 am. Keys says that for a musician it wasn’t about the  entertainment, it was an endurance contest. From those years spent playing at Koots, he learned how to read an audience, to understand what entertains them. Then in 1980, he opened The Fly By Night Club. It featured long-running shows that parodied Alaska like “The Whale Fat Follies” and “Christmas In Spenard.” They had original songs, costumes, props, sets and slideshows. You could even get a meal of Spam there. The goal was to provide Anchorage with a cheap laugh, some infectious music and a good time.

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. 

Lael Wilcox is an ultra-endurance cyclist and racer, and she recently set a women’s Guinness World Record for fastest time cycling around the world. The trip was 18,000 miles long and it took her 108 days, 12 hours and 12 minutes to complete. She averaged 166 miles a day. And with the help of some friends, she planned her own route. She wanted it to include the kind of riding she likes to do, which is a lot of climbing in the mountains. It’s slower and it’s harder, but it’s the riding that inspires her. Her route was intense, rewarding and challenging. She was especially grateful for finishing without any injuries. Considering how much road Lael covered, staying safe around vehicles was among her top priorities because regardless of what happens, her main goals are to always stay safe and to finish regardless of her standing. 

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.

Mike Livingston specializes in the cultural heritage of the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands. His background makes him uniquely qualified for this position. He grew up in Cold Bay, Alaska, located on the Aleutians, and his family homesteaded where Trout Creek flows into Cold Bay. He says they didn’t have much money, so they lived a subsistence lifestyle and built their home using remnants left on the island from World War II.  

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.

Kristen Faulkner is a professional cyclist and she recently won gold in two events at the 2024 Paris Olympics, women's individual road race and women's track cycling team pursuit. It was a dream come true. Ever since she was a kid — growing up in Homer, Alaska — she wanted to compete in the Olympics. As a young girl, she’d watch it on TV and it was the only time she saw women competing in professional sports. But it takes more than just a dream and a positive attitude to make it to the level that Kristen’s at now. She says there’s a process: You have to be humble and analytical and constantly learning. You also have to be willing to take risks. 

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

Paddy Sullivan is an ecologist, and every year he travels to the Brooks Range in northern Alaska to collect snowpack samples. The area he visits is remote and often inaccessible. The Salmon River, for example, is a place where bush planes rarely land. They’ll land outside of the watershed and then people walk in. Paddy’s been going here for 20 years now, and in that time he and Roman Dial — an adventurer and fellow scientist — have formed a hypothesis about why the area is changing so much: The retreat of sea ice fuels increasing snowfall and nearby landmasses, protects seedlings and improves soil nutrient availability. And all of this allows for shrubs to proliferate and trees to advance into the tundra. It’s called the Greening of the Arctic and it’s changing the land; It’s also changing how people and wildlife use the land.

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.