Kikkan Randall is a five-time Olympian and an icon of U.S. cross-country skiing. But before all the medals and podiums, she was a high schooler with dyed hair, face paint, and a nickname that captured her energy: “Kikkanimal.” Her teammates gave it to her as a nod to the edge, spirit, and unity she brought to the team. Cross-country skiers understand that it’s a sport that rewards time spent—refining muscle memory, living in a zone of discomfort, and building toward the kind of performance that only shows up after years of hard work. Raised in a family that loved the outdoors, Kikkan found herself drawn to this community of grounded, like-minded people. And as her competitive fire grew, so did her sense of camaraderie—training alongside rivals, and becoming genuine friends with competitors from places like Finland.

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.

In this one, Cody talks to Alev Kelter. She grew up in Eagle River, Alaska, playing varsity boys' hockey because there wasn’t a girls’ team. That drive to compete at the highest level has carried her through a career that spans multiple sports. She played soccer and hockey at the University of Wisconsin, and was part of U.S. national team programs in both sports—earning spots on the U.S. hockey national teams and joining the national player pool for soccer. After just missing a spot on the U.S. Olympic hockey team in 2014, she pivoted to rugby. She’d never played the game before, but because she was surrounded by a supportive coach and teammates who believed in her and helped her learn, rugby became the next chapter in her story. Now, nearly a decade later, she’s helped lead Team USA to its first-ever Olympic medal in women’s rugby at the 2024 Paris Games.

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.

In this one, Cody talks to Ben Weissenbach. He’s 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.

In this one, Cody talks to Luc Mehl. He’s 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.

In this one, Cody talks to author and multi-disciplinary artist Tessa Hulls. 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.

In this one, Cody talks with Eric Heil. He’s an educator and a legendary Arctic Man competitor. Alongside his longtime snowmachine partner, Len Story, Eric won five times. He started competing in Arctic Man in 1990 at the age of 30, and from the beginning, he immersed himself in the event — not just as an athlete, but as part of the crew. He helped with course safety and setting up markers at First Aid, the critical release point where the skier detaches from the snowmachine at the top of the uphill tow. He was the first skier to break the five-minute barrier, clocking in at exactly four minutes — an Arctic Man record at the time. It would take 30 years before anyone broke four minutes, something he attributes to better snow conditions, evolving course design, improved equipment and a rising level of competition. 

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.

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.

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.