Chloe’s love affair with Alaska. In winter. In Juneau.

In Alaska Travelgram by scott

 

The Mendenhall Towers. Photos by Chloe Anderson.

Story and photos by Chloe Anderson.

The jagged peaks of the Mendenhall Towers pierced through a layer of low-hanging clouds as I crouched by the rocky shore, trying to photograph the fluke pattern of a humpback whale diving near a group of sea lions. Dissuaded by the cold and the focal length of my lens, I headed back to the car I was borrowing.

“Honey, we could be in Kansas,” Bob Dylan drawled as I held my chilled fingers against the lukewarm air blasting from the car’s vents. I smiled as the song continued. I sure could, I think. 

I spent half of 2024 working as a naturalist photography guide in Juneau. My job, in a nutshell, was to take cruise ship passengers on hiking and whale watching tours while teaching them about photography and biology. I regularly fielded questions such as, “What elevation are we at?” on the docks and, “At what depth do the whales turn into sharks?” on the boats. I stood in amazed silence with strangers who quickly became friends as we watched humpback whales breach and bubblenet feed. 

A humpback whale takes a leap near Juneau.
Humpback whales bubble-feeding near Juneau.

When I wasn’t working, I was jumping off cliffs into the sea, summiting mountains or partying on the beach with other excitable twenty-somethings whose internal clocks were as disoriented as mine by the long hours of daylight. I didn’t sleep much. I worked a lot. I had the time of my life. 

By the end of the season, I was exhausted. I had heard the locals’ warnings of the long, dark and cold winters, and I was deeply uninterested in sticking around to see if they were actually that bad. I wanted to spend a chunk of the change I had saved up on trips to warmer, sunnier parts of the globe. Plus, I missed my dogs, family, old friends and free housing—all of which can be found in Kansas, where I was born and raised.

When my contract in Juneau ended on October 1, I hopped on the ferry, disembarked in northwestern Washington, and began a 2,600-mile-long road trip. I drove from Seattle to Santa Barbara, paused when I realized I couldn’t go any further south, then aimed my poor Subaru toward Arizona. That month, I hiked in the North Cascades, swam in Crater Lake, surfed in Santa Barbara and revisited my favorite parts of Utah. I hiked and climbed with old friends in Boulder, where I had lived for a year after graduation. Finally, as October crept closer to November, I pulled into my mom’s driveway in Kansas. 

This is…fine, was the thought that came to mind many times since I left Juneau. Everywhere I went and everything I saw were special in their own way, but I was underwhelmed. 

John Muir once famously wrote, “You should never go to Alaska as a young (wo)man, because you will never be satisfied with any other place as long as you live.” And goddamn, was he right. 

The northern lights flicker over Mendenhall Glacier near Juneau.

I went back to Juneau in late December for a dear friend’s wedding. Between the bachelorette party, rehearsal dinner, wedding and reception, I ice skated on Mendenhall lake, went roadside whale watching and had slow mornings over coffee and conversation with the few friends who had stayed in town despite locals’ warnings of the bitter cold and endless darkness. 

Juneau is bear country.

As I flew back to Wichita—which, as it turns out, gets far colder than Juneau does during the winter months—the aurora began dancing outside of the plane’s window. I pressed my forehead against the glass as I watched green mix with yellow, and I knew. 

In 2024, I visited fourteen states, five of which I had never been to before. I drove through the entirety of western Canada and flew or ferried over thousands of miles of terrain and ocean. And it was all…fine. 

Except for Alaska. 

I’m 23, and I’ve spent most of my life living out of boxes. My parents both jumped from one year-long lease to the next after they got divorced, and my preadolescent psyche took a page out of their book when I moved out. After graduating from high school, I bought a Subaru and lived in it while I explored the Western U.S. Throughout college, I bounced from one crappy dorm to the next, not really minding the mold spores or leaky pipes because the money I saved on rent could be spent on spring, summer and fall break climbing trips. 

Stagnancy has always scared me more than the unknown. The world has always felt too big to settle down. Nowhere I’ve been has made me want to stay through the winter and slow down long enough to cherish the stillness.

Except for Alaska. 

Ever since I left, I’ve been counting down the days until I return. I dream about Alaska, I browse jobs in Alaska, I periodically check the Alaska Highway’s conditions,  just in case. I think about Alaska before I fall asleep. I’m a woman possessed. I miss it. The many international destinations on my bucket list have moved to the backburner, replaced by things I want to do and see in Alaska. It’s the only place I want to be. 

For the next few months, I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing. I’ll work just enough to afford a quick ski trip or a weekend away with friends. I’ll probably continue to be fairly underwhelmed, because I spent seven months being spoiled rotten by the 49th state. 

I’ve never felt like I left part of my soul somewhere. Nowhere has taken root in my heart and mind and made me want to stick around long enough to see the seasons change. 

Except for Alaska.

The mist hugs the mountains near Juneau, Alaska.

Chloe Anderson is a naturalist, a photographer, a climbing enthusiast and a freelance journalist. Learn more about her work at her website. Currently she is based in Kansas, but I suppose that could change.

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