Chatter Marks

Charles Stankievech is an artist, a writer, and an academic. He teaches at the University of Toronto, and his art takes him into some of the most remote landscapes on earth. Places like CFS Alert, the northernmost permanently inhabited place in the world. He describes the Arctic as occupying two parallel spaces in our cultural imagination: one built on myth and fantasy, and another grounded in harsh, physical reality. He says that most people will never set foot there, which means our understanding of it comes from ideas rooted in medieval tales of magnetic mountains, science-fiction fortresses carved out of ice, or the general sense that it’s a blank, unreachable expanse. But beneath that fantasy is a real landscape shaped by nature and human activity.  One of Charles’ early Arctic projects was about the Distant Early Warning Line, a network of Cold War radar stations built across the Arctic to detect incoming Soviet bombers. He began thinking about how the remnants of that global conflict were already entangled with what he called an emerging “Warm War,” where rising temperatures and melting sea ice would turn buffer zones into contested shipping routes and resource frontiers.  Sound is one of his primary tools for understanding these places. He says that what you hear often tells a different story than what you see, and so his work uses sound to help people experience aspects of a place that visuals alone can’t capture. That instinct connects back to his own life — long days spent alone in the Rockies with his dog, camping, hiking, and snowboarding in the backcountry. Those solitary experiences were a refuge, a place where existential questions emerged naturally. It’s where he learned that when you confront the world on your own terms, you gain a clearer understanding of yourself and the people around you.

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.

Alev Kelter is a rugby Olympian. 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.

Ben Weissenbach is 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.

Luc Mehl is 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.