Many thoughts, countless questions, Alaska. Do your harsh winters stand in stark contrast to your forgiving summers? Your landscape, shaped over millennia by earthly forces, now mirrors the terraforming of my own life, guided by your hand. How grateful I am to have learned from you, picked your berries, tilled your land—a true frontier. Mentally, I’ve been pushed to my limits here. From living on a remote salmon hatchery, where grizzlies outnumbered people, to my darkest, both literally and figuratively: winter, long and cold, with our naive goodbyes to the sun in December. But things started looking up in May.

Emerging from the unexplored and barren muskeg into this new light filled me with trepidation. Could it truly be so beautiful and, most importantly, calm? Fireweed, a native plant, a symbol of resilience, aptly named for being the first to return after wildfires or ecological upheaval, became a part of my journey.

Alaska, your cyclic nature resonates deeply with me. Just as I experienced my own wildfire, the sight of fireweed standing tall and proud was a testament to resilience. In June, the sun kept me company 24/7, never fully setting. Light flooded every facet of my life, banishing shadows to their corners. The midnight sun brought radiance to my personal circles, kindred spirits found in town and hidden in the woods.

In the summer heat and sun, I ironically met my first friend here, Autumn, a connection born of our shared Native heritage. It’s rare to find someone who understands the challenges we face, given our underrepresentation in many circles. Her being a Tlingit native, and I Anishinaabe, we bonded over our similar upbringings and values. Autumn and I would sit by the banks of the Gastineau Channel, tears in our eyes as we contemplated the land before colonization, the harmonious balance between nature and people. Nature unfolding before us brought beauty and peace, but it was also the gratitude for this land still providing for us that brought tears. We could walk in the woods and find sustenance, with over 20 different types of berries dotting the hills like a painting, and the wisdom of our plants offering medicine. Salmon ran in thick red rivers, nourishing both land and people. If you couldn’t smoke it yourself, there was always an auntie to teach you.

I chose to move here knowing that Alaska has the highest concentration of Native Americans in the USA, and finding the best one in Juneau felt like winning the lottery.

I shared with Autumn some fascinating information about devil’s club, a native plant known for its unique characteristics including thick barbs all over its stem and underside. It’s a plant you have to watch out for; encountering it is practically a rite of passage for Alaskan hikers. “You’re not a true Alaskan hiker until you’ve accidentally grabbed a hold of devil’s club,” she jokes. Despite being native to the Pacific Northwest, it’s also can be found in a small area in northern Minnesota. Coincidentally it happens to be on Ojibwe land (my people) We laughed about possible scenarios of how it got there, perhaps through ancient trade, a traveling bear, or a bird’s migration. Or maybe, we were just two Native girls sitting on the beach, crying about the beauty life could offer if we let it. 

As the seasons shifted, the snowy mountains that once felt like scary borders locking me in transformed into lush green welcoming hands to hold. You see, in Juneau, you can’t simply drive in or out due to the geographical isolation. During my bouts of depression, I used to go for long drives, just aiming to escape. However, something changed here (didn’t have a car). When the weather permitted and the wildflowers beckoned, I turned to hiking instead. 

My days of hiking were filled with hidden waterfalls, secluded coves for a refreshing swim, ice caves formed beneath glaciers to explore, intriguing fungi to identify, and berries to munch on, all while feeling the soft, sweet earth beneath my feet. As I explored sea cliffs, the hauntingly beautiful songs of whales accompanied me. Orcas gracefully hunted in the waters beneath the very mountains we climbed, and we could only look on with awe.

One final piece of my Alaska journey was rock climbing, a pursuit that unexpectedly became my ally in conquering not only the physical mountains but also the mental ones I was climbing. The inner darkness I carried into Alaska was gradually pushed back during those long climbs, done under a sun that never set. It was as if the endless daylight fueled my determination to reach new heights, both externally and internally.

In Tlingit (predominant indigenous influence here)  “thank you” is expressed as “gunalchéesh.”

Gunalchéesh, miigwetch, and thank you, Alaska.