I seek to honor and respect the connection of the Tlingit People to their ancestral and current homeland, Lingít Aani (Juneau), as they have stewarded the land and sea of that region since time immemorial. I am grateful and indebted to them and the many Alaska Native people and Tribes who deserve their right to self-determination. I recognize that this land acknowledgment is a small initial step towards a relationship of awareness, respect, connection, action, reciprocity, and responsibility.

I walked down the trail, sunbeams cascading through the forest canopy and illuminating the elderberries and ferns surrounding me on either side. Ahead, a solo mountain biker slowly made his way towards me, bobbing up and down on the hillside of Auke Lake, enjoying the warm weather after an uncommonly gloomy summer in Southeast Alaska. To my right, someone was perched in solitude on a partially submerged log, contemplating the shimmer of light on the water with a steaming cup of tea in hand. Later, as I passed three stashed bikes and their owners—teenage boys summoning the courage to use a rope swing and arguing about the proper way to fling oneself into the cold water—a thought that had been growing in the back of my mind finally and firmly settled, like a stream coming to rest in a pool at the foot of a mountain. “I get why people live here.”

I had read a lot about Alaska—my thesis research is focused on the burgeoning kelp mariculture industry there—but I had never visited before, and this was the final evening of my trip. I should note that mariculture in Alaska looks somewhat different than in other states since finfish farming is illegal in Alaska; most farmers grow kelp and/or oysters, but other species like abalone and clams are grown as well. My advisor, Dr. Anne Beaudreau, and I spent a week conducting interviews with people participating in the industry including farmers, researchers, government agencies, and NGO staff.

Later, as I passed three stashed bikes and their owners—teenage boys summoning the courage to use a rope swing and arguing about the proper way to fling oneself into the cold water—a thought that had been growing in the back of my mind finally and firmly settled, like a stream coming to rest in a pool at the foot of a mountain. “I get why people live here.” 

One thing we learned quickly was that nearly everyone we talked to, whether in a formal interview or out for a beer, had a strong opinion on mariculture, even if they weren’t actively working in the space. In our free time, discussions with friends and colleagues of Anne’s often turned to and stayed on mariculture when they inquired what we were researching. Given that mariculture is still a small industry finding its footing in Alaska, I was genuinely surprised by the level of knowledge and awareness that most people had, as well as the breadth of their opinions. This wasn’t a passing thought to nearly anyone, whether they were involved or not—it had an immediacy that caught me off guard. 

On one hand, I understood the widespread interest in mariculture. By some accounts, Alaska fisheries are considered to be exceptionally well-managed; however, there are plenty of reasonable concerns to have about the fishing industry and its stability. Whether it is worrying about fish populations or public participation and access, much research has been done on how to improve the management of Alaskan fisheries, often initiated by the agencies responsible for managing the state’s natural resources who acknowledge room for improvement. Outside of research the recent petition to list Gulf of Alaska Chinook salmon as endangered or threatened under the Endangered Species Act, the collapse of the snow crab population in the Bering Sea, and ongoing debates about the trawl industry and its impact on other fisheries have become emblematic of a fisheries environment that feels unavoidably political, complex, and increasingly defined by a sense of urgency and concern.

In that context, and considering the high degree of overlap between mariculture and fishery participation in Alaska, it makes sense that there’s palpable excitement for the “arrival” of mariculture, as well as a sense of holding one’s breath to see if the industry will live up to the hype. It’s a potentially promising and reliable source of income for fishers who are seeking to diversify their livelihoods. It has a fair number of “feel good” elements that have been highlighted in press coverage, such as being a low-input and regenerative industry, although the scale and type of ecological benefits that kelp farming can provide are frequently debated topics by researchers. Mariculture in Alaska also generally manages to avoid some of the controversies seen elsewhere (e.g. Washington) related to finfish farming and conflicts with residential or recreational use.

From my background reading and plenty of prior conversations before our trip, it was clear that the seaweed farming industry in particular is still in its infancy compared to industries like commercial fishing. Nearly every interaction during our trip confirmed that. Despite the promise of the industry, kelp farming isn’t very profitable at the moment due to major roadblocks around processing, transportation, and product development. In addition, conversations abound about the benefits and potential consequences of out-of-state investors, and the nature of partnerships with industrial-scale processors who have their own complex history in the state. Thankfully, research and development grants at the state and federal levels have provided some financial relief to those who are leading the industry forward, though concerns about access, equity, and limitations with those funds persist.

Nearly every conversation regarding kelp farming gave me a feeling of emotional whiplash—many people’s stories with mariculture were grounded in roots of community, personal resilience, and a hopeful & optimistic outlook that was deeply caring for the livelihoods of Alaskans. But, some stories contained a great deal of skepticism, concern, and uncertainty. In a way, this duality between optimism and uncertainty was something I experienced frequently during my trip to Alaska.

“Nearly every consideration regarding kelp farming gave me a feeling of emotional whiplash—many people’s stories with mariculture were grounded in roots of community, personal resilience, and a hopeful & optimistic outlook that was deeply caring for the livelihoods of Alaskans. But, some stories contained a great deal of skepticism, concern, and uncertainty.” 

During a walk alongside the Eagle River with Anne and her family, we saw dozens of chum salmon forming nests for their eggs (small depressions called redds) and whipping their bodies through the turbid glacial water, stirring up gravel to cover and oxygenate the embryos. Being from Minnesota and relatively new to fisheries work, this was my first time seeing salmon in the wild and I was amazed. As I took a video of this simultaneously tragic and miraculous moment in an anadromous creature’s life, my amazement turned towards a feeling of anxious uncertainty as we began to discuss the politics and various perspectives about salmon hatcheries in Alaska.

I started to wonder—how am I supposed to feel about all of this? What’s the right answer? I got the sense that there are no easy answers when it comes to managing natural resources in Alaska because people’s lives are so closely intertwined with and dependent upon the availability of those resources. When it comes to mariculture and fisheries, people hold a wide-ranging and complex set of beliefs about the best way to manage them.

Another lesson, in contrast, was that I saw no less than four massive cruise ships parked in the Gastineau Channel every day. This was a sight that I was somewhat familiar with after living in Maine for three years, a state literally named “Vacationland” in honor of the surge of New Englanders that spend summers there. I was quickly indoctrinated by Mainers into being grumpy about out-of-towners and proudly refused to use the “Vacationland” license plate, shelling out an extra $25 for one with a loon on it instead. I thought about the give-and-take relationship of tourism, how some people declare it a scourge, some depend upon it, and some take advantage of it.

Now let’s return to the end of my trip, once I had passed the mountain biker, and the teen boys, and the solitary thinker. I paused my trail walk halfway around Auke Lake, parked myself on the edge of the water, and stared outwards, soaking it all in. The squadron of helicopters whirring in the distance, ferrying cruise ship passengers towards breathtaking views. Mendenhall Glacier looming overhead, impossibly large and ancient and still. The social butterflies clad in Patagonia trekking past me on the trail. The quiet man wearing Xtratuf boots and briskly walking with his dog. I thought about the people who see hope in mariculture, a new industry full of potential, and one that feels like its success only depends upon the level of effort put in.

I started to understand why people have strong and knowledgeable opinions about industries that are just starting, about salmon being hatchery or wild-origin, and about cruise ships and the passengers they carry—I felt the intimacy, respect, and dependency upon nature that I imagined was likely consistent throughout the state. I took a deep breath in, one last look around, and I started to go over my own complicated opinions and feelings about these topics as I walked back to the trailhead, reluctant to leave Alaska.