In 2012, an 85-year-old scientist and his son-in-law pulled a cylinder of muck from a faraway island. They carried it home like a newborn baby, froze it, and mailed it to a researcher across the country.
Early in his career, on a wet, windy, foggy night, Guy Tytgat checked into the loneliest hotel in the Aleutians. His room was four feet wide and five feet tall, made of fiberglass, and perched on the lip of a volcanic crater.
Having studied killer whales during her undergraduate work in British Columbia, Stephanie Hayes knew they were witnessing something special.
Until recently, scientists did not know salmon swam up some of these waterways, nor that grizzlies were fattening up on them before entering hibernation.
Pacific banana slugs live on the floor of coastal rain forests all the way south to California. Down there, where frosts are rare as 90 degree days here, the slugs grow long as pencils.
Late in the evening of July 21, State Seismologist Michael West heard a text alarm. His phone informed him of a large earthquake beneath the ocean, just south of the Alaska Peninsula, about 60 miles southeast of the village of Sand Point. His first thought was that this—the biggest earthquake on the planet so far in 2020—would cause a devastating tsunami. His second thought was that a longstanding earthquake mystery may have just been solved.
Twenty-thousand years ago, at the height of the last ice age, Alaska was connected to Siberia in a wide, grassy plain, the home of horses and bison.
A scientist recently wondered which animal travels farthest across the landscape in one year. In doing his research, he found a few Alaska creatures near the top of the list.
Rain is, after all, the free distribution of a substance more valuable than gold.
Blackpoll warblers are a bird you would expect to hear in South Fairbanks. But this one grabbed one’s attention.