In January 2020 I had just quit my job as a project manager for an online digital media publication. I sat at my dining room table hunched over my laptop; my headphones situated over my ears with the volume turned up high. As I finished working out route logistics for a new climbing objective in Alaska, a heavy dose of clarity surged through me with the recognition of my newfound freedom.
I had been drawn to the alpine mecca of Alaska ever since the day I first stepped onto the Kahiltna Glacier two years prior. I spiraled into an obsession with the sport of alpinism, dedicating a large portion of my life to it. What I didn’t realize was that I was simultaneously nurturing a deeper affection for the landscape.
I had been deep in thought but was thrown from this trance when my phone started to vibrate. The name Benjamin Lieber slowly transitioned across the screen. Ben is a good friend and main climbing partner of mine. Originally from New Hampshire, he now lives in Anchorage where he spends his time running from mountainside to mountainside. At the time I was 3,000 miles away in Minneapolis, but we shared the same devotion to being suspended cliffside by narrow threads of nylon and oxidizing iron.
I swiped to answer and heard a classic, yet always earnest, “What up, man?”
“Not much. Working out travel logistics for our spring objectives,” I responded.
“I love to hear it! What do you have cooking for us?” he asked.
I accepted the invitation, and jumped into a one-sided discussion about equipment, flight tactics, and logistics. At this point I was still three months out from joining him in Alaska, but I was inspired and ambitious. I walked through my notes for some time before Ben hinted that he had another idea he wanted to run by me. The tone shifted and the dialogue transitioned away from climbing. It was a concept for something outside the realm of climbing (although climbing and exploration were inherent to it). Several times before, we had discussed that we wanted to build something beyond our climbing partnership, something real and tangible we could share with the greater outdoor community. When he mentioned the concept of creating an organization that would promote the topics of land and people in Alaska, I was immediately drawn in. Although we didn’t leave that conversation with any specific conclusion, we agreed to remain steadfast in collaborating on the idea. I hold a deep gratitude for the fact that our topic of conversation that day changed.
Fast forward to today and cumulatively Ben and I have made over 20 expeditions into the greater mountains of Alaska. Many of these have been with each other. By way of skis, crampons, and ice tools we have been awarded a perspective of the land that many will never have. We’ve seen the raw power of the mountains in witnessing bus-sized rock falls, savage avalanches, herds of a thousand moose traveling through the foothills, and impenetrable cold and near hypothermic states. We’ve lost $1,000 sleeping bags to anomaly wind events, skied miles across glaciers in white-out conditions, and have slept on our fair share of superficial snow ridges. We’ve opened new routes, shared summits, and screamed to the heavens with joy. Other times we climbed high only to stop mid-swing and rappel into a dark void, leaving the mountains in humble spirit. We realize our fortune and privilege.
We’ve forged another family beyond that which we were born into. This new genus consists of homesteaders, lodge owners, bush plane pilots, carpenters, housekeepers, and of course, additional climbers. In Alaska, these labels often overlap. Our good friend Travis McAlpine encompasses this perfectly. He built his own home, is a professional chef, tends a garden (from which he uses ingredients for his food truck business), and is a talented climber and snowboarder. I don’t think he has a license to fly a plane, but I’d hand him the reins if we were dropping from the sky with an unconscious pilot. He’s a great person with a big heart. Here there are thousands of people just like this. That’s what makes this place so beautiful; it’s what makes the people so special.
Always coexisting with these adventures was our original idea, and from these experiences Alaska Wilderness Project was born. The theme became clear, and we turned it into a non-profit. We wanted to pay homage to the authenticity of the people, the rawness of the landscape, and the curiosity inspired through wildlife that had made our experiences to this point so profound. We wanted to build a platform that highlighted the state’s cumulative heritage and history, and to empower others to explore how they could interact with it.
What started as pure excitement to explore and push ourselves in these environments eventually bled into a deeper connection for our surroundings. Like an unattended wound we became infected with a deep sense of wonder about the land and its people. We had wanted to climb, but now we wanted to understand more about the tundra we flew over, the glaciers we skied across, that which wept from these glaciers, and the people who lived between it all. More importantly, we wanted to curate a platform that would educate others on these topics.
At one point in this journey Ben and I found ourselves driving to an obscure lodge tucked away on the eastern edge of the Alaska Range. The Lodge at Black Rapids would quickly become a home away from home; Annie Hopper, the owner, would become a second mother. From the lodge’s dirt airstrip, we launched expedition after expedition into the surrounding areas. Our friend and second-generation bush plane pilot Jesse Cummings became a consistent and invaluable partner. We washed dishes and worked landscaping jobs to pay our way. Locals became family, and their essence the backbone of what we were building.
One friend in particular, Ray DeWilde, taught me about the land in a way no text ever could. He offered stories of growing up in Alaska’s Interior, shared about habits of resident wildlife, and explained how the landscape is shifting due to climate change. As I continued to foster relationships with those around me, what I felt for them, and the landscape evolved from something surface level into genuine love.
In its short lifespan Alaska Wilderness Project has gone through numerous evolutions, each time inching closer to what we originally set out to build. Our hope is that it becomes a leading platform to discuss the interaction of people and space, and a place where others can come not only to learn about these topics, but to find and become inspired by their own vision and apply that to the world around them.
I stepped out the steel door of a Cessna 185 bush plane for the first time when I was 22 years old. I had little understanding of what it meant to be an alpine climber, let alone a steward of the land. That first trip I spent three weeks in a landscape so new and engaging to me that each morning I felt the onset of adrenaline simply through unzipping the front door of our double-wall tent. During that time, we climbed mountain faces steeped with ice and traversed rock ridges to unknown corners. Unconsciously I was being consumed by the terrain. I was setting the stage for a career path I didn’t know existed at the time and kindling a passion for storytelling and conservation. My intention with this non-profit and through personal efforts in the mountains is to inspire others to take a similar leap of faith (whether in climbing or otherwise) and to ignite in them a drive to pursue something bigger than themselves.
This coming year I have a handful of personal projects aimed at doing just that. I’ll be spending time in Alaska with our non-profit team, traveling to South America, and working on climbing projects both abroad and internationally. I hope to continue adding to the greater outdoor community, and it’s certain that my camera and pack will be by my side the entire way.
At its onset, I worked with a handful of brands to bring Alaska Wilderness Project to life. One of these partners was f-stop, and after a single phone call I knew they would play an integral role in this project and all my work moving forward. I’d like to thank Lena, Victor, and the rest of the f-stop team for their continued support.
– Alex Joseph
