Editor's note: This interview was conducted in Fairbanks, Alaska on June 15, 2025, nine days before the National Weather Service issued the state's first-ever heat advisory. Our subject, who requested we use only their nickname, has lived in Alaska their entire life. As the conversation progressed, something unusual happened with the room's climate control that neither party can fully explain.
You've lived in Alaska for 47 years. What was June usually like?
Alexi: Cold enough that tourists complained. Perfect. I loved watching them show up in July with their little fleece jackets, thinking that was enough, and then they'd be shivering at the salmon bake, asking to sit closer to the fire. That was Alaska. That was us.
[Alexi is wearing shorts and a tank top. They're sweating. I'm comfortable in my light jacket.]
Now? Now it's... look, I'm not saying it's hot. Alaska doesn't do hot. We're constitutionally opposed to hot. It's just unusually warm. Temporarily. This is temporary.
The National Weather Service is about to issue a heat advisory. The first one ever for Alaska.
Alexi: That's like issuing a blizzard warning for Miami. Heat advisory? In Alaska? We're Alaska. Our whole thing is being cold. It's our brand. It's our personality. You can't just suddenly not be cold. That's not how identity works.
[I remove my jacket. It's getting warm in here.]
But the temperature hit 86 degrees last week.
Alexi: Eighty-six is not hot! Eighty-six is... okay, yes, technically that's warm by some standards, but context matters. I've worn shorts in negative twenty. I've gone ice fishing in March. I once told a guy from Phoenix that 40 degrees was "t-shirt weather" and I meant it. You don't just stop being that person.
[Alexi wipes their forehead. I notice I'm getting goosebumps.]
Being cold isn't just weather. It's an identity. It's how you know who you are. Every time someone from Outside complained about the cold, I'd think, "Yeah, this isn't for you. This is for us. This is what makes us special." And now...
[They trail off, staring at their hands like they're betraying them by sweating.]
There were 150 wildfires in late June. Lightning strikes. Evacuation orders.
Alexi: Wildfires happen! We've always had wildfires! This is completely normal! Okay, maybe not 150 in seven days, and maybe not in areas that don't usually... the point is, this is a temporary anomaly. A blip. Next year will be normal. Next year I'll be back to bragging about how I don't even own an air conditioner. Because I don't! I don't own an air conditioner! What kind of Alaskan owns an air conditioner?
[I'm now wearing my jacket again and considering asking if there's a blanket. Alexi has removed their shoes.]
You're saying this isn't climate change?
Alexi: I'm saying Alaska is cold. That's a fact. That's a fundamental truth of the universe. The sun rises in the east, water flows downhill, Alaska is cold. You can't just change fundamental truths. That would be like saying... saying...
[Long pause. Alexi is now fanning themselves with a magazine. I can see my breath.]
Maybe it's a little warmer than usual. But that doesn't mean anything. That doesn't mean I'm not still the person who wore shorts to a Christmas party in Anchorage. That doesn't mean I'm not still tough. Cold-weather tough. That's who I am.
What happens to your identity when your defining characteristic disappears?
Alexi: It's not disappearing! It's just... on vacation. The cold is on vacation. It'll be back. Alaska is cold. I am cold. We are cold. This is just...
[Alexi stands up abruptly, walks to the window. They're barefoot now, somehow. I've put on a scarf I don't remember bringing.]
You know what the worst part is? I bought an air conditioner last week. I installed it myself. At 2 AM. So the neighbors wouldn't see. Because what kind of Alaskan buys an air conditioner in Alaska? That's not me. That's not who I am. But I was so hot I couldn't sleep, and I kept thinking, "This is temporary, this is temporary," but then I was standing in Home Depot at 9 PM on a Tuesday, and there was a whole section of air conditioners, and there were other people there, other Alaskans, and we all just looked at each other like we'd been caught doing something shameful.
[I'm shivering now. Alexi is standing in a shaft of sunlight, arms spread wide.]
What did you do before Alaska got warm?
Alexi: What do you mean "before"? Alaska isn't warm. Alaska is cold. I am cold. I have always been cold. I will always be cold. The cold is coming back. Winter is coming. Winter always comes. That's the whole point. That's the promise.
You endure the dark and the cold, and then spring comes, but it's still cold, and then summer comes, but it's still cool enough that you need a jacket at night, and that's how you know where you are. That's how you know who you are.
[Alexi's skin looks sun-darkened now, or maybe that's the light. I'm wearing gloves.]
The heat advisory goes into effect in nine days.
Alexi: Nine days. Nine days until we officially become a place that needs to warn people about heat. Like we're Florida. Like we're Arizona. Like we're anywhere but here.
[Pause. Alexi turns from the window, and for a moment, I swear I can see palm trees behind them, but that's impossible. My teeth are chattering.]
You know what I keep thinking about? All those years I spent telling people how tough we were. How we could handle anything. How the cold made us special, made us stronger. And now the cold is leaving, and I don't know what's left. What are we without winter? What am I without being the person who doesn't feel cold?
Maybe you're the person who remembers what cold felt like.
Alexi: That's not the same thing. That's not...
[Alexi stops. Sits down. They're wearing a Hawaiian shirt now, somehow. I'm in a parka. Neither of us mentions this.]
I used to know exactly who I was. The cold told me. Every breath of frozen air, every time my eyelashes froze together, every morning I had to plug in my car... that was proof. Proof I was tough. Proof I belonged to something rare and hard and real. And now...
[They gesture helplessly at the window, where it's 84 degrees and climbing.]
Now I'm just another person who's too warm. And that could be anyone. That could be anywhere.
What's Alaska without the cold?
I don't know. I really don't know. And that's the scariest part. Because if Alaska isn't cold anymore, then what was the point? What was the point of all those winters? What was the point of being proud of something that was just... temporary?
[The interview ends here. By the time I leave, I'm wearing a fur-lined hood and Alexi is discussing beach volleyball. Neither of us acknowledges what has happened. Nine days later, the National Weather Service issues Alaska's first-ever heat advisory. I haven't been able to get warm since.]