The Dena’ina, the Indigenous people of upper Cook Inlet, called the bank along Knik Arm ‘ Nen Ghiłgedi, ’ meaning “rotten land.” The name indicates that the Dena’ina knew of this area’s unstable ground.  Accordingly, the K’enaht’ana, the Dena’ina of Knik Arm, established no permanent winter villages or seasonal camps here.

The Dena’ina name for the two joined lakes,  Niłkidal’iy , meaning “the ones (lakes) that are joined together,” was reported by Eklutna elder John Stump in 1976.  Although harvesting and processing salmon was their primary activity, Dena’ina families used small lakes like Niłkidal’iy for a variety of other subsistence activities. These included hunting waterfowl, beaver, and muskrats and fishing for resident species, such as trout.  The wetlands near these lakes also supplied important plant resources for food and medicines, and attracted moose and black bears for hunting.

For many centuries, the K’enaht’ana, the Dena’ina of Knik Arm (Nuti), established spring and summer fish camps at  Nuch’ishtunt , “the place protected from wind,” now commonly called “Point Woronzof.”

The Dena’ina name for Point Campbell,  Ułchena Bada Huch’ilyut , meaning “where we pulled up the Alutiiqs’ umiak,” commemorates the last battle between the Dena’ina and the Alutiiq of Prince William Sound.

The Dena’ina, the Indigenous people of the Anchorage area, call Fire Island ‘ Nutuł’iy ,’ meaning “object that stands in the water.” In an important origin story told by the Dena’ina author Peter Kalifornsky, the ancestors of the Nulchina clan (sky clan) lived in the sky among frozen clouds on an island they called “Hagi” (“basket”).  They landed in this island basket on Dghelishla (“little mountain,” present-day Mount Susitna). A whirlwind then blew the island into Tikahtnu (“ocean river,” present-day Cook Inlet), where it became Nutuł’iy (Fire Island).

The Dena’ina name,  Hkaditali , “drift lumber.” This name refers to the driftwood that accumulated along the tidal flats (tiq’a) that was used for construction, firewood, and fish processing.  After Russian and other European explorers arrived in the late 18 ^th  century, wreckage from their ships washed ashore at Hkaditali, becoming a source of metal for the Dena’ina to fashion into hooks, projectile points, and other tools.

The Dena’ina of Knik Arm camped in spring and summer along  Chanshtnu  to fish for salmon as well as hunt and gather berries. Many Dena’ina had cabins and houses along lower Chanshtnu into the 1940s. After losing their fishing sites in Anchorage, several Dena’ina families re-established fish camps on Fire Island.

Chanshtnu (pronounced CHANSH-nu) is now called “Chester” Creek. There was no Mr. Chester or Mrs. Chester for whom it was named. Instead, “Chester” appears to be the anglicized version or (mis)pronunciation of Chanshtnu.

“Another place I remember stopping was at Eklutna Alex’s fish camp, which was located at [the] Chester Creek area, near the end of Fifth Avenue. He had a smoke house and a summer home there. He had to move because Anchorage was becoming a city, and the land was being surveyed and sold. The original people that lived here had to move in spite of having homes there for a number of years”.

Dena’ina historian, Alberta Stephen

Mountains to inlet: Flowing from the Chugach Mountains through Anchorage, Chester Creek finds its way to Cook Inlet via Westchester Lagoon. The original name for this place is  Chanshtnu , which in Dena’ina means “Lots of grass with a creek coming through”. For thousands of years the Dena’ina have had a symbiotic and sustainable relationship to this place. Indigenous Placenaming is rooted in a deep respect and understanding of the waters and unique characteristics found throughout Alaska. We acknowledge the Dena’ina in their continued stewardship and shared knowledge of Chanshtnu. The creek was named Chester Creek by western settlers with early references dating to 1906. The trail and parks along Chanshtnu/Chester Creek's banks connect residents and visitors to the salmon and water that are so important to our community's identity and economy. They are part of a larger Anchorage trail system that spans more than 100 miles, providing scenic options for commuting, exercise, and recreation.

Before Captain Cook sailed into the inlet, the Dena’ina indigenous inhabitants named all the features of the land you see in front of you. These names and stories reveal relationships with lands, waters, animals, and plants of the environment. They also convey oral traditions.

The Dena’ina name for Mount Susitna is Dghelishla, which means “little mountain.” Dena’ina historian Peter Kalifornsky explained that the Nulchina clan, the “sky people,” lived on an island among frozen clouds that landed on Dghelishla. A huge whirlwind blew the island into the inlet, creating Nutuł’iy, “object that stands in the water” [Fire Island]. The ridge that slopes to the south of Dghelishla is Ch’chihi Ken, “crying ridge.” It was a sacred place of mourning, where Dena’ina remembered and honored their ancestors and other beloved relatives.

The Dena’ina name for Mount Susitna is Dghelishla, which means “little mountain.” Dena’ina historian Peter Kalifornsky explained that the Nulchina clan, the “sky people,” lived on an island among frozen clouds that landed on Dghelishla. A huge whirlwind blew the island into the inlet, creating Nutuł’iy, “object that stands in the water” [Fire Island]. The ridge that slopes to the south of Dghelishla is Ch’chihi Ken, “crying ridge.” It was a sacred place of mourning, where Dena’ina remembered and honored their ancestors and other beloved relatives.

Beginning in the 1940s, the Alaska Railroad quarried rock from the knobs. In the 1990s, the property owners, the National Bank of Alaska, also planned to mine rock and virtually level the knobs. The Native Village of Eklutna filed a lawsuit to stop the destruction of Idlika'a and Idlishla because of their important link to the identity of the community. Revered Eklutna elder Leo Stephan explained

We as Native people belong to the land, and these landmarks are almost like what they have in Washington DC. We don't go down to Washington DC and try to dismantle the Capitol and all the monuments. Hopefully we can get across somehow that the name of the village here is those two knobs, Idlughet. If you go around the Yukon, the Tanana River, and say “Idlughet” they know where that is. Instead of building monuments to ourselves, we just use natural things. After the knobs are gone, what are we going to call ourselves? How are we going to call Eklutna if they're not there anymore? There is no such thing as Idlughet. There is no two things laying there no more. It's gone.

In February 2000, the Alaska Supreme Court ruled in Eklutna's favor, finding that the Municipality of Anchorage had erred in issuing a permit to operate a quarry at the site because of inadequate damage to consideration of the potential archaeological and historical resources. In 2014, Wells Fargo Bank, which then owned the knobs, donated the 143-acre tract of land back to the Native Village of Eklutna, allowing the knobs to be preserved.

Thunderbird Falls "Waterfall of big red ochre creek" 

Idlishla  , meaning “small plural object”, is one of two hills surrounding the Native village of Eklutna known today by residents as the “knobs.” A sukdu (traditional Dena’ina story) explains the origin of Idlishla and the neighboring Idlika’a, or the “knobs.” A giant fish in Idlu Bena (“plural objects lake”, Eklutna Lake) was insulted by two Ahtna sisters fishing there. When the fish chased them through the outlet of Idlu Bena (Eklutna Lake) and down Idluytnu (“plural objects river”, Eklutna River), it eventually got stuck in theEklutna Canyon and died. The knobs were created when a water surge pushed those lands close to the village. Both knobs served as navigational aids for the Dena’ina traveling on the land and the water. Travelers used them to gauge travel time and determine their location. They marked a source of clean water, shelter, and hospitality. The knobs also served as lookout sites to guard Nuti (Knik Arm) Dena’ina villages against attack from the Ułchena (Alutiiq). The knobs are featured in the sukdu of the last battle between the K’enaht’ana (the Dena’ina of Knik Arm) and Ułchena, which ended with a Dena’ina victory at Ułchena Bada Huch’ilyut (Point Campbell) in present-day Anchorage’s Kincaid Park. Both knobs also played a role in traditional K’enaht’ana subsistence activities. These included hunting small game such as hares, porcupines, spruce grouse, and ptarmigan; harvesting plants for food and medicines; and gathering wood for fuel, smoking fish, construction, and manufacturing tools. Hunters also used the knobs for nahq’a (game lookouts) to spot large game such as moose and bears.

Eklutna River "Plural objects river"

The Dena’ina name for the Eklutna River, Idluytnu, means “Plural Objects River,” and is part of a set of names that includes the village, lake, and glacier. A traditional story (sukdu) tells of a giant fish that swam through Ben Q’estsiq, the lake outlet, and got stuck in the Eklutna Canyon. When its body rotted, a flood sent debris downstream, creating the hills or “knobs” at Eklutna (Idlughet), from which the names derive.

For centuries, the K’enaht’ana (Knik Arm Dena’ina) fished runs of all five species of Alaska salmon that returned to the Eklutna River watershed. They used traps, weirs, dipnets, and spears, likely from camps along the river’s lower reaches, the lake outlet, and along its shores. Eklutna River salmon were likely also harvested from camps along Knik Arm, including Nutl’eghghulk’et’ (“sedge extends down”) near Whitney Point; K’qiydulghakt (“where we harvest fish”), a site north of Eagle Bay; and Ch’ak’dinłenghet, a site perhaps at the mouth of Six Mile Creek on today’s Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson (JBER).

This changed in 1929 when a series of hydroelectric projects, including a storage dam at the lake outlet and a diversion dam about seven miles downstream, blocked salmon access to the lake and diverted water from the river. After the federal government transferred ownership of the project to local utilities, a study was mandated to assess impacts on fish and wildlife and explore mitigation options. In 2018, the dam on the lower Eklutna River deemed obsolete was removed, restoring access to upstream spawning and rearing habitats for salmon. Today, all five salmon species are again returning to the lower Eklutna River, but the remaining dam and continued diversion of the lake’s water for the hydroelectric project still limit salmon runs. Efforts to restore the Idluytnu salmon stocks continue.

Eklutna Lake "Plural objects lake"

The Dena’ina name of Eklutna Lake, Idlu Bena, means “plural objects lake.” It is part of a series of related names, including Eklutna Glacier, Eklutna River, and Eklutna Village. A traditional story (sukdu) explains the origin of these names. Two young women, fishing for trout on the lake, insulted a giant fish or large underwater creature known as a tatl’ah beł qiy’uni. In retaliation, the giant creature pursued the women but became stuck and died in Eklutna Canyon. Water built up behind the fish, and when it rotted, a flood carried debris to what is now Eklutna village, forming hills or “knobs,” which are the “plural objects” referenced in the names.Sign installation coming 2025.

Lake monsters appear in other Dena’ina oral traditions. In one sukdu told by Dena’ina elder Shem Pete, a giant fish swallowed a small boy in a lake near present-day Talkeetna, possibly Larson Lake (Batnaghałnigi). The boy’s grandmother rescued him by throwing heated rocks into the lake, warming the water and killing the monster. She then revived the boy with a medicine song. Shem Pete also spoke of a giant leech called tl’eghesh ka’a in Chelatna Lake (Ht’u Bena) near the Yentna River, which was said to be able to swallow a caribou whole.

Idlu Bena was a key location in the Dena’ina traditional seasonal round, the cyclical pattern of subsistence living that the Dena’ina practiced, based on the changing seasons. It provided a source of salmon and trout, as well as access to hunting areas in the surrounding mountains. People traveled along the lake in birch bark canoes (baqay). Hunting parties also used temporary open skin boats called elgheji. These boats were made of wooden frames covered with raw caribou or moose hides, and were used to transport game harvests to camps and winter villages

Eklutna Lake Outlet "Lake outlet"

The Dena’ina placename Ben Q’estsiq’ refers to the outlet of Idlu Bena (“plural objects lake,” Eklutna Lake), where it drains into Idluytnu (Eklutna River). In the traditional story (sukdu) “How Eklutna Got Its Name,” a giant fish or large underwater creature called tatl’ah beł qiy’uni swam through Ben Q’estsiq’ and got stuck in the Eklutna Canyon. It died and rotted, sending a flood downstream. The debris from the flood formed the hills or “knobs” at Eklutna (Idlughet), from which the names of the village, river, lake, and glacier derive.

According to Dena’ina oral traditions, runs of spawning sockeye salmon once reached Eklutna Lake before the river and lake outlet were dammed in 1929 as part of a hydroelectric project. While details about Ben Q’estsiq’ are scarce, lake outlets were generally important locations of Dena’ina fish camps. It is likely that, when Eklutna Lake salmon runs were viable, the K’eneht’ana (the Knik Arm Dena’ina) camped here during the summer to harvest salmon using traps, weirs, spears, and dipnets. They would preserve the fish by drying (baba), smoking (balik), and fermenting (chuqilin) them. Nearby, temporary shelters, smokehouses, fish racks, and underground caches would be created. The K’eneht’ana also fished for salmon from camps along the lake while hunting for sheep and other game.

The hydroelectric project eliminated the salmon runs into the Eklutna River watershed. However, after the federal government sold the project to three local utilities, a 1991 agreement mandated a study to assess the project’s impacts on fish and wildlife. The study also explored proposals to mitigate these impacts and restore salmon stocks and other wildlife populations. Efforts to rebuild and enhance these stocks are currently underway.

Eklutna Lake "Golden eagle creek"

In the Dena’ina language, Yuditnu means “golden eagle creek.” Yudi, golden eagles, inhabit mountainous terrain, while dałika, bald eagles, are primarily forest-dwellers. The Dena’ina admire eagles for their strength and hunting prowess. Children wore parts of eagles on their clothing as amulets to help them become good hunters. Eagles were only actively hunted for food during times of food shortages, using snares or bows and arrows. Eagle feathers were highly prized and used in many ways. Snares for capturing ground squirrels (qunsha) were made with eagle feather shafts, and eagle feathers adorned headdresses called chijeł, worn by shamans during curing ceremonies and by singers at potlaches.

Eagles are also featured in several traditional Dena’ina stories called sukdu. Many of these stories take place in a distant time when animals and humans conversed in the Dena’ina language. One story tells of a husband and wife who were searching in the mountains for nests with eagle feathers. As the wife lowered her husband down into a nest, she was kidnapped by another raptor, a goshawk (k’embek). Her husband was abandoned in the nest, but the eagle family came to his aid. The father eagle transported the man on his back up the cliff face, gifted him with a supply of feathers, and pointed him towards the goshawk’s camp. The man rescued his wife and together the couple made snares from the feathers and returned to their village with a large supply of ground squirrel meat and skins.

Eklutna Lake "Ground squirrel house"

The Dena’ina name for this mountain above Idlu Bena (Eklutna Lake) is “Qunsha Qeneh,” meaning “ground squirrel house.” The name refers to the temporary shelters the Dena’ina built in the mountains near the tree line during late summer and early fall as a base for snaring qunsha, the Arctic ground squirrel, also known as ‘parka squirrels.’

These shelters were constructed using fresh alder branches bent downward with leaves intact, forming a domed, waterproof shelter with a firepit at the center. Snaring ground squirrels was primarily the work of women and girls. The snares (quggił) were fashioned from the looped stem of an eagle feather, sinew line, a bent alder pole, and a trigger stick. Trappers carried up to 20 snares in a sack and set the snares at the entrances of the squirrels’ dens.

A young woman’s ability to successfully snare ground squirrels was seen as a mark of industriousness and skill, making her a desirable spouse. Qunsha (ground squirrels) were an important source of food, and their skins were highly valued for making blankets, mittens, coats, and other garments. A full-sized blanket required up to 120 qunsha skins.

Bold Peak "Mountain Sheep House"

The Dena’ina name Nuji Qeneh (“Sheep House,”) for the mountain also known as Bold Peak highlights the importance of nuji (mountain sheep) in the seasonal subsistence activities of the K’eneht’ana, the Dena’ina of Knik Arm. This name also symbolically acknowledges the mountain and the surrounding peaks near Idlu Bena (Eklutna Lake) as vital sheep habitat.

The Dena’ina hunted sheep in the fall, with hunts often lasting several days and typically concluding only when one or more animals were taken. Bows, arrows, and snares were used to kill the sheep and well-trained dogs played a critical role in driving the sheep down from higher elevations toward the hunters. The Dena’ina name for the ridge extending west of Twin Peaks, Bentułik’elashi (“the one that dogs are driven up”), refers to this effective hunting method.

Sheep were highly prized for both food and materials. Their meat was considered the best for making dry meat, and Dena’ina historian Alberta Stephan recalled the feasts at her family‘s fall camp following a successful sheep hunt. Nearly every part of the sheep was utilized: - Horns were carved into ladles, bowls, spoons, and knife handles - Sheep skins were used as rugs, mattresses, blankets, and mittens, with the wool turned inside for warmth; - Sheep meat was an important trade item, exchanged between the K’eneht’ana and the Dena’ina of the lower Susitna River and Tyonek.

Alberta Stephan noted that by the early 20th century, Dena’ina hunting of sheep and other big game — practices they had sustainably maintained for centuries — was severely disrupted by repressive game laws. These laws, intended to curb overhunting by the growing non-Dena’ina population in upper Cook Inlet, imposed limitations on traditional subsistence practices.

Creek from Eklutna Glacier, West Fork of Eklutna River "Where it flows into lake"

Bendilent — meaning “where it flows into lake” — is the braided stream that flows from Eklutna Glacier into the upper end of Idlu Bena (Eklutna Lake). The mouth of this stream was the site of a hunting cabin built by Eklutna Alex. Eklutna Alex, whose Dena’ina name was Beł K’ighił’ishen (1869-1953), was the last shaman at Eklutna and, along with his son Mike Alex, one of the last chiefs. The lands and waters surrounding Eklutna Lake served as important hunting and fishing grounds for Eklutna Alex, other residents of Eklutna, and nearby K’eneht’ana (Knik Arm Dena’ina) villages. This area is now managed as part of Chugach State Park.

Dena’ina elder Shem Pete recalled, “At the head of the lake where the stream flows in there are sheep. They used to kill them. There are lots of sheep there. It’s good country.”

Shem Pete also described his first visit to Eklutna Alex’s cabin: “In [the fall of] 1927, Eklutna Alex just packed a little grub and went up to the upper end of the lake. And he built a cabin there. That’s why he never came back for a month. His wife worried about him. I walked the length of Eklutna Lake. Around that lake shore it is seven miles. There were all kinds of rocks and boulders. Those glacial rocks are no good. He’s living in the cabin already when I found him.”

Eklutna Alex’s cabin washed away in 2004.

Eklutna Glacier "Glacier of the plural objects lake"

The Dena’ina call Eklutna Glacier Idlu Bena Łi’a, meaning “Glacier of the Plural Objects Lake.” This name belongs to a related set of place names that includes Idlu Bena (Eklutna Lake), Idluytnu (Eklutna River), and Idlughet (Eklutna Village). A sukdu (traditional story) explains the origin of these names. According to the story, a large fish became lodged in the lake’s outlet (Ben Q’estsiq’). When it rotted, a massive flood washed debris downstream, creating the hills or “knobs” at Eklutna — the “plural objects” referenced in the names.

The Dena’ina language is rich with specific terms for parts of a glacier. A crevasse is called łi yu (“glacier mouth”), and the silt and rocks of a moraine are known as łi jegha (“glacier ear”). Large icefields are referred to as łiteh (“among glaciers”).

The Dena’ina hunted sheep, goats, and caribou near glaciers, but they regarded glaciers as dangerous places. Although rare, glacier crossings on foot were sometimes necessary. To do so safely, they used specialized snowshoes with bear claws attached to the bottoms for traction and carried poles to probe for hidden crevasses.

In Dena’ina oral traditions, glaciers are home to the Łi Dnayi (“Glacier People”), powerful nonhuman beings who kidnap women and cause landslides and avalanches. One Dena’ina sukdu tells of a man who rescued his wife from the Łi Dnayi near the slopes of Dghelay Ka’a (Denali). As they escaped, the Łi Dnayi sent a landslide after them. The Dena’ina name for the Tokasitna River, Tuqashitnu (“stream of things that fall in the water”) commemorates this event and serves as a warning to travelers about the dangers of mountainous terrain.

Arctic Valley; Headwaters of Ship Creek "Stickleback headwaters"

The Dena’ina name for Arctic Valley, Dgheyay Tl’u—meaning “stickleback headwaters”— derives from Dgheyaytnu (stickleback creek), now also known as Ship Creek. Three-spined sticklebacks, also called needlefish, are small, bony fish that were harvested in early spring in the creek’s lower reaches when other foods were scarce. Dgheyay Tl’u was an important hunting area for the K’eneht’ana, the Knik Arm Dena’ina. Into the 20th Century, they hunted moose, sheep, goats, bears, and small game in these uplands during the fall. Dena’ina elder Shem Pete recalled another subsistence activity that took place here in the more distant past.

“At Dgheyay Tl’u, in that large, level area, the one called Deafy Dan Bigoff used to walk around. He told me that he used to see caribou antlers up there. He said they were sticking up there all over. Long ago there were caribou there, but I never killed any there. Now there are none. He saw one place with so many caribou antlers you could not sit down. So many bones there.”

With the disappearance of caribou from the Chugach Mountains, the K’eneht’ana began to rely on longer journeys into the Talkeetna Mountains to hunt caribou and other big game. Caribou were captured using snares placed in long “surrounds”, or fences, constructed of wooden poles and brush. Cooperating families worked together to kill the caribou with spears and arrows. Such caribou surrounds may have once been used in Dgheyay Tl’u, in the area north of present-day Anchorage.

McHugh Creek “Banjo [temporary] snowshoe creek”

The Dena’ina name for McHugh Creek, Q’isqa Betnu, means “temporary snowshoe creek.” Q’isqa are one type of Dena’ina snowshoe, known in English as “banjo snowshoes” or “ski snowshoes.” These differ significantly from the more permanent snowshoes called ush in Dena’ina. Elder Billy Pete’s description of crafting a pair of q’isqa highlights the traditional knowledge and resourcefulness essential for survival in southcentral Alaska’s unforgiving climate:

“If I run up against it out in the woods, if it snows on me about one or two foot, I can just simply take my ax and hew out my snowshoes that they used to call “banjoes.” It only takes about couple hours to build those. As long as you got a rope of some sort, you can make yourself a pair of snowshoes with just an ax. Just hew them out. Just tie it on your foot and go home. And that’s about all.”

Q’isqa Betnu provided the Dena’ina access to the rich resources of the Chugach Mountains, including sheep, goats, and bears. The name suggests that the Dena’ina were well aware of the area’s unpredictable weather during the fall hunting season, including sudden heavy snowfall. The ability to quickly fashion q’isqa could be lifesaving in such conditions.

Indeed, the importance of snowshoes was ingrained early in Dena’ina life. Children began learning to use them as soon as they were able to walk, ensuring they could navigate the snowy terrain with ease.

Eagle River "Fish run again creek"

The Dena’ina name Nuk’elehitnu —meaning “fish run again creek”—identifies Eagle River as an important traditional source of salmon. Dena’ina elder Bailey Theodore of Knik reported the presence of fish camps along a small tributary called T’usq’a (“cutting place”), possibly today’s Clunie Creek, which was primarily used to harvest and process silver (coho) salmon.

In 1898, a US Army exploratory party led by Edwin Glenn followed a well-defined trail several miles along Eagle River and recorded the anglicized Dena’ina name “Yukla-hitna.” Geologist Walter Mendenhall, a member of this expedition, wrote:

“On the second day of travel up Yukla Creek we entered a region of forest fires. Several hunting shacks, built during the fall and winter seasons by the Indians, were passed and were usually surrounded by evidence of success in the chase - moose antlers and bone and sheep pelts being plentiful.”

These forest fires likely created favorable moose habitat as the landscape recovered. Dena’ina elder Shem Pete recalled:

“On the second day of travel up Yukla Creek we entered a region of forest fires. Several hunting shacks, built during the fall and winter seasons by the Indians, were passed and were usually surrounded by evidence of success in the chase - moose antlers and bone and sheep pelts being plentiful.”

Bailey’s son, Art Theodore, remembered that his father also hunted moose in this burned area upriver. He and other Dena’ina hunters built wooden frames covered with the raw moose hides and used them to float meat down to Knik Arm.

Tanaina Peak "Ridge where we cry"

Qin Cheghi, “ridge where we cry,” now also known as Tanaina Peak, is a sacred Dena’ina place of mourning and remembrance. A similar site, Ch’chihi Ken, is the ridge sloping to the south of Susitna Mountain (Dghelishla), visible to the west. Dena’ina elder Shem Pete recalled that at these sites people could see “their whole country.” These ridges served as places to remember their relatives and “that’s the place we cry all the time, `cause everything just show up plain.”

The potlatch (qetitl’) is the Dena’ina’s most significant ceremony of remembrance. These memorial feasts honored relatives from opposite clans who performed funeral and burial tasks for the deceased. Potlatches included the distribution of gifts, as well as the performance of songs, speeches, and dances by the hosts and guests. Potlatches embody both sorrow for loss and celebration of life and community.

The late Dena’ina writer Peter Kalifornsky captured the essence of the potlatch in his work, The Potlatch Song of a Lonely Man.

Where else might we be scattered to? Where are our relatives? Where are the friends who might come to us with cheer? Where are our loved ones who might come to us with kindness?

Our relatives have come back to us, have come back to us. Our friends with cheer, too, have come back to us, have come back to us. Our loved ones with kindness, too, have come back to us, have come to us.

As we admire the beauty surrounding us near Qin Cheghi, let us also acknowledge and honor the Dena’ina who have stewarded this special place for centuries.

Mount Baldy "Wide ridge"

The Dena’ina name for Mount Baldy, Qintali, means “wide ridge.” This descriptive name aided hunters in orienting themselves in the Chugach Mountains and in planning for fall hunts for sheep, goats, bears, moose, and small game. As the only Alaska Athabascans whose traditional territory borders saltwater, the Dena’ina likely reached the shores of Tikahtnu (“big water river,” Cook Inlet) from Alaska’s interior centuries ago. They adapted to this marine environment with modified harvest technologies but retained the skills necessary for mountain hunting. Their access to a variety of seasonal subsistence resources from the sea, rivers, lakes, forests, and mountains supported the largest population of any Alaska Athabascan people.

In the traditional Dena’ina worldview, animals and other nonhuman entities are sentient beings. They are aware of human attitudes, thoughts, and actions, and demand respect. To ensure success, the Dena’ina observed special behaviors when hunting in the mountains, the domain of K’eluyesh, whom Dena’ina elder Shem Pete referred to as “the captain of the animals.” To appease this powerful spiritual guardian and the animals themselves, the Dena’ina used a “mountain language,” replacing the names typically used in the lowlands. Additionally, they sang songs to earn the animals’ goodwill, which elders liken to a form of prayer.

Traditional stories called dghelay sukdu’a, meaning “mountain stories,” describe the appropriate ways to handle harvested animals. These rules include minimizing suffering through efficient taking practices, making use of almost every part of the animal to prevent waste, avoiding disrespectful language or boasting, and sharing resources to express generosity. Failing to follow these rules brings bad weather, prevents successful harvests, and threatens survival.

Lower Peters Creek [?] Creek: Uncertain translation

The waterway we know today as Peters Creek has two Dena’ina names. Late Dena’ina elders Mike Theodore and Mike Alex of Eklutna recalled that lower Peters Creek is called K’anakatnu. They could not offer a translation for the name, suggesting the name is very old. Eklutna elder John Stump noted that upper Peters Creek is named Htestighitun Betnu, meaning “creek of the trail that goes through the pass.” The name likely refers to a trail that, according to Mike Alex, connected the upper Peters Creek area to upper Eklutna Lake. The pass at the head of Peters Creek, known as Htestighitun Tustes, is called Rumble Pass today.

The trail along K’anakatnu/Htestighitun Betnu provided the K’eneht’ana, the Dena’ina of Knik Arm, access to prime sheep hunting country. Knik elder Bailey Theodore maintained a sheep hunting camp in the uplands of Peters Creek while his father, Wasilla Theodore, had a camp along a tributary called Dkenyi Betnu (“Underground Cache Creek”), now known as “Fourmile Creek.” This camp served as a base for hunting sheep, goats, bears, and moose. The reference to underground caches in the name suggests it may have also been a fishing site, likely for fall silver (coho) salmon.

Knick Arm "Salt water"

Nuti (“salt water”), now also known as Knik Arm, lies at the heart of the traditional homeland of the Dena’ina regional band called the K’enaht’ana. Linked by kinship, members of this band shared fish camps, hunting areas, and villages within the Nuti watershed.

Villages (qayeh) typically consisted of one or more semi-subterranean, multifamily dwellings called nichił. These structures had walls made of split logs, roofs insulated with moss and birch bark, and poles to hold the roof in place. The nichił were occupied by extended families, with each nuclear family maintaining its own enclosed compartment within the house. Villages also contained storage caches of dry fish, meat, oil, and other foods.

Village leaders, called qeshqa, managed shared food supplies and organized seasonal fishing and hunting. The nichił were occupied during the late fall and winter, while the rest of the year was spent in seasonal fish and hunting camps.

Some villages of the K’eneht’ana included:

• Idlughet (Eklutna)

• Niteh (“among islands”)

• Hutnaynut’i (“that which is shining”; near Bodenburg Butte)

• Tuhnaghiłkitst (“where bank extends”; near the junction of present-day Glenn and Parks Highways)

• Benteh (“among the lakes”; near present-day Wasilla)

• Chuqilin Kaq’ (“mouth of fermented fish creek”; at the mouth of Wasilla Creek)

• Łajat (“silt place”; at the mouth of Cottonwood Creek)

• Htidaghitunt (“where the trail meets the place”; near the mouth of Crocker Creek)

• K’enakatnu (Knik)

Over the centuries, the locations of many village sites likely shifted as nearby wood supplies became depleted.

Crying Ridge Creek

The Mouth of Crying Ridge Lake.

Backwater.

Rabbit Creek.

Slowly, she found other mothers who shared that same hope. Week by week, they came together, stitching memories into the trees and paths. When the children grew older and went off to school, the bonds among the mothers stayed, a thread woven through their lives.

After the pandemic, that hope stirred again. The woman realized she could share what she had learned about building community to help other mothers of young children form their own circles. These gatherings have become something special, a space for mothers to share their dreams for their children and themselves, and to witness one another’s journeys through motherhood.

What began in a park years ago has quietly grown into something larger, a network of care where mothers and children can find connection, support, and a sense of belonging, creating roots for themselves within the beautiful spaces of Anchorage. And in these moments together, the parks come alive with laughter, stories, and the quiet pulse of a community growing stronger with each gathering, reminding us that before the village, there was the forest.

River at ACF and are blessed beyond measures to love where we live and work.

Creekside Park was always a constant. In summer, kids laughed on the playground while parents barbecued, and in winter, neighbors walked bundled up along the trails. Less than half a block from my house, Creekside Elementary hosted community council meetings where people came together to share concerns, ideas, and hopes for the neighborhood. Those gatherings reminded me of island ways: everyone has a voice, and everyone belongs.

Life here felt peaceful and connected. I could walk to get my nails done, stop by the grocery store, or head home without needing a car. The proximity to JBER and the Glenn Highway made it easy to get downtown or out to the Valley, yet I always felt rooted right where I was.

This neighborhood taught me that resilience is not only survival, it’s community, care, and the everyday ways we show up for one another.

at 4th and D Downtown that honored the stories, history..First Peoples..and diverse communities of Anchorage . I can also share the AHF Leadership Anchorage year two national conference experience where we were the most diverse delegation and the only one that that had an Indigenous membership...in fact..the majority of our members were Alaskan Native individuals which highly enriched our contribution to the the final presentation which was "Walking in Each Others Shoes"...literally! We wore everything from mukluks to stiletto heels..sneakers to Bunny Boots....

And it’s still part of who I am. But over the last five years, I’ve learned something important: I was never meant to just be a musician. Through the challenges, the hardships, and the new ventures that came my way, I discovered that my life was never going to fit neatly under one single title.

The turning point for me was the pandemic. For years, I had lived in constant motion—touring, traveling, always planning the next gig, the next project, the next city. When everything stopped, I had no choice but to slow down. And in that stillness, I finally had the chance to look around and pay closer attention to my own community.

What I saw was inspiring. Incredible people were doing meaningful work in Anchorage. But I also noticed gaps—places where more energy, more effort, more connection could make a difference. And for the first time in a long time, I had the space and capacity to step into those gaps.

That was the real gift of that pause: I got to be present. I got to stop chasing and start investing more in the community I love.

Since then, a lot of my work has centered on creating spaces where people can come together—spaces that encourage vulnerability, where stories and art can be shared, but more importantly, where people feel free to show up as their most authentic selves. That, to me, is the heart of building community: reminding people there are public spaces where you can still be real.

And here’s what I’ve realized—it’s not just about the events I host or the things I create. The most valuable thing I can do, and the most valuable thing any of us can do, is simply to show up. For our friends, our families, our neighborhood, and our communities.  Not to the point of exhaustion or burnout, because I’ve gone down that road too, but in the small, steady ways that keep a community alive. That could mean mentioning a local business you care about in a casual conversation. It could mean sharing a friend’s event with someone who might enjoy it. It could mean buying a ticket to a show, or just being in the room to clap and cheer for someone else pursuing their passions.

As a musician, I’ve said for years that you can’t really be part of a scene if you only attend the events you’re in. A thriving music scene requires people showing up for each other. And I’ve come to see that the same is true on a larger scale.

I may not be a farmer, but I can support them by showing up at the farmers’ market and buying local produce. I’m not a filmmaker, but I can support local film by going to premieres and spreading the word. These are the ways I can contribute, even when I’m not the one on stage or in the spotlight or hosting.

And in the middle of all this, I’ve added another role to my life: student. After a fifteen-year break, I’ve gone back to school to finally finish my degree. I want to help people, like myself, who are in recovery. So yes, I wear a lot of hats these days, and I’ll probably keep adding more, because that’s just who I am.

But if there’s one umbrella over all of them, it’s this: I am a conscious member of my community. And for me, that means continuing to show up in every way I can.

Aside from Aunty Judy every couple of years selling burgers and fries from her home kitchen for pickup, all we ate was what Mom or Grandma cooked at home. My cousins and I drooled over fast-food commercials on the one RATNET TV channel. I remember thinking that one day, maybe when I was an adult, we would have a McDonald’s in Grayling, not realizing that Grayling would likely never be a bustling city that had malls and restaurants that I dreamed of.  One summer my mom tried to get creative with fish and tried out a salmon chowder recipe that was such a hit with the whole family that she declared that she was going to make it every Thursday. What promised to be an exciting new show based on the pilot quickly became tiresome re-runs. We ate so much moose and salmon that I went through a time in my life where I was sick of eating ‘fish’ and avoided salmon as much as possible once I left home. For us as kids, having frozen fried chicken and beef was a ‘treat’ as we tired of the monotony of moose and salmon. Those are exactly the foods now that I crave and give me such comfort and nostalgia of childhood. 

The few times that I came to Anchorage as a kid kept me awake weeks leading up the trip, thinking about what I would wear, what we would eat, being in a car, and seeing the bright lights of the big city. The Dimond Mall was HUGE and what? A skating rink? Whoa! So sophisticated and urban! Anchorage was nothing like my home and exciting in every way. 

I attended Mt. Edgecumbe, the same boarding school in Sitka that my mother, older brother, and sister attended. We never had our Native foods there but sadly, they were replaced with cafeteria food. Every summer and winter break we passed through Anchorage on our way to and from home, and Anchorage still felt like the big city and was still very exciting and ‘foreign’. Later, when I was off at college in the midwest, Anchorage started to feel like a homecoming when I came back in the summers as I was excited to see my friends from Mt. Edgecumbe who had since moved to Anchorage. After college, when I was living in Japan, Anchorage absolutely felt like home as I flew in and saw the Chugach mountains and I knew Taco Bell was waiting for me down there somewhere. Years later, as I now flew back from my new home in Germany, and by this time it had been six years of living abroad and four in college, what I was most excited about was not being the only Native American in the room or city or even country. I longed for familiar faces and to feel like I fit in. I visited the Heritage Center every time I came home in the summers and then, when I was back in the U.S. and in graduate school at Harvard, I was especially lucky to attend AFN as a recruiter. AFN is probably the most exciting Indigenous event for Native people here in Anchorage as it is when you get to see friends and family from all over the state. My mom loved to visit the Quayana nights to see the dancing that brought us back in time to when the dancing was still practiced at home. How beautiful it was then, to see my young daughter jump up and join in on every invitational from every dance group. 

Those were the days when my children were very young and my mom came in from Grayling to take care of them while I worked, and ended up being the last few years of her life. Through her memories of where we lived, of how her and my dad met, the trouble my brother had at school when he was little, I became acquainted with Anchorage in a different way, as the start of my life’s story.  I have been back here in Alaska for 21 years now. I eat at McDonald’s maybe once a year. I worked a couple of summers at the Heritage Center and for many years took my students on field trips there. Of the many places I have lived and traveled to, nowhere feels like Alaska does. No where has the mountains and forests that speak to me, the people who look like me, or the foods that feed my soul. It is the only place that my heart calls home. 

Storytime Theatre at the Museum) Future story community collaboration about ANSCA...

Mantra" We are each other..We are all connected"

Going to a different part of town to find a place to try to skateboard was my only solution, though I hadn’t had high hopes other areas would be snow-free. I’d nudged him toward other activities—any activity—but he'd insisted, and I’d promised.

Around noon, we had loaded up—skateboard, snacks, blankets, and extra dry clothes because lord knows we’d need them—and headed toward DeBarr and Pine. Imagine how I felt when I saw that every inch of the skate park’s bowl, quarter-pipes, and launch ramps were coated in a snowy slush. I braced myself for my son’s disappointment. It turned out, though, that I, not he, needed to adjust expectations.

As I opened my mouth to suggest alternatives, my child saw a young man with a snow shovel, removing snow from the skate park. His jeans were wet, and he looked too warm in his thermal shirt, sleeves pushed up, sweaty, black floppy hair, tucked behind his ears. I noticed a well-worn winter jacket draped over a bench, and his snow boots were unlaced and scuffed. A smaller shovel and a broom lay on the ground nearby.

Taking it all in, my kid didn’t balk at the conditions. He lit up, hollering, “Mom, let’s go help him!” He bolted out of the car before I could respond.

There I sat, reorienting myself. I hadn’t wanted to spend the morning working. I wasn’t thrilled about skateboarding in breakup. Plus, I was pushing down my insecurities, triggered by something I’d seen that morning.

Right before I’d closed my laptop after submitting my projects, I’d checked Anchorage Daily News and seen an announcement about that year’s Top Forty Under 40 winners. Three close friends were on the list—two for whom I’d written letters of recommendation—and I was thrilled for them. They deserved the honor. However, seeing their names had gotten me feeling down on myself about my own professional trajectory. Almost ten years of back-to-back hardships had upended my life, and I grieved that I wasn’t making the difference in our community that I had hoped. In my mind, I’d reframed my contributions as tending my own tiny garden. Nurture my child, my home, my pets…and myself and my art when I could fit them in. If I could grow them up to blossom and thrive, maybe that would be enough—even when I didn’t feel like it.

As I sat in my car, musing on these things while watching my son run over to this boy and begin treating him like his big brother—clearly hanging on his every word, following his instructions, and playing the role of pesky little brother—I was reminded that we were making a difference, in our own way, like so many other Alaskans. Sure, what most of us do isn’t newsworthy nor do we secure awards or recognition to highlight on our resumes. But that’s not the point, is it? We show up in small moments and chat with strangers. We stop when we watch someone’s car slides into a snow berm. We offer helping hands. On that day, I remembered this is what Anchorage is all about.

I pulled on my beanie and gloves, switched off my engine, and walked over to the two boys to help them remove snow. The sun blared above us, making us toasty as we cleared the quarter-pipes. I soon unzipped my coat and eventually took it off. The three of us laughed and swapped stories as we picked at ice chunks and kicked them away and swept off snow melt. We took a break to sit and drink hot chocolate from a thermos I’d brought. That’s when this boy really opened up. He was an 18-year-old experiencing homelessness. He said he was lonely—a feeling I shared. He loved skateboarding—a feeling my son shared. He just wanted to be outside doing something he cared about—a feeling we all shared.

We stayed more than four hours, shoveling snow. I wish I could tell you that young man’s name, and I wish I’d snapped a picture of the boys together, grinning, when, at last, they rolled down the launch ramp on their skateboards, side by side. Now, I often wonder where that boy is and how he’s doing. While I don’t have a photo, I do have the memory. I cherish the hope it gave me and the gift it gave other kids who could get outside to play a few days earlier because we did the quiet work of shoveling snow at a skate park on a Sunday.

Maybe you’ve never thought about it, or maybe you have. 

But to answer this question, let me take you back to Thanksgiving Day 1996, in the back of an Oldsmobile coupe with my mom, brother, and me on my dad’s lap. My mom, brother, and I had just arrived from our more than 24-hour journey from the Philippines, finally immigrating to join my dad. Together, at last. 

And in that moment of joy, I scanned the scene outside the window and saw the snow blanket the trees for the first time. But rather than feeling a sense of wonder, I turned to my dad and asked, "Why does it smell like that?"

I don’t think I ever got an answer, and I can’t tell you, literally, what I thought that first whiff of Anchorage smelled like, but I know that — for me, in hindsight, as a 6-year-old who’d just been moved from a tropical country to the coldest state in the United States — it was, more likely, unsettling. Unsettling, maybe because this place was new to me. Unsettling, perhaps because I didn’t know it yet, but we were surviving. 

And in that survival, the smell of snow became my companion. 

It was the wet gravel on the school playground, the chains of a swing set on a cold winter day, the heat from the school bus swinging its doors open, my parents’ fried fish permeating the air on my walk home, long after they’d gone to job number 2 or 3.

It was the cold window pane reminding me to throw extra covers on my younger siblings. As I grew older, it was fabric softener from the dryer vent melting ice on my porch.

Thankfully, the smell of snow only finds me in the winter. It’s a quiet reminder of where I began, in the back of that Oldsmobile. It’s a reminder of what my family’s endured — and how we survived. Once unfamiliar and unsettling, it tells me that I’ve made it home.

By Shayne Nuesca

Instagram: @shaynenuesca