In early October, the rain briefly stopped and the clouds lifted, revealing the tops of mountains that were engulfed in grey for days on end. Their rocky grey summits were covered in snow, making the Mendenhall Towers, Stroller-White and other tall peaks look like a scene straight from a postcard.
This rapid change from summer to fall occurred rapidly. Just last month, as we bumped over Statter Harbor’s bathtub-sized potholes, one of my coworkers made a joke: “We have two seasons in Alaska,” he said. “It’s either pothole season or construction season.”
I learn a lot from my coworkers.
Another tidbit I picked up from a fellow guide last year was that the snow on the tops of the mountains is called termination dust. Huh, I thought. It must have something to do with the glacier’s terminus. Eager to understand how the two were related, I asked Gastineau’s resident glaciologist for more details. He very kindly informed me that the only thing being terminated is the summer. Termination dust, he said, means fall is officially here.
There are signs of summer’s end long before termination dust settles on the peaks. Perhaps most famously, the fireweed’s bright magenta petals begin to turn dull and decay into fine white wisps. Another bit of Juneauite knowledge I became privy to when I first moved here is the saying, “When the fireweed turns to cotton, the summer is soon forgotten.” It’s said that winter will arrive six weeks later.
Even when it’s difficult for humans to differentiate summer from fall, dozens of creatures are sensing a change. No salmon remain in their streams; their bodies have reentered the ecosystem to serve as fertilizer for the rainforest. Black bears are no longer as reliably found prowling near waterways in search of their next meal. Humpback whales, too, are becoming increasingly difficult to spot as they begin migrating south to their warmer breeding grounds. The thrill of seeing these animals take full advantage of summer’s gifts felt rather short lived this year.
Even by Juneau’s incredibly soggy standards, this summer was a strange one. April, which—according to NOAA—is typically the driest month, was unusually damp. April through July were the rainiest on record for that specific time period, with the four month’s total amount of precipitation totaling 18.37 inches of rain. The previous record was 17.18 inches in 2021.
The sun was a merely a cameo at the tail end of this summer’s reel, but it made a powerful impression. When blue skies finally returned, 2025 claimed the hottest July day on record—the temperature climbed to a blistering 81 degrees on July 28.
We can only hope that the unusually damp summer will lead to a winter wonderland of fluffy, powdery white snow to ski, snowshoe and snow machine through, but for now, all we can do is wait. October is typically the second rainiest month of the year, falling behind only September.
For now, with sea-level snow still a couple of weeks away from falling, I’ll take a page from nature’s book and hunker down when the wind begins to blow the rain sideways.
Chloe Anderson is a naturalist photography guide and freelance photojournalist based in Juneau. Her work has appeared in The Associated Press, The Denver Post, Alpinist magazine and more. For more, visit www.chloeandersonphotography.com.
