Economic History of Cruise Tourism in Sitka, Alaska

I arrived in Sitka last July to work with Artchange, Inc. Soon after, the director, Ellen Frankenstein and I began work on a documentary chronicling the excitement, apprehensions and preparations underway for this year’s cruise tourist season, wherein nearly half a million passengers are slated to disembark in town. To better understand the role cruise tourism plays in Sitka’s economy, and how one can meaningfully look to the future, I decided to study the subject’s history. Accordingly, what follows is a brief economic history of cruise tourism in Sitka, from the closure of the pulp mill to the present.

In brief, this research helped understand Sitka’s challenges as a small Alaskan town, as it seeks to raise enough revenue to repair and maintain its local infrastructure at a time when the state government, otherwise an important source of financial support, can provide little to no assistance because of the downturn it suffers because of the drop in oil prices. While increased revenues from booming cruise tourism might help this predicament, cruising  in Sitka has been a volatile industry prone to booms and busts. While the increased monies are surely welcome, cruise tourism is far from a panacea for Sitka’s financial predicaments.

- Atman Mehta

June 30, 1993 was the day the Alaska Pulp Corporation (APC) announced the closure of its mill in Sitka. Without any prior intimation, city officials were informed hours before the public announcement that the town’s largest employer, responsible for nearly a quarter of its employment and payroll, would cease operation in three months.

What made the closure more frightening than it might have otherwise been was its timing. Only two weeks earlier, recognising the deficits at hand, the assembly had approved a budget including a raise in electricity rates, reduced contributions to the public library (which would keep it closed for an additional day of the week), and a downsizing of the police’s drug awareness program.

Together, this risked the sort of depression familiar to small towns: wherein a departing major employer takes a lion’s share of the population, revenue, and property values with it, eliciting a prolonged downwards spiral. Ernestine Griffin, former director of the Sitka Chamber of Commerce, expressed as much: “It’s like death.”

Nevertheless, Sitka more than survived the mill’s closure. None of the feared cataclysms, of cratering property values, forsaken neighbourhoods, or mass unemployment, came to fruition. In fact, in less than a decade, most of the economic losses in terms of payroll and public revenue would disappear. But recovery from the mill’s closure was far from guaranteed; it rested on myriad contingencies.

In large part, the robust diversity of the local economy supported the town after the mill’s closure. While the mill was the preponderant employer in town, it was far from exclusive in its role. Already by 1994, healthcare, thanks to growth in both SEARHC and the community hospital, achieved a payroll of $22.6 million, substantially past the timber industry’s peak of $19 million. The seafood industry similarly grew impressively.

Another momentous source of strength was cruise tourism. In 1992, 167,000 cruise tourists visited Sitka; by 1996, the number neared 250,000. The number of tourism-related jobs in the period doubled. For an entire decade, expenditures by cruise passengers averaged a 12% year-on-year growth to reach an estimated $22 million by 1996. Not astonishingly, many major contemporary players in tourism, such as Tribal Tours, owe their origin to the few years after the pulp mill’s closure.

While this did not substitute the long-term employment the mill had provided, it put dollars in wallets, preventing a popular exodus which would surely result in immense economic affliction. For the time being, this was enough.

Yet, despite the inhibition of unmitigated disaster, Sitka’s economy was far from unimpacted. The annual payroll had dropped by more than 10%, and the city’s population, employment, and tax revenues witnessed minor declines. A locus of continuous stress was the school district, which was forced to lay-off employees and suspend the elementary swim program, among other cuts. At a public meeting held by the school-board in 1996, a parent characterised the options at hand: “Do you want to cut your hand, do you want to cut your foot off, or do you want to cut your nose?”

Simultaneously, 1996 was also the year when most federal and state relief programs would slow, if not entirely cease, and the mill’s severance package to former employees would expire, facts certain to reveal how strong Sitka’s recovery truly was.

Moreover, the state government was of little assistance to either the city or the school district, since oil production on the North Slope had peaked in 1988, and prices had barely begun to recover from the 1980s’ crash. When a delegation from the assembly travelled to the state budget session in March 1996, what they discovered in fact was a competition in austerity.

Faced with such problems, then-Mayor Pete Hallgren had a simple idea: to charge a “head tax” for each cruise passenger which arrived in Sitka, which would both help the city better service the tourists who were arriving in greater and greater numbers, and generate additional revenue for the city. In response, a spokesperson for Holland America, one of the major cruise lines visiting town, threatened that Sitka’s status as a cruise ship port was “increasingly fragile”, since a critical variable for the industry was “how it’s being treated by the community in regards to taxation.”

Sure enough, Holland America subsequently announced that it would send only half as many ships to Sitka in the following year, diverting traffic to Skagway instead because of the issuance of more Glacier Bay permits. This caused an estimated loss of $3.5 million in retail sales at a delicate time in Sitka’s post-mill recovery.

It is impossible to divine whether Holland America’s decision was in retaliation to the proposed head-tax, or a genuine business decision to offer more trips to Glacier Bay. In any case, the fact revealed the basic fragility of reliance upon cruise tourism as a major economic base: it could fall as quickly as it could rise.

If between 1992 and 1996 cruise tourism grew by 50%, between 1996 and 1997 it fell by a full 30%, from 240,000 to 178,000, almost entirely reversing gains made in previous years. The dynamic was lucidly relayed by industry officials to city leaders: “The number and visits by cruise ships to Sitka are determined by forces outside the community’s control, and there’s not much the town can do to attract more.” With no clear means of recourse, a cruise boom could quickly become a cruise bust.

While this might have thrown a wrench in Sitka’s post-mill recovery, the problem was forestalled because of entirely unrelated negotiations in Washington. In July 1996, while tensions between Hallgren and the cruise industry were growing, state senator Ted Stevens struck a deal with Bill Clinton to provide Sitka $20 million as part of an economic recovery grant, which the city eventually split into $16 million to create a revolving fund for both public and private sector loans, and the other $4 million for roads, schools and recreation.

This rescued Sitka’s economy at a fragile time. Previous years had witnessed falls in both population and sales tax revenue, which although not as precipitous as feared, might have exposed more fundamental vulnerabilities as relief programs dried up. In any case, the 1990s revealed a characteristic of cruise tourism for Sitka: volatility.

Remaining depressed until the early 2000s, cruise tourism began quickly to rise thereafter to reach its peak of 290,000 in 2008. This growth was once again brought to a halt by the year’s Great Recession. As cruise companies pared back their operations in Alaska, Sitka suffered major declines. Between 2008 and 2014, cruise tourism fell by nearly 70%, from 290,000 to 90,000. Coupled with the effects of the recession, this led to a steady decline in sales for several local industries.

Unlike the precipitous fall in cruise numbers, however, and rather remarkably, sales tax revenue only flatlined. While even conservative estimates suggested that the drop in cruise tourists augured a decline in revenue of almost a million dollars, growth in the service sector, local government, and construction made up those losses. Like 1997, the landing after a rapid decline in cruise traffic was relatively soft, on this occasion thanks to a relatively diverse economy.

Meanwhile, as Sitka’s cruise tourist numbers fell back to 1980 levels in the mid-2010s, the nature of the national economic recovery after 2008 compounded the town’s fiscal challenges. By 2015, the expansion of hydraulic fracturing – or “fracking” – to ease the earlier oil-price shock brought oil prices hurtling down from over $150 per barrel to less than $30 per barrel, resulting in a major recession for the Alaskan state. Alongside a sluggish recovery at the national level, this caused both state and federal contributions to Sitka’s budget to fall and fall.

Such reductions in governmental assistance materialised right when the bill to repair and maintain Sitka’s aging infrastructure was rapidly rising, as the tumultuous struggle to repay bonds issued to expand the Blue Lake Dam revealed. This increasingly pressured local revenue, effectively posing the question: is Sitka able to internally generate all the revenue it requires?

……..

The overwhelming economic challenge Sitka faces today is to somehow generate the revenues necessitated by its major infrastructure requirements, from the Green Lake Dam to the Marine Street power station. With oil production in the state in steady decline, and the federal flirtation with fiscal expansionism having all but concluded, the cavalry can hardly be relied on to save the day. The city government is left with squaring the circle of spending more towards infrastructure, keeping local utility rates and taxes low to maintain affordability, and still produced a balanced overall budget.

It is in this context in which the rise in cruise tourism ought to be evaluated. While the increased sales tax revenue is certainly welcome, it is far from a perfect resolution to local problems. Most obviously, sales tax revenue is no substitute from state or federal support for local finances. While additional monies will allow the city more fiscal latitude, it will almost certainly not cover all the investments Sitka needs to make.

Moreover, as the pandemic amply demonstrated, cruising is characteristically a volatile industry, a fact especially true for Sitka, where it has been far more fluctuant than other South-East destinations.

Such instability can cause significant financial disruptions. Once accustomed to greater revenues from more visitors, any future downfall in those numbers will bring difficult budget sessions. Already in 2021, the assembly questioned the amount it could contribute to the school district because of Canada’s ship ban.

Even if such volatility is attenuated by the long-term birthing agreement a major cruise company (Royal Caribbean) has with the Sitka Sound Cruise Terminal, the industry will not provide a comprehensive resolution to the town’s economic predicaments, primarily for two reasons. 

First, even in those destinations which receive more than a million cruise tourists – like Juneau or Ketchikan – the resultant sales tax revenue hovers around four or five dollars per passenger. While this isn’t an insignificant windfall, it pales in comparison to the costs of repairing all of the town’s infrastructure. Consider that the Blue Lake Dam expansion alone ran into over $150 million.

Second, while the option of directly taxing the industry might both provide more stability and begin to meet Sitka’s infrastructure challenges, that is off the cards. Right from 1996 – when Holland America cut its stops to Sitka in half – to 2016 – when the industry association sued the city of Juneau for how it spent the state-wide head-tax –, the industry has persisted in its opposition to being taxed for any “general governmental purpose.”

The only direct tax on the industry, the state-wide CPV tax, is restricted to being expended towards the benefits of the ships or its passengers. At best, this might help offset the costs incurred by the city to service tourists, which does nothing to raise revenue to invest in other public needs. In short, Sitka might find itself in the strange position of hosting an industry with significant growth, and yet have no way to meaningfully tax it.

Nevertheless, given that other revenue streams – such as property tax –, which are both unrestricted and more stable, are non-starters due to the local cost-of-living, and in context of the “alligator” graph of rising infrastructure investments and stagnant governmental assistance, at present a growing cruise industry might be the only feasible answer to Sitka’s economic necessities, no matter how imperfect. In the management of those imperfections lies much of what is ahead.

Revisiting Fillmore: 800 + Photos and a Film

The last months, in COVID times, led me to revisit and share a photo series and the film that grew out of:

1. A resolution making English an official language. It divided a community (now we’d say polarized).

2. An early effort to look at a place with a camera and see beyond political acts.

THE STORY

Some months ago a museum in a town in Southern California ordered a copy of a film, called Miles from the Border, a 15 minute 16 mm film produced with a crew of grad students in 1986-1987. I followed up and contacted the museum to see if they were also interested in the 800-900 photos I’d taken on a classic twin lens (TLR) Rolleflex camera, during the same period. The staff was excited. So we got the hand developed negatives scanned and I visited Fillmore once again, thumb drive of images in hand. Now a slew of the black and white photographs have been shared on Facebook and Instagram so people can see them, identify who is in the images, comment and get copies for personal use. It’s led to families coming into the museum to see more images of friends and family, Zoom conversations, chatter about changes in the community and conversations about immigration, the English only resolution (that ended in 1999), laboring in citrus packing plants and the bra factory, worker housing on ranches and other topics that aren’t always talked about.

 

VIRTUAL FILM SCREENING

"Radiates humanity. Inspirational!"
Eduardo Diaz, Director, San Antonio CineFestival

“The immigrant experience is examined firsthand in the brief but powerful Miles from the Border. “
Teaching Tolerance

On Wednesday March 9th at 6 PM AKST there will be a free virtual screening of the film Miles from the Border.
Click here for more information. Hosted by the Fillmore Museum..

Manuela and Ben Aparicio, sister and brother, brought by their parents in search of a better future, arrived in the United States from a rural village in Mexico to a community in California. Twenty years later, they share their stories of dislocation and their determination to succeed. The screening will be followed by a discussion with Manuela and Ellen Frankenstein, the film director.

 

Ellen Frankenstein, the Director of Artchange has been making films and taking photos for almost three decades, starting in the darkroom and ending up on on computer screen in the digital realm.

See more photos from the series here.
Thanks to Panda Lab #rolleiflex And to the Fillmore Historical Museum for sharing the photos with the community.

From the Margins: Thoughts on Film and Climate Change

FLYING OVER THE SNOWY TUNDRA WHILE APPROACHING GOLOVIN, A VILLAGE WITH APPROXIMATELY 150 PEOPLE IN NORTHWEST ALASKA, NOVEMBER 2021

I recently returned from over a month-long trip to Golovin, a village in Northwest Alaska, on the literal and figurative margins of the United States. The only commonality between Golovin and Bombay, the city where I grew up, is that both are on the coast. Little else was familiar, from the white, wintry scenery to the eyelash-freezing temperature. Since I was on a production trip to make a short film about how climate change is impacting the village, it was impossible not to think about the creative challenges and responsibilities of cinematic depictions of climate change.

Only days after my return, Adam McKay’s Don’t Look Up released on Netflix, entailing Hollywood’s first forays into climate-related movie-making. Expectedly, perhaps, the film received a mountain of attention, given a cast comprising a passel of Hollywood mega-stars. Quite besides the impassioned judgements ranging from cinematic ineptitude to political percipience, watching the film was a helpful exercise in reflecting on the thoughts I had whilst in Golovin. What are the artistic challenges and responsibilities of making films about climate change?

By way of unreserved endorsement, I’d like to set aside platitudes and truisms outlining how, when faced by climactic apocalypse, art should help elicit climate-related concerns among the wider populace at least and occasion a re-evaluation of everything under the sun at most. The topic deserves more than bromides.           

As an exploration of artistic choice, McKay’s analogy for climate change is instructive: an extinction-level asteroid hurtling towards the earth; those expecting a thunder-and-lightening Armageddon are not disappointed. Filmmakers are unsurprisingly attracted to sensation. Something needs to happen before the camera for a film to be made. Oncoming comets, falling chunks of ice, starving animals and fiery forests all make for good, dramatic cinema.

Nevertheless, there is a remarkable dissonance between the process of environmental breakdown and its depictions on-screen. The climate crisis is so removed from sensation that perhaps the word “crisis” might well be a misnomer. Little is visually happening which can be discretely associated with planetary warming – there are few reasonable ways to film rising sea levels or melting ice caps. That McKay chose a storyline as exaggerated in itself is telling. This poses significant artistic difficulty, especially for documentarians, who don’t have the luxury of inventing situations wherein a crash and bang threaten to destroy everything.

A FISH-DRYING RACK IN GOLOVIN DURING A WINTER SUNSET, NOVEMBER 2021

An attraction to sensation can have significant consequences, since there need not be any overlap between the importance of stories which merit telling and the level of drama on filmable offer. Worse still, if a film is being made about a climactic catastrophe, it is already in some sense too late.

These are precisely the sort of challenges confronting me as I’m making a documentary about climate change. On cursory visits, a traveller to Golovin would be forgiven for believing that there are no problems in the village beyond the quotidian quibbles of human life. In a sense – primarily the visual one –, there is nothing happening. More careful visitors, however, will discover a plenitude of problems: one of the quickest rates of coastal erosion in Alaska, increasingly frequent and destructive storms, declining fish yields and concomitant food insecurity, melting permafrost, an immanent relocation from the low-lying downtown area; I could go on.

Few of these issues are immediately amenable to film. For instance, melting permafrost either can’t be filmed or makes for poor cinema. Same for coastal erosion and declining fish yields. Nevertheless, this does not obviate the need to make a film. That the symptoms of a rate of warming almost four times as rapid as the rest of the world are indifferent to the camera is no reason to not pick up one. Since it is borderline impossible, mercifully, to film the coastline eroding, I need to find a better way to depict the issue.

Faced with a series of issues not amenable to filming, an option might be to wait for there to be a story befitting a film. For instance, I can wait until Golovin is hit by a devastating storm to film the befores and afters, and couch the happenings in the context of climate change. Empirical impossibilities aside, this would be a mistake. Unlike other injustices documentarians might expose – government excesses in violating privacy, for example – waiting for the emergence of trouble does not guarantee the prevention of future damage. Quite the reverse, in most cases, since as the worst consequences of the climate crisis materialise, much of the warming will have become irreversible.

A RESIDENT OF GOLOVIN SITTING ON HIS ALL-TERRAIN VEHICLE IN GOLOVIN, OCTOBER 2021

Unless one views documentaries as literal documentation, of simply telling what happened to whom and where, albeit with a sprinkle of verisimilitude, the challenge posed by the climate crisis is one of prevention in the most concrete of senses. Post-facto filmmaking is uncomfortably close to futility. In the best of worlds, the film I make can sufficiently elucidate issues to enact actions to prevent the worst of the climate crisis in Golovin. This raises what I think is a great responsibility borne by artists depicting the climate crisis.      

Despite its elusiveness, there seems to be some consensus about the role of art in the contemporary world, where something clearly needs to change. Art, it is held, must enliven and expand our sense of possibilities. Take the latest recipient of the Nobel Prize in Literature, Abdulrazak Gurnah, who feels that besides reflecting on problems, literature ought to manifest “what can be otherwise.” For similar sentiments, take your pick of writers, from Amitav Ghosh and Ursula le Guin.

While it is virtually impossible to disagree with this view, it is surprising how rarely artists reflect on concrete possibilities. Ethically, how can one take interest in a crisis with such stakes without showing any interest in remediation? Why does a sense of possibilities preclude the proposition of actionable measures? How can possibilities be expanded if not by showing how some things could be done differently?

Especially because Golovin is a native village, I have tried to avoid the platitudes which often slip into a condescending romance. For instance, important as they might be, I don’t wish to dwell for too long on abstract, mystical questions about identity or the relation between humans and nature. Probably for the better, film is not philosophy. If I am successful, then the audience of my film will know both the precise problems resulting in Golovin due to the climate crisis, and concrete ways in which those might be addressed.

It ought to be clear by now that although the timeframe to maintain a habitable planet is fast attenuating, most of us are still able to live highly functional lives. As after World War II, those who expect thunder and lightening will still be disappointed. My basic conceit is that films, especially documentaries, about climate change ought to resist the temptation to sensation, become ex-ante rather than post-facto, and help the audience think meaningfully and precisely about what might be different in a more sustainable, more caring world.

Atman Mehta is a recent graduate of the University of Chicago, where he studied Political Science. His primary interests are in political theory and the political economy. Before those four years in Chicago, he grew up in Bombay, India.

Land Loss and Lessons in Patience: A Documentary Film in the Works

         I am working on a short documentary on communities facing coastal or riverine erosion in Northern Alaska with Artchange’s guidance. I hope the film highlights two main issues: first, the human experience of living in a place which is losing land far too quickly for anyone’s comfort; and second, how the state and federal governments have failed to adequately address this problem, and how their bureaucracies are particularly unamenable to addressing this sort of problem. What I particularly wish to highlight is how people are collectively responding to such challenges, and explore themes such as mutual assistance and social relations.

Of course, several important historical facts underpin these two issues: the historical relationship between these communities and the land, the resilience and importance of indigenous culture, the history of colonization and exploitation of indigenous communities, and ensuing negligence and marginalisation. To appropriately and sensitively convey this context in a short documentary is one of the primary challenges which beckons.

Approaching Siiḷivik (Selawik), 90 miles East of Kotzebue. A community, like others in the region, experiencing river erosion, thawing permafrost and a decreasing season of ice. (Still from the film Eating Alaska, 2008).

Approaching Siiḷivik (Selawik), 90 miles East of Kotzebue. A community, like others in the region, experiencing river erosion, thawing permafrost and a decreasing season of ice. (Still from the film Eating Alaska, 2008).

My overarching aim in making this documentary is twofold: on the one hand, I wish to explore how ordinary citizens are responding to environmental adversity without adequate state support; and on the other, somewhat relatedly, I want to explore possibilities. I hope the viewer of the documentary thinks about the myriad ways in which we can relate to each other, and consequently the myriad ways in which we can relate to the environment. A destructive, extractive relationship to resources and ecologies is certainly not inevitable. What would a more sustainable relationship to the environment look like? In a less environmentally destructive world, what kind of promises would we make to one another? These questions motivate me, and these are the ones I’m hoping to answer and find concrete descriptions of through the documentary.

So far, progress on the project has been slower than expected. I began this project thinking more about the technical choices which would best help tell my story: types of compositions, narrative structures, camera specifications, etc. While careful considerations about these these are indispensable to any good film, documentarians also need to invest as much or more time in building relationships with those they work with, and listen to and understand what they have to say. A big lesson I’ve learned is to be patient and to accept that pre-production, where you speak with people and understand the issues they face, takes time and one ought not to pressure that process.

Perhaps most important, speaking with people who face such significant challenges has helped me appreciate the human stakes of the environmental crises we face: besides the physical damage that is certain to occur, everyone I have spoken to has relayed their attachments to the landscapes they inhabit. As a mere interested commentator on climate change, my appreciation for such beauty and poetry has often unwittingly subsided. But conversations with residents of rural Alaska have reminded me, in some sense, what those who hope to mitigate climate change are fighting for. As Max Ehrmann wrote, “With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.”

Atman Mehta is  a recent graduate of the University of Chicago, where he studied Political Science. His primary interests are in political theory and the political economy. Before those four years in Chicago, he grew up in Bombay, India.