Leaving behind Anchorage, Alaska, we pulled onto the famed Seward Highly, and watched the transition from cityscape to wilderness happen almost immediately. Heading south, I sat silently in the passenger seat, eyes locked on the water beyond the road. My mind shifted into a familiar mode—the deep focus that takes over when I’m searching for a glimpse of wildlife. Like a needle in a haystack.
The sun blazed through the windshield, making it hard to tell whether the white mounds breaking the surface were oceanic whitecaps or something far more exciting. But with no wind, those back-to-back swells couldn’t be waves. My heart pounded. Belugas. I screamed for Adam to pull over, startling him so badly he nearly veered off the road. But he knew this moment wasn’t just special. It was one I had been waiting for my entire life.
Since childhood, I have been obsessed with beluga whales. It all started after a visit to the Baltimore Aquarium, where I left with a beluga plushie and a handful of fun facts about the “canaries of the sea.” Their intelligence, social nature, and undeniably strange appearance captivated me. While others fixated on dolphins or orcas, I proudly declared belugas as my own. That stuffed whale became my constant companion, a signature if you will, following me across the world, even surviving my move from New York to Western Australia. And now, here we were, in one of the few places on earth where you can spot them in a game of “I spy,” on an Alaskan road trip.
We pulled into the nearest overlook, but crossing the highway felt like an eternity. After all, the Seward Highway is one of the most scenic drives in America, packed with travelers all here for the same reason. Dodging cars, we finally made it across the Alaska Railroad, a route I had traveled exactly 25 years ago on a family vacation—perhaps one my first glimpses at life on “expedition.” Back then, at just 13 years old, I had taken the northern route from Anchorage to Talkeetna, then to Denali and Fairbanks—but had no clue that belugas swam these very waters, and would have done so in much greater numbers back then.
Our partners at NOAA Fisheries had given us the tip: the belugas were making their way north. The team, which has spent decades studying and protecting the Cook Inlet beluga population, had an unrivaled understanding of their movements. It’s when the text came through—an all-caps alert from one of my NOAA contacts that the whales were coming—that we bolted down the Seward Highway, adrenaline high. Beluga sightings weren’t guaranteed, but I wasn’t about to miss the chance.
When we finally climbed down to Beluga Point, we seemed to have shaken the other sightseers along the Seward Highway, which was ideal. The plan was simple. We were to sit, watch, and wait for the telltale white and silver humps to break the surface in synchronized lines. But then, to our surprise, nothing happened. I had been so sure I’d seen them from the highway, but now, staring at the still water, there was no movement. Not even the signature beluga footprint—a slick, glassy patch on the surface left behind when a whale exhales and dives. I strained my eyes, willing the ocean to produce what I had imagined. But still, nothing.
Belugas are highly social creatures, often traveling in pods ranging from just a few individuals to hundreds. Most migrate seasonally, following shifting Arctic sea ice—heading south as the ice forms in the fall and returning north in the spring to feed. That meant we were in the right place at the right time, just south enough to catch them on their journey, perfectly positioned to witness the belugas in full flight. Unlike many other whales, belugas often venture into river mouths, sometimes traveling upstream, which makes Cook Inlet a prime location for spotting them. NOAA has even designated key spots and peak times for sightings, bringing many people passing through and locals alike to relish in the crossings.
Another advantage of this region is that the whales’ diverse diet—salmon, herring, shrimp, mollusks—are found close to shore. This means the belugas will stir up the water in their chaotic hunt, which is all visible from the banks. Despite being slow swimmers, which makes them a bit easier to spot, belugas are also capable of deep diving—reaching depths of up to 700 meters (2,300 feet). Globally, their population sits between 150,000 and 200,000, with most living in the Arctic and surrounding seas, though some remain in specific regions year-round.
As I sat there running all these facts in my mind, scanning the horizon, that uneasy doubt began to creep in. You simply cannot time wildlife. Had I really seen them from the road? Or had I let my imagination take over, turning distant whitecaps into the whales I had been dreaming of since childhood?
But just as we debated our next move, a sudden splash broke the stillness. Then another. Chaos erupted in the shallows—something big was happening. We turned back toward the inlet, and there they were—easily 20 belugas, hunting in the mud. One by one, their white bodies surfaced, calves trailing closely behind, learning how to fish from their elders. They were so close we could see the silver sheen of the younger whales gliding through the water, mimicking the movements of the adults. What felt like a fleeting moment stretched into another hour, the world around us fading as we sat in silent awe, watching these animals carry out the rhythms of their lives, completely unbothered by our presence.
Belugas, known for their distinctive, flexible foreheads—called “melons”—are one of the few whale species that can change their facial expressions, which anthropomorphizes them just a bit more than some less “expressive” megafauna. Their vocal range, a mix of clicks, whistles, and squeals, is what gave them their aforementioned nickname “canaries of the sea.” To our ears, it might sound like music or chatter, but to belugas, these sounds carry essential messages—warnings, calls for companionship, and lessons passed down to the next generation like what we were seeing before us. Watching them interact, we were witnessing not just a hunting ritual, but a critical teaching moment, calves learning how to carry on their species survival in these waters.
But the thing about belugas, like so many whale species, is that their numbers are in decline. And standing there, witnessing this rare and beautiful moment, a strange sense of sorrow crept in—one I wasn’t expecting. I thought, after all this time, I’d be overjoyed at my chance to see belugas in the wild. But here in Alaska, more than most places, it’s bearing the brunt of the climate crisis, warming at nearly twice the global average. The state’s glaciers and sea ice, which have shaped ecosystems for thousands of years, are disappearing at an alarming rate. More rain falls now than snow, upending the delicate balance that species like belugas have relied on. Changing ocean temperatures and shifting prey availability are making life harder for them, and if trends continue, the Cook Inlet belugas—already critically endangered—could lose their home altogether. For now, though, they were here, thriving in the moment. And I snapped myself out of the doom and gloom cycle and focused on being grateful.
It’s easy to dwell on the negative—to get lost in thoughts about a planet in decline. Standing there, surrounded by these magnificent creatures, their whistles cutting through the water like an underwater melody, it was impossible not to feel the weight of their uncertain future. But moments like this—fleeting yet profound—aren’t just reminders of what’s at stake. They’re fuel. They reinforce why the fight for a cleaner, cooler, more sustainable future matters.
That day at Beluga Point, the call to action was unmistakable. It came from every direction—from the white melon heads breaking through the muddy water, from the shifting tides that signaled a changing world, and from an inner voice that refused to let doubt take hold. If we have the privilege of exploring these wild places, of standing at the edge of the sea and witnessing what still remains, then we also have a responsibility to protect them.
For a moment, I imagined dropping everything—moving to Alaska, dedicating my life to the belugas, fighting for the survival of an animal I’ve loved since before I can even remember. But this was also one of those rare moments of clarity. It wasn’t so much about where the work happened—it was about using whatever skills I had, wherever I was, to push for a planet that needs every last one of us. The easier path, of course, would be to turn away, to keep moving, to let someone else carry the burden of the war on the environment on their shoulders instead.
But as the belugas called out once more, I felt something shift. Their voices echo across the inlet, nudging me that much further into the work, ready to dive into any ocean, stand on any stage, and make sure their unmistakable songs would be sung well into the future.
To be continued …
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