‘We’ve become an amusement park’: the Alaskan town torn apart by cruise ship tourism | Global development

“The noise never stops,” says Karla Hart, her voice competing with the hum of approaching helicopters. “I can feel them before I see them.” She looks at her phone to check a website that monitors air traffic and identifies operators. Hart wants to know whether the pilots are adhering to legal flight routes.

A few minutes later, five helicopters, flying in formation, crisscross the grey October skies above Hart’s home in Juneau, Alaska’s capital. “I get groups of two to five helicopters flying over my house every 20 minutes. On any given day, that adds up to 50 to 75 flights. It’s impossible to enjoy my garden or concentrate on work.”

For Hart and other Juneau residents, the noise from helicopters shuttling cruise tourists to remote glaciers is one of the many reminders of how their lives are being upended by a city that has embraced industrial tourism.

Juneau is one of the US’s most remote towns, accessible only by air or sea. The waters surrounding it are the traditional fishing grounds of Alaska’s Indigenous communities. It is wedged between towering mountains and the Gastineau Channel, a dramatic vista for more than 1.5 million cruise passengers who visit annually. Juneau was historically reliant on timber and gold, but as those industries have declined, the city now depends on tourism and government sector jobs.

Cruise season runs from April to October, with as many as five vessels docking daily in the heart of the historic district. Ships such as the Ovation of the Seas and Norwegian Bliss, with passenger capacities exceeding 4,000 plus crew, arrive in the morning and depart by nightfall, only to be replaced by new arrivals. This cycle continues until the treacherous Taku Winds, with gusts reaching more than 100mph, signal the end of the season.

The rhythm of the cruise season dictates daily life for Juneau’s 32,000 residents. Local people monitor the schedule provided by the Alaska Cruise Ship Association and avoid the centre during peak cruise hours. Traditional seasons have been replaced by two distinct periods: cruise and non-cruise.

Under an agreement with the City of Juneau, up to 16,000 cruise passengers disembark daily from Sunday to Friday, with a cap of 12,000 on Saturdays. Annually, cruise passengers outnumber the local population by 50 to one.

Hart eagerly anticipates the end of the cruise season. It will offer a break from traffic congestion on the town’s single-lane road, and the relentless noise from aircraft ferrying tourists seeking a brief taste of Alaska wilderness. Souvenir shops selling little that’s authentically Alaskan, alongside jewellery stores offering Tasmanite and pendants for couples celebrating milestones, will shutter. Themed pubs, aspiring to evoke a bygone era, will close for the season.

Hart, a former tourism business owner turned activist, is at the centre of a political fight that has divided the community. She spearheaded Proposition 2, a ballot initiative aimed at banning cruise ships on Saturdays and 4 July. In October, it was defeated by a margin of about 60/40, with approximately 10,000 people voting, more than in the mayoral election, which took place at the same time. “We’ve become an amusement park,” Hart says. “The soul of Juneau is being sold off piece by piece.”

Residents cherish their access to Alaska’s vast wilderness – its forests, mountains, waters and glaciers. They value the security and sense of community that defines small-town life in America. But Juneau’s identity has fundamentally changed with the rise of an industry that monetises experiences local people take for granted. Hiking, whale watching, fishing and kayaking – everyday activities for Juneauites – are packaged and sold at premium prices aboard the cruise ships.

“It is a once-in-a-lifetime trip,” says Pat Farrell, who is in Juneau with his wife, Freda. The semi-retired couple from Dublin are passengers on the Celebrity Solstice and are on a typical seven-night Alaska itinerary. After a day of excursions, they return to the ship, where meals and drinks are already paid for.

They take a few minutes to break away from the stream of passengers descending the terminal and crossing the ship’s gangway. Nearly 320 metres long and 19 decks high, the Celebrity Solstice is fully lit, shimmering in the late Alaskan summer evening. It’s hard to argue that these giant ships aren’t an engineering marvel.

“I wanted to see the glaciers before they melt,” says Freda. Pat adds: “We’ve seen things we never would have, like glaciers and whales. It’s just beautiful.” Though conscious of the environmental impact of their cruise, they wanted to see these places before it was too late.

The Farrells have noticed banners and storefront display stickers promoting cruise ship tourism but they are also aware of community divisions. “I see that some of these towns depend on the cruise ships,” Freda says. The ease of travel made the cruise an attractive option though. “Everything is well-organised, and the service is top-notch. It’s hard to resist the temptation. It’s the adventure of going to Alaska.” They tried to support local businesses. “We made it a point to shop at a store that says it’s Alaskan-owned, but I do wonder how the locals feel with so many of us here.”