Whittier, Alaska: The Epic Saga of America’s Most Unique Community

Introduction: Passage Through the Mountain

The journey to Whittier, Alaska begins with one of the most dramatic transitions in North American travel. The approach to the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel—carved through the formidable Maynard Mountain—feels like approaching a portal to another world. This 13,300-foot engineering marvel represents both barrier and gateway, the longest highway tunnel on the continent and the sole land connection between this isolated community and the rest of Alaska. As vehicles queue in the staging area, watching electronic signs count down the minutes until the next opening, a palpable sense of anticipation builds among travelers. What lies beyond this mountain? The tunnel itself, shared by vehicles and trains alike, offers a passage that feels both claustrophobic and wondrous—a damp, cold, mineral-scented journey through solid rock that has enveloped travelers for decades.

Emerging from the tunnel’s confines reveals a breathtaking panorama: a deep valley surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountains rising dramatically from the edge of Prince William Sound. Glaciers cling to mountainsides, waterfalls cascade down rocky cliffs fed by nearly 200 inches of annual rainfall, and at the water’s edge, a small collection of buildings clusters around a harbor filled with fishing boats and kayaks. Dominating this landscape stands a single, monolithic structure—a 14-story concrete building that appears more like a Soviet-era apartment block than an American town. This is Begich Towers, and within its walls lives nearly the entire population of Whittier, Alaska.

The first impression is one of surreal contrast: raw, untamed wilderness juxtaposed with stark, utilitarian architecture. The air carries a unique crisp mixture of saltwater, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of cold precipitation. The soundscape features crying gulls, distant boat engines, and the ever-present wind funneling through the valley. This is Whittier—a community where boundaries between home, work, school, and commerce blur into a single vertical village, where neighbors connect through hallways instead of streets, and where survival through brutal winters depends on unprecedented community cohesion.

The Secret Birth: Whittier’s Strategic Military Origins

To comprehend Whittier’s existence, one must travel back to the tense years following Pearl Harbor, when the United States military recognized Alaska’s critical strategic importance. With Japanese forces having invaded the Aleutian Islands, securing Alaska’s coastline became an urgent priority. Military planners needed an ice-free year-round port that was protected from storms and difficult for enemy forces to detect. Their search led them to a small, hidden inlet originally known to local Indigenous people as Whit-tuhr, later documented by the U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey as “Whittier” after poet John Greenleaf Whittier.

The location proved tactically perfect—tucked behind mountain walls and blanketed by nearly constant cloud cover, the port was virtually invisible from air and sea. Its deep, protected waters could accommodate large vessels, and it was positioned within reasonable distance of Anchorage via existing railroad routes, though that connection required passing through mountains via tunnel. In 1941, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers descended upon this remote wilderness with military urgency, establishing Camp Sullivan as a base for one of Alaska’s most ambitious wartime construction projects.

Workers faced relentless rain, freezing temperatures, and deep snow as they labored to clear land, build docks, and construct barracks. The most formidable task was completing the railroad tunnel through Maynard Mountain, requiring blasting through miles of solid rock under dangerous conditions. Men worked around the clock in shifts, using pneumatic drills and explosives while breathing air thick with rock dust and diesel fumes. Despite constant danger of cave-ins, the tunnel was completed in 1943, transforming Whittier into Alaska’s primary debarkation point for troops and cargo.

As World War II gave way to the Cold War, Whittier’s strategic importance increased. The standoff with the Soviet Union necessitated hardened, permanent facilities that could house hundreds of soldiers and their families while withstanding both harsh climate and potential enemy attack. This strategic imperative birthed the radical “city under one roof” concept that would define Whittier for generations. The military invested millions creating a self-contained community capable of functioning independently for extended periods, even under siege conditions. What began as a temporary wartime installation evolved into a permanent military community designed for nuclear age realities.

Concrete Giants: Construction of Buckner Building and Begich Towers

The “city under one roof” concept materialized through two colossal structures that would dominate Whittier’s landscape and define its unique character. The first and most ambitious was the Buckner Building, conceived as the ultimate self-contained community. Construction began in 1950 and finished in 1953 at a staggering $6 million cost (equivalent to over $60 million today). This massive six-story reinforced concrete behemoth contained over 280,000 square feet—one of Alaska’s largest buildings at the time.

The Buckner Building was designed as a fortress against elements and enemy attack. Its reinforced concrete walls could withstand severe weather and potential bombardment. Inside, it contained everything a community of over 1,000 might need: a 100-bed hospital with operating rooms, a four-lane bowling alley, a 250-seat theater, a bakery, library, radio station, jail, shooting range, commissary, snack bar, church, and even an automotive service bay. With its own power plant and heating system, the building was entirely self-sufficient. Corridors were wide enough for vehicles, and the entire structure connected to other military facilities via tunnel networks.

In 1957, a second large building completed nearby. Originally named the Hodge Building after the Military Railway Service commander, this 14-story high-rise represented a more modern approach to military housing. While not as all-encompassing as the Buckner Building, it still contained many amenities and offered comfortable apartment-style living for officers and their families. The building connected to others via above-ground tunnels and utilidors, allowing residents to move between facilities without braving harsh weather.

Construction posed logistical nightmares. Materials had to be shipped by barge or brought through the railroad tunnel. Workers battled extreme weather, with construction continuing through howling winds, heavy snow, and freezing temperatures. Concrete was specially formulated to cure properly in the cold, damp environment. Despite these challenges, both buildings completed on schedule, standing as monuments to military engineering and determination.

For a time, Whittier thrived as a bustling military outpost. The buildings hummed with activity—children playing in halls, families gathering for movies, constant comings and goings of military personnel. It was a unique, insulated, surprisingly vibrant community. This era wasn’t to last. Advances in military technology and strategy shifts led the Army to declare Whittier obsolete. In 1960, the military withdrew entirely, transferring port control to the Alaska Railroad. The population plummeted from over 1,200 to just a few dozen. The Buckner Building was abandoned to the elements, while the Hodge Building remained occupied by hardy civilians and railroad workers who saw potential in this strange, ready-made town. They incorporated as the City of Whittier in 1969, determined to carve out a life in the giants’ shadow.

The Heart of Whittier: Comprehensive Tour of Begich Towers

Today, the Hodge Building is known as Begich Towers, named after Alaska Congressman Nick Begich who disappeared in a 1972 plane crash. For most of Whittier’s residents, this 196-unit apartment building isn’t just home—it’s their entire world. Stepping inside through heavy doors feels like entering a different universe where conventional boundaries between public and private space have been completely reimagined.

The main entrance leads into a lobby serving as the town’s de facto main street. Walls lined with concrete block painted institutional pale yellow and green recall a 1950s school or hospital. Air carries a unique scent mixture of laundry detergent, cooking food, damp wool, and the subtle metallic tang of the sea that permeates everything in Whittier. The building generator’s hum provides constant, reassuring presence—a reminder that this community must generate its own power and withstand whatever weather assaults it from outside.

Just off the lobby, the Whittier post office operates from a small but efficient space. This is where residents collect mail and packages, serving as an informal social hub where news and gossip exchange alongside parcels. The postmaster knows everyone by name, often serving as informal clearinghouse for information about who’s out of town, who’s expecting important mail, and how everyone weathers the latest storm.

A few steps away lies the “Kozy Korner,” the building’s convenience and general store. Though small, it stocks an impressive variety considering its remote location: basic groceries, fresh produce (when shipments arrive), canned goods, hardware supplies, fishing gear, toiletries, and tourist souvenirs. Prices are higher than in Anchorage, reflecting transportation costs through the tunnel, but for many residents, the convenience of popping downstairs for milk or eggs without braving weather justifies the premium. The store also serves as an informal community center, with a small seating area where residents share coffee and catch up on daily events.

Further into the first floor, one finds the laundromat—an essential service where domestic rhythms play out publicly. Residents coordinate laundry schedules, help each other with large loads, and share stories while waiting for cycles to complete. The health clinic, staffed by a visiting nurse practitioner several days weekly, handles minor medical issues. For more serious concerns, patients must travel through the tunnel to Anchorage hospitals—a journey impossible during severe weather or when the tunnel closes for the night.

City government offices, including the mayor’s office and police department, are also located within the building. The Whittier police force, consisting of just a few officers, has one of the world’s most unique beats. They patrol hallways, respond to domestic disputes between neighboring apartments, and keep peace in a community where everyone knows everyone else. Their station includes a small holding cell, though serious offenders are typically transported to Anchorage.

Perhaps most remarkably, the building connects via underground tunnel to the school, meaning children can attend classes without going outside. This protected passageway proves essential during winter when brutal weather makes outdoor movement difficult or dangerous. The school itself serves students from kindergarten through high school, with multi-grade classrooms and a creatively adaptable teaching staff. School events, concerts, and basketball games become community-wide affairs, with residents packing into the small gymnasium to support children and neighbors.

The top two floors operate as a bed and breakfast, allowing visitors rare chances to experience life inside the “town under one roof.” Views from these upper floors are breathtaking, offering panoramic vistas of the harbor, glaciers, and relentless weather rolling in from the Sound. Guests often remark on the surreal experience of looking at wilderness from within a building containing an entire community.

Apartments themselves are studies in efficient, no-frills living. They range from compact one-bedroom units to more spacious three-bedroom layouts, all with stunning views from every window. The walls, as many residents note with wry smiles, are notoriously thin. Privacy is a relative concept. The sound of a neighbor’s television, family argument, or child practicing piano becomes part of the background music of life in the Towers. This acoustic intimacy fosters familiarity and community almost unimaginable in the modern world where suburbanites might not know their next-door neighbors’ names.

A Life Unlike Any Other: Social Fabric of a Vertical Village

Living in such close quarters creates social dynamics both incredibly intimate and occasionally challenging. Whittier is less a town and more a large, extended, occasionally dysfunctional family. The social structure operates with complexity anthropologists would find fascinating, governed by unwritten rules and norms evolved over decades of forced proximity.

The lack of anonymity shapes every interaction. Everyone knows everyone else’s business—who’s dating whom, who’s struggling financially, which teenager is pushing boundaries, which marriage is under strain. The line between public and private life is blurred, if it exists at all. A trip to take out trash or do laundry becomes a social event, a chance to catch up with neighbors and hear latest news. For teachers living in the building, there’s no escape from their students, who are also their neighbors. It’s common for teachers to hold impromptu reading lessons in their living rooms for students they bump into in hallways.

This constant togetherness requires particular personalities and well-developed senses of humor. Disputes between neighbors can’t be ignored; they must be resolved, as there’s literally no escape. Yet this same proximity forges incredibly strong bonds. Residents look out for one another. They check on elderly neighbors during storms, share meals when someone is sick, and band together in times of crisis. The community is tight-knit and resilient, built on mutual dependence foundations.

Life’s rhythm in Whittier is dictated by two things: weather and tunnel schedule. The tunnel, which closes at night, imposes a strict town curfew. Missing the last opening means being stuck on whichever side you find yourself—a common enough occurrence that residents take in stride. In winter, when days are short and weather ferocious, life retreats entirely indoors. The building becomes a warm, self-contained cocoon. Residents might not venture outside for weeks, socializing in each other’s apartments, attending community events in common areas, and watching the world outside their windows turn into a swirling maelstrom of snow and ice.

Despite isolation, or perhaps because of it, Whittier residents have cultivated rich community life. There are potluck dinners where everyone contributes dishes, holiday celebrations that take over entire building floors, and shared identity sense from choosing to live in one of Earth’s most unusual places. They’re a self-selecting group: independent, resourceful, and capable of finding beauty and camaraderie where many would find only claustrophobia and desolation.

The social hierarchy isn’t based on wealth or profession but on resilience, adaptability, and willingness to contribute to community. New arrivals are quietly assessed—not for background or education, but for ability to fit into the unique social ecosystem. Those who try maintaining strict boundaries or complain about privacy lack tend not to last long. Those embracing collective spirit, understanding that in Whittier your neighbor’s problem is ultimately your problem too, find themselves absorbed into a support network unlike any they’ve experienced before.

Children growing up in this environment develop particular worldviews. They understand community interdependence intuitively. They play in hallways with freedom unthinkable in most modern communities, moving freely between apartments as if the entire building were a single home. They learn reading social cues with unusual sophistication, understanding that a raised voice in one apartment might mean trouble, while laughter in another might mean a party they’re welcome to join. Their world is both incredibly small—confined to a single building—and remarkably large, surrounded by wilderness they learn to navigate and respect from early age.

The Unforgiving Climate: Whittier’s Eternal Dance with Elements

If the building is Whittier’s heart, then weather is its ever-present antagonist, shaping daily life in profound ways. Whittier exists in a unique meteorological funnel that makes its climate unlike anywhere else in Alaska, or indeed the world. Moist air sweeps in from the Gulf of Alaska and gets squeezed between mountains, resulting in almost unbelievable precipitation amounts. The town receives an average of 197 inches of rain and 250 inches of snow annually—more than double famously wet Seattle’s rainfall.

The rain is relentless, often falling for days or weeks without cessation. It comes in different forms—a fine mist hanging in air, a steady drizzle soaking everything, or a driving downpour lashing against windows and turning ground into a quagmire. Constant moisture creates a perpetually damp world. Clothing never quite dries completely, metal rusts overnight, and air always carries rich, organic scents of wet earth and decaying vegetation.

Wind is another formidable force. It screams down from glaciers and rips through the harbor with terrifying power, often reaching 60-80 mph speeds. During worst storms, it can be physically impossible to open Begich Towers’ doors, and the building itself sways gently in gusts. Wind sound is a constant companion—a haunting whistle through window frames, a howl around corners, and a low rumble vibrating through the building’s structure. Residents learn distinguishing between different wind sounds, knowing which signal passing squalls and which mean storms that might last for days.

Winter is a season of profound darkness and extreme conditions. The sun makes only brief appearance, if at all, casting weak twilight glow for few hours before disappearing again. Temperatures can plunge to -29°F, and snow falls in dense, heavy blankets that can bury cars and block doors. Avalanches are very real threats, with massive slides periodically roaring down steep mountainsides. In 2021, a particularly large avalanche stopped just short of the school—a sobering reminder of the natural forces surrounding the community.

During these long winter months, Begich Towers’ design proves its worth. The tunnel network, internal amenities, and close-knit community become not just convenient but essential for survival and sanity. Residents develop strategies for coping with confinement. Some embrace hibernation, focusing on indoor projects and personal pursuits. Others become more social, organizing impromptu gatherings and community events. The building’s common areas become vital social spaces where people can escape apartment confines without braving outside elements.

Yet for those calling it home, weather is also a pride source and strange beauty. The same rain falling for days on end feeds dozens of cascading waterfalls appearing on mountain faces overnight, creating spectacular, ever-changing landscapes. The fog blanketing the town can create profound peace and isolation atmospheres, muting sounds and softening edges until the world seems wrapped in cotton wool. On clear days, when sun breaks through and illuminates snow-capped peaks and glittering water, few places on Earth match its stunning, dramatic beauty. Residents learn appreciating these fleeting brilliance moments, making them all the more special.

The climate demands adaptation and resilience in equal measure. Clothing is functional rather than fashionable—waterproof layers, insulated boots, and sturdy gloves are daily necessities. Vehicles are equipped with heavy-duty tires and emergency supplies for when weather traps people between tunnel openings. Homes within Begich Towers are designed for practicality, with entryways large enough to shed wet gear and storage spaces for extensive winter supplies.

Perhaps most importantly, weather fosters deep understanding of nature’s power and unpredictability. Residents develop a sixth sense for reading sky, wind, and water, knowing when it’s safe to venture out and when it’s time to batten down hatches. This intimate environmental knowledge becomes a pride point, a hard-won wisdom separating true Whittierites from temporary residents and visitors.

The Ghost in the Mist: Haunting Legacy of the Buckner Building

Standing a short walk from Begich Towers’ warm, inhabited glow is its silent twin, the Buckner Building. If Begich Towers is Whittier’s beating heart, the Buckner is its ghostly, decaying skeleton—a physical manifestation of memory and entropy haunting the town’s periphery.

Abandoned since the army’s 1966 departure, the building has been surrendering to nature for over half a century. Its broken windows stare out like empty eye sockets, offering glimpses into a world frozen in time. Exterior concrete, once smooth and uniform, is now stained with water marks, streaked with rust from reinforcing bars, and covered in places with hardy lichens and mosses finding purchase in microscopic cracks and fissures.

Venturing inside—though strongly discouraged due to safety hazards and illegality—reveals apocalyptic decay scenes. Water drips constantly from collapsing ceilings, creating small ice rinks on floors in winter and shallow pools in summer. Walls are scarred with peeling paint layers and graffiti left by decades of adventurous visitors. Graffiti ranges from simple names and dates to elaborate murals contrasting starkly with the building’s utilitarian origins. Hallways that once echoed with children’s laughter and soldiers’ footsteps now lead only into darkness and rubble, their ceilings collapsed and floors buckled by decades of freeze-thaw cycles.

The interior is a chaotic maze of crumbling rooms and debris-strewn corridors. In the hospital wing, rusted bed frames stand askew amid broken glass and plaster. The bowling alley still contains skeletal remains of lanes and pin-setting machinery, now so degraded they’re unrecognizable to anyone who didn’t see them in their prime. The theater’s stage is collapsed, its velvet seats mildewed and torn, and the projection booth contains ghostly equipment long since removed or stolen. The swimming pool is an empty concrete shell filled with debris and stagnant water. Everywhere, mold, damp concrete, and decay smells hang heavy in air.

The Buckner Building irresistibly lures urban explorers and photographers drawn to its eerie, post-apocalyptic atmosphere. It has been featured in documentaries, television shows, and countless online videos, often used as a perfect stand-in for dystopian futures or haunted locations. However, exploring it is extremely dangerous. The structure is unstable, full of holes leading to lower floors, and contaminated with asbestos and lead paint. The city has made efforts to seal it off, but the allure remains strong for those seeking adventure or perfect photographs.

For Whittier residents, the Buckner is simply part of the landscape—a familiar, if melancholy, neighbor. Older residents who lived there during its operational days might share stories of Christmas parties in the auditorium or bowling tournaments that brought the whole community together. For newer residents, it serves as a constant, physical reminder of the town’s origins and a testament to its resilience. The people of Whittier stayed and built a community long after the military that created it had left, choosing life in a ghost’s shadow.

The building also represents an ongoing community challenge. Its deterioration poses environmental concerns, particularly regarding asbestos and other hazardous materials. Demolition would be astronomically expensive due to these contaminants and the building’s rugged construction. Stabilization or repurposing seems equally financially daunting. Various ideas have been proposed over years—converting it into a museum, hotel, artist colony—but none have gained traction due to immense costs involved. For now, it remains in strange limbo: too dangerous to enter, too expensive to demolish, too historic to ignore, and too massive to disappear.

The Buckner Building stands as an impermanence monument, a reminder that even the most solid and imposing human creations are ultimately temporary against nature’s relentless power. Its gradual element return provides a sobering counterpoint to the vibrant community life just a few hundred yards away in Begich Towers—a daily lesson in fragility and resilience that every Whittier resident understands on some level.

The Rhythm of the Tunnel: Whittier’s Lifeline to the World

The Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel is more than just a passage; it is the town’s umbilical cord, its lifeline, and its timekeeper. Every aspect of Whittier life is scheduled around its opening and closing, creating a rhythm that structures existence in this isolated community.

The tunnel’s operation is a logistics and engineering marvel. It is a single lane shared by cars and trains on a meticulously coordinated schedule. Traffic controllers at either end manage flow using a sophisticated signal and communication system, allowing vehicles to pass from one side to the other in designated 15-minute windows. The process is precisely timed: westbound opening might be from 6:30 to 6:45, followed by eastbound opening from 7:00 to 7:15, and so on throughout the day. The wait can be long, especially during summer tourist season when RV and car lines stack up, but it is a necessary ritual everyone accepts.

The tunnel experience itself is unforgettable. At the appointed time, massive steel doors slide open, and vehicles proceed single-file into darkness. The tunnel is narrow—just wide enough for one vehicle—with rough-hewn rock walls seeming to press in from all sides. Moisture drips from the ceiling in places, and air is cold and heavy with damp concrete and vehicle exhaust smells. The journey takes about ten minutes at mandated 25 mph, though it feels longer in near-total darkness broken only by headlights and occasional maintenance lights. When a train needs to pass, vehicle traffic halts entirely, and the tunnel becomes the Alaska Railroad’s exclusive domain, whose trains glide through on tracks embedded in the roadway.

Before the tunnel upgraded to accommodate vehicle traffic in 2000, Whittier access was even more limited—only by boat or by train a few times weekly. The tunnel opening to cars revolutionized the town, bringing tourist influx and making easier resident access to Anchorage supplies and services 60 miles away. Yet this new accessibility was a double-edged sword. While it brought economic opportunity through tourism and easier goods access, it also eroded some of the profound isolation that had defined the community for decades. Some old-timers wistfully recall pre-road days when the community was even tighter and more self-reliant, and when visitors were rare enough to be notable events.

The tunnel also imposes a unique curfew form. When it closes for the night (typically around 10:30 PM, though schedule varies by season), Whittier is truly cut off. There’s no popping out for late-night snacks or driving to Anchorage for concerts. If you miss the last opening, you are, as local T-shirts say, a “POW” – Prisoner of Whittier. This reality fosters a powerful sense of being in a place apart, a world physically disconnected from the mainstream for large daily portions. During long winter nights when the tunnel closes early, the community turns inward, becoming even more self-contained and intimate.

The tunnel rhythm—open, close, open, close—becomes life’s rhythm. It structures the day, determines when people can come and go, and creates natural boundaries between “town time” and “outside time.” Residents develop almost subconscious awareness of the tunnel schedule, planning lives around its openings and closings. It’s a constant reminder that the town is both connected to and separated from the outside world—a paradox every resident learns to navigate.

The tunnel also serves as a psychological barrier, marking transition between the conventional world and Whittier’s unique reality. Passing through it feels like crossing a threshold into a different life—one governed by different rules, rhythms, and priorities. For residents returning home, the tunnel passage provides a gradual mental shift from Anchorage bustle to Whittier’s quieter, more contained existence. For visitors, it builds anticipation and creates a sense of arriving somewhere truly special and apart from the ordinary world.

Faces of the Community: Why They Choose to Stay

Who would choose living in such a place? The answer is as diverse as the residents themselves, each with their own story of how they came to Whittier and why they stayed.

There are old-timers like Brenda Tolman, who arrived in the 1980s as a California sign painter, terrified by her first town glimpse but ultimately captivated by its uniqueness. She became a community matriarch, running a local business and embodying Whittier’s tough, independent spirit. Her stories span decades of change and continuity—from pre-road days when supplies came mostly by barge to the current tourism and connectivity era.

There are families with young children who appreciate life’s safety and simplicity. Kids have unprecedented freedom to roam and play within the building’s secure confines and its connected tunnels. The school is small with multi-grade classrooms, allowing close-knit educational experiences where every teacher knows every student intimately. Parents appreciate their children experiencing a childhood that seems from another era—free from many modern life dangers and pressures, immersed in nature, and part of a community where everyone looks out for them.

There are immigrants, particularly from Pacific Islands like American Samoa and the Philippines, drawn by railroad, tunnel, or city job opportunities. They’ve added new cultural layers and diversity to the community, sharing traditions and foods at town potlucks and introducing new perspectives to this isolated place. Their journey to Whittier—from tropical islands to this cold, damp Alaskan outpost—represents a remarkable adaptation and opportunity-seeking story in unexpected places.

There are artists and writers seeking solitude and inspiration from the dramatic landscape. They find in Whittier a distraction-free place where ever-changing weather and light create endless visual drama, and where the unique social environment provides rich material for their work. Their presence adds creative energy to the community, manifesting in art shows, writing groups, and impromptu common space performances.

There are fishermen working Prince William Sound’s rich waters, their lives tied to seasons and fish migrations. They might live in Begich Towers but spend days or weeks on their boats, returning with whale encounter stories, weather battles, and good catch satisfaction. Their local water knowledge is encyclopedic, passed down through generations or learned through hard experience.

And there are people simply running from or toward something else, finding in Whittier a place to disappear and reinvent themselves. The town has always attracted those who don’t fit neatly into conventional society—individualists, nonconformists, and fresh start seekers. The community is generally accepting of such people, asking few questions about past lives as long as newcomers contribute positively to collective well-being.

Their staying reasons are equally varied. Some cite the profound community sense, the feeling of being part of a large, quirky family. Others love the raw, untouched natural beauty surrounding them—harbor whales, soaring eagles, mountainside glaciers. Some appreciate low living costs and absent daily commutes. For many, it’s the sheer uniqueness, the knowledge that they’re living a story few others can tell.

They all share a common trait: resilience. Whittier life isn’t always easy. It demands adaptability, humor, and willingness to help neighbors. Residents wouldn’t have it any other way. They take pride in handling whatever challenges weather, isolation, or close quarters throw at them. This shared resilience creates deep bonds forged through shared experience and mutual dependence.

The Future of the Town Under One Roof

Whittier stands at a crossroads, balancing its unique past with an uncertain future. The town faces significant challenges testing the resilience that has defined it for decades.

The most pressing issue is Begich Towers’ aging infrastructure. Now over six decades old, the building shows its age. Plumbing, electrical systems, and elevators require constant expensive maintenance. In recent years, all four building elevators needed simultaneous costly repairs—a major crisis for elderly upper-floor residents and for moving supplies through the building. The city must constantly seek state and federal funding for these essential projects to keep the vertical village functioning. Maintaining such a unique structure is enormously costly, and the few hundred resident limited tax base makes financial sustainability a constant concern.

Tourism continues growing, brought by road and by Whittier’s growing curiosity fame. Summer months see cruise ships disgorging thousands of daily visitors who wander through town taking photographs and peering into windows. While the economic boost supports local businesses and creates jobs, it also brings congestion, noise, and town character changes. Long-time residents worry about Whittier becoming a tourist spectacle rather than a living community. Tensions exist between tourism’s economic benefits and the desire to maintain privacy and the unique lifestyle that originally attracted people to Whittier.

There’s also the ever-present Buckner Building question. A constant safety hazard and decay reminder, its future is an endless debate topic. Demolition would be astronomically expensive due to asbestos and the building’s rugged construction. Stabilization or repurposing seems equally financially daunting. For now, it remains a ghost at the feast, slowly deteriorating and posing ongoing environmental and safety concerns.

Yet Whittier’s spirit endures. The same resilience that led a handful of civilians to stay after the military left continues driving the community today. There’s fierce home pride and determination to preserve their way of life. New generations are growing up in the Towers, knowing no other reality, and they’re key to the town’s future. Many young people leave for college or outside life experience, but some return, bringing new ideas and energy back to the community.

The city government, though small, is innovative and determined to find solutions to these challenges. They explore creative funding opportunities, develop sustainable tourism management strategies, and work to balance preservation with progress. Community meetings are well-attended and often lively, reflecting the passion residents feel for their unique home.

Whittier will likely never be a bustling metropolis. Its geography and climate ensure that. But it doesn’t want to be. Its value lies in its exception, its strangeness, its human adaptability testament. It is a living museum, social experiment, and community all rolled into one. The town under one roof story is still being written—one elevator ride, one tunnel opening, and one long winter at a time.

The future may bring changes—perhaps new technologies making living there easier, or new economic opportunities allowing the community to thrive without compromising its character. But Whittier’s essential nature—its resilience, community spirit, unique relationship with harsh and beautiful environment—will undoubtedly endure. It has survived military abandonment, natural disasters, and economic challenges for decades, and it will continue adapting and persevering—a testament to the human capacity to create home in the most unlikely places.

Conclusion: More Than a Curiosity

Whittier, Alaska, is often reduced to a fun fact, a piece of trivia about a strange place where everyone lives in one building. But to those looking closer, it reveals itself as so much more. It is an American history story, born from world war strategic fears. It is a mid-century engineering marvel, a testament to a time when we believed we could build anything, even a city under one roof. It is a community case study, demonstrating how human connection can flourish in the most unlikely containers.

Most of all, it is a home. It is a place where children ride hallway bikes, where neighbors share meals, and where the entire town gathers to watch summer cruise ships come and go from the harbor. It is a place of stunning natural beauty and incredible personal freedom, set against a backdrop of relentless weather and profound isolation.

The tunnel journey to Whittier is a passage into another life—one that’s slower, closer, and more interdependent. It challenges our community, privacy, and resilience notions. Whittier isn’t for everyone, but for the few hundred people calling it home, it is everything. They’ve chosen a life of extraordinary simplicity and profound complexity, all within a single remarkable building’s concrete walls.

In an increasingly connected and homogenized world, Whittier stands as a reminder that different living ways are still possible. It represents a choice to prioritize community over convenience, resilience over comfort, and character over conformity. Whittier people have built a life many would find unimaginable, and in doing so, they’ve created something precious and rare.

They are the town under one roof’s keepers, and their story is one of America’s most compelling—a story continuing to unfold with each passing season, each tunnel opening, and each generation choosing to call this extraordinary place home.