There and Back Again – Part 2: The Road Even More “Less” Traveled

It turns out the road doesn’t remember you.

You remember it, the bends, the landmarks, the way the light hits the water just before the weather turns, but the road itself?
It just keeps going.

It’s April now. I know the next two months will fly by, which is why I am prepping now. Shot lists are being created. Gear is being checked. Batteries charged. Lists made and remade—and then made again, if I’m being honest.

I’m getting ready to head back to Sitka, north across the water, back to the hometown and a ton of nostalgia. The documentary film is still in flight and I’ll be filming more for The Flight of Raven / Voices Across the Water.

Last time, I went looking for something I thought I understood.

This time… I’m not so sure.

There’s a difference between remembering a place and listening to it decades later, thinking you'll find the same frequency.

Memory fills in gaps. Smooths edges. Turns time into melody.

But a microphone doesn’t do that. A camera doesn’t either.
They just sit there… waiting for the truth to walk into frame.

And that’s what this trip is about.

Not just documenting how KCAW Raven Radio came to be—
but understanding what it is now.

What it means to the people who rely on it.
What it sounds like in a world that’s gotten louder, faster, more fragmented.
What happens if that signal; steady, local, human, ever goes quiet.

Because here’s the thing I keep circling back to:

Most people think of radio as background noise.

But in places like Sitka… in Southeast Alaska, or any remote part of the world…
radio is infrastructure.
Radio is important.
Radio is how you know you’re not alone when the weather closes in and the rest of the world feels very far away.

And maybe that’s what I’m really chasing.

Not nostalgia.
Not just a story.

Something closer to that signal.
That thread that connects people across distance and yes, time.

And maybe, that thread matters to me now more than it used to.

Life has a way of reminding you what’s fragile.

In the time between my first documentary film journey last June and now, I’ve felt the weight of loss in a way I hadn’t before. Losing my mom shifted something in me, quietly, but permanently. It changes how I listen. It changes what I hold onto.

I think about the way we find our way through things—how, when we’re younger, we assume the path will reveal itself clearly. And how, later, we realize most of us are just feeling our way forward, doing the best we can with what we have.

I see that in my own life.
In the roads I’ve taken.
And in watching my son begin to search for his own compass point.

There’s no map for that.

Just patience.
Plenty of time.
And the understanding that the people we love—imperfect, unique, sometimes lost, sometimes found, are still moving forward in their own way.

There’s a moment in The Fellowship of the Ring where the road isn’t just a path anymore, it’s a pull. Something that keeps unfolding whether you’re ready or not.

That’s what this feels like now.

Less like going back.
More like continuing.

Life is a quick flash in the cosmic fish fry.

And maybe this… this work, this return, this listening, is just my way of adding a little something to the plate. A bit of context. A bit of connection. Maybe even some informational garnish that helps the whole thing make a little more sense.

So I’m heading north again.

Not to revisit what was,
but to understand what still is.

To ask better questions.
To listen more carefully.
To follow the signal a little further out.

Here I am.

Going forward.

And getting it done.

April 13, 2026

This is a late post… which, if you know me, tracks.

When I returned home in October from my quick Sitka trip over Alaska Day weekend, my mom’s health had severely declined. She was in hospice care. My brother, my father, and I spent that last week with her. And if I must say, it was the kind of week where time goes strange. The days feel both endless and brutally short. You’re there, doing what you can, saying what you can, trying to be steady… while part of you is already bracing for the moment you don’t want to arrive.

Then she passed.

I was devastated. And if I’m honest, I also compartmentalized her death. Not because I didn’t love her, but because sometimes that’s the only way you can keep moving without collapsing. Grief doesn’t always show up in dramatic waves, or slow motion rainfall. Sometimes it shows up as a quiet numbness, a delayed reaction, a drawer you keep shut because you’re not sure you can survive opening it yet.

All of that shifted my documentary plans. Not in a way that abandoned the work — but in a way that changed the center of gravity. The “why” got heavier. The meaning got sharper. The urgency got quieter… but more real.

The holidays came and went. I did the customary things with my family, ad we celebrated my mom. We also supported my dad during this time. They were married 63 years, so being alone has been difficult for my dad.

So here’s where things stand now:

I’m heading back to Southeast Alaska to finalize the local filming of my documentary about Raven Radio — KCAW in Sitka, our public radio station — and yeah, I do claim that station as mine, too. That part seems to get overlooked sometimes when I visit now on this project, like I’m just some guy who “used to be around” or someone passing through with a camera. But I wasn’t just a visitor.

We moved to Sitka from Annette Island in 1976. I began as a volunteer in 1981 — before the station was even on the air. So yes, I may have left Sitka in 1990, but I’ve supported Raven Radio ever since. And before that, I worked and volunteered there for eight years.

That place shaped me. It gave me a sense of purpose, a community, outside of high school the station was a kind of creative oxygen I didn’t even know I needed. It taught me how to listen. How to tell stories. How to show up. And it made such a lasting impact on my life that I’m coming back home to make a film about it. And I’m in, for all the same reasons I fell in love with it in the ’80s, and because those reasons are still alive and well today.

I still have several more people to sit down with, which is great, the ones keeping the lights on now, and the ones who helped launch this thing back in 1981. The builders. The caretakers. The voices behind the voices.

Between now and that trip, I have other remote interviews lined up with former staff and volunteers from the early days. People who remember how it felt when it was all just getting started.  When it was more faith than infrastructure, more purpose than polish — and still, somehow, it worked because the people who worked there, the volunteers and the communities it serves needed it too.

I’m planning to go back to Sitka in late spring to finish up the local filming (I believe), and to keep gathering the pieces of this story — past and present — while I’m carrying everything else, too.

Because maybe this is what I know how to do when I’m grieving: I go toward creativity, community, family. I go toward the signal.

More soon.

-Kurt Hunter 01/25/2026

Alaska Day and Public Radio in need

Despite efforts to cut public funding, public radio keeps showing up—still there on the dial, still doing the work. On the surface, many stations look steady; in reality, they’re under significant strain, operating at 25–40% below normal budgets. Like worn fishing nets, these budgets are stretched and mended because the work is too important to abandon.

This film began as a dive into the origin story of Raven Radio—one station and the community that sustains it. As I started filming, the funding landscape shifted: federal reductions wiped out essential support that once seemed assured. The story widened. My chronicle of Raven Radio—past and present—now asks an urgent question: What is the future of KCAW? Sitka’s experience underscores how vital local radio is for information, emergency alerts, community building, and cultural sharing—needs reflected across Alaska and the country.

I’m heading back to Sitka next month, focusing on Alaska Day (October 18)—a time when the town comes alive with festivities, parades, and family gatherings. I’ll be recording interviews and capturing the small, telling details that show what radio means here, not as an idea but as a daily practice.

As the film grows, so does the responsibility. I’m telling the story of a station I love, and I’m also trying to reflect a wider truth: public radio in Alaska remains a beacon, even as the power to keep it shining grows scarce.

If you’re able, support your local station—it’s one of the most direct ways to keep these voices alive. Real people. Real stories. Still on the air. - Kurt Hunter 10/05/25

When public radio is working, it can seem invisible—like a lighthouse you don’t notice until the fog rolls in.

In remote Alaska, that beacon is essential, often taken for granted, and hard to explain until you need it most. That’s the story we’re telling.

Put simply: in Southeast Alaska, radio is the one thing that still works when weather, power, or the internet don’t. It’s the daily heartbeat—emergencies, culture, voices, and practical information—connecting islands and people who can’t rely on roads or broadband. It’s how a scattered region becomes a community.

It’s about safety. Storm warnings, tsunami alerts, missing-boat bulletins, wildfire updates—delivered fast, locally, and by people you trust. When minutes matter, a calm voice on FM can change what happens next.

It’s about connection. Birthdays on the morning show. Obituaries read with care. School closures, ferry changes, lost-and-found announcements. In a place defined by mountains and water, radio is the common room where everyone can gather.

It’s about culture and language. Local music that sounds like home. Native voices honoring history and keeping language alive. Storytelling you won’t hear from far away, because it belongs to this place and these people—real people, real stories.

It’s about education and youth. Teen DJs learning to speak up. Student reporters discovering how to listen. That first moment behind a microphone when a young person realizes their voice can carry across the water.

And it’s about reliability. When fiber lines snap or cell towers go down, the signal still reaches boats and villages. “Old tech” is resilient tech—low-cost, low-ego, and there when it counts.

A film is the right way to show this—pairing the intimate sound of radio with the land and sea it serves. You’ll see translator shacks iced over on a ridge, hear a host repeat coordinates into the night, and meet the people whose lives are quietly braided together by a voice on the air.

Thank you for helping bring this story to the screen. Your support turns the invisible into something you can see, hear, and feel—and ensures that the signal keeps carrying, one hop at a time.

-Kurt Hunter(8/22/25)

Director’s Notes – Crowdfunding - One Week Left — Let’s Finish Strong! 8/16/2025

We’ve entered the final week of the Seed&Spark campaign for Raven Radio: Voices Across the Water, and I couldn’t be more grateful for what we’ve accomplished together. We’re closing in on our goal, and that’s because of you—everyone who has contributed, shared the campaign link, told a friend, or simply encouraged me along the way. Every gesture of support has mattered.

This isn’t just about finishing a film. It’s about telling the story of how one small group of volunteers in Sitka built a radio station that became a lifeline across thousands of square miles of Central Southeast Alaska. In a place with no roads between towns, Raven Radio became the voice that connected communities—sharing local news, emergency alerts, music, laughter, and the sound of neighbors talking to neighbors.

In Alaska, radio is not optional—it’s essential. It reaches fishing boats out at sea, isolated villages on the outer coast, and families who depend on it when storms roll in or when the only link to the wider world is a radio signal bouncing across the water. Raven Radio is one of the clearest examples of what public broadcasting can be: local, responsive, and built by the people it serves.

At a time when federal support for public broadcasting is shrinking, this film stands as a reminder of how vital stations like Raven are, and why they deserve our backing. My hope is that Voices Across the Water will not only honor the people who built and sustained this station, but also inspire greater support for public broadcasting—even when those in power fail to see its value.

So here we are: the final push, the last leg of the journey. With your help, we can get this film across the finish line, capture more voices, and share a story that is truly bigger than any one person—it’s the story of community, resilience, and the belief that every voice deserves to be heard.

💙 Thank you for walking this path with me. Let’s finish strong.

👉 https://seedandspark.com/fund/the-flight-of-raven-1#story

#RavenRadio #Documentary #FinalPush #PublicRadio #AlaskaStories

Raven Radio: Voices Across the Water - 7/15/2025

I’ve been deep in the editing cave lately, working through hours of video footage and photographs from my first trip to Sitka. It’s been both a rewarding and humbling process—each frame seems to hold a thread of the story I’m trying to weave together. The more I work through the material, the clearer it becomes: this isn’t just the story of a radio station. It’s the story of community.

A heartfelt thank-you to Rich McClear for taking the time to sit down for a thorough and generous interview, even while hosting visiting family. Rich’s insights were invaluable in shaping the historical and cultural framework of the Raven Radio documentary. He helped bring to life not just how the station came to be—but why it mattered then, and still matters now.

Conversations with Mollie Kabler added key context around CoastAlaska and sparked vivid recollections from Raven’s early days—moments that reminded me just how much this station was built on passion, DIY tenacity, and a shared love of community-driven media. So a big thank you to her! And to Mariana Robertson, Raven’s current general manager, whose thoughtful perspective gave me insight into how the station’s mission has evolved and what it’s up against in the current climate—particularly with the continued reduction of federal funding for public broadcasting.

This clawback in funding isn’t just a budget line—it’s a threat to the kind of independent, local information that defines stations like Raven. In a region where communities are remote and often underserved by national media, cutting public media support means cutting people off from trusted voices, and essential information. Alaska's public radio stations aren’t just media outlets—they’re lifelines.

To help bring this story to life, I’m launching a crowdfunding campaign on Seed&Spark. The funds will help support a return trip to Sitka, where I’ll conduct additional interviews with former staff, volunteers, and others who helped shape Raven Radio’s legacy. I want to capture not only the founding story, but also the voices that carried it forward through the years—the people behind the hours of program preparation, the reporting, the laughter, in addition to the time and current events.

One of those voices is Cat Leiser, host of the wonderfully offbeat and log-lived Music for Amphibians. Our conversation reminded me how Raven isn’t just preserving its legacy—it’s still evolving. Cat’s journey into community radio offers a glimpse of the new generation stepping up, experimenting, and making the airwaves their own.

This first trip laid a solid foundation for the film. Now, I’m continuing to shape the story—one scene, one voice, and several powerful memories at a time.

If you’d like to follow the journey, support the project, or just peek behind the scenes, head to www.kurthunterdigital.com. And if you believe in community radio and independent storytelling, I hope you’ll consider supporting the Raven Radio documentary through our upcoming campaign on Seed&Spark.

More soon—
Kurt