Happy Funday ~ Stubbs For Mayor ~ by Skip

 What's the Deal with the Town That Picked a Cat for Mayor?

So, picture this: a Boeing 737-400 is gliding down through a bruise-colored sky and lands on a gravel runway in Talkeetna, Alaska. This place is tiny, with about 1,197 folks living there (well, that's the estimate for 2025). The average Joe here is about 48.3 years old, mostly white, with a good chunk being Native Athabaskan and some mixed folks too. You've got two roads that just stop at the Susitna River, and after that, it's all boardwalks, spruce trees, and trails for the snowmobiles. They've got a cute motto painted on a piece of driftwood that says, "Talkeetna: Not on the Way to Anywhere." It's like they're telling you, if you're not lost, you've got no business being here.

I hoist a pack filled with smoked salmon and a bottle of 100-proof Yukon Shine, and start following a trail of cat prints in the dirt. The locals all spin the yarn about how this whole feline-mayor thing started the same way: Back in '81, the town's charter clerk, Lauri Stec, waltzes into Nagley's General Store with this orange tabby kitten she calls Stubbs. It's got no tail, so the name fits. During that summer's election, the townsfolk decide to have a little fun and write in Stubbs' name, 'cause, you know, "Better a cat than the other options." The joke's on them, though, 'cause Stubbs ends up winning with 87 votes. No one has the guts to do a redo. So, they swear him in using Robert's Rules of Order and a dish of evaporated milk.

Fast forward to '97, and Stubbs is like the Beyoncé of Alaskan politics, holding the title for the longest-serving elected official. Tourists flood the town, up to 9,000 in the summer, all wanting a snap with the furry mayor. He's living the high life, sipping on catnip-laced margarita water and napping in the sun at the bar. He's even got veto power, just a single hiss to keep the town in check with good zoning laws.

But, alas, the real Stubbs left us on July 21, 2017, at the ripe old age of 20 and a handful of days. They buried him behind the airfield with a cross that says "Honest, Tolerant, Stubborn." Tourists still swarm in, clutching old postcards of him like he's Elvis.

Enter Denali, the new furry ruler. This cat is Stubbs' great-grandkid, with a lineage as complicated as the royal family tree. He's got a black coat, a white patch on his chest, and eyes that look like chunks of glacial ice. Genetics here are like a soap opera.

I tracked down Denali at the West Rib Pub & Café, right around 3:14 in the afternoon. It's chilly, about 42 degrees, and the smoke from the chimney is thick as my grandpa's pipe. He's lounging on some beer cases, tail coiled up like a fancy scarf. His human helper, Darlene "Mama D" Koenig, keeps an eye on the clock. She's a 67-year-old widow who's seen it all, and she makes sure Denali sticks to his schedule.

"Two hours of public appearances, then he's out," she says. "Otherwise, he'll pee in the cash register."

This couple from Kansas tries to get his attention with a plushie, but the cat couldn't care less. Someone tosses a twenty into a jar labeled "Catnip & Infrastructure." Classic small-town stuff.

Quick facts about Talkeetna:

• It sits at 358 feet above sea level.

• They made it official in 1916 as a camp for the railroad builders.

• The whole place is 42.9 square miles, but only 0.9 of that is dry land you can actually walk on without sinking.

• The economy's all about flying tourists over to see Denali (the mountain, not the cat) and sled-dog kennels. Oh, and there's a bunch of espresso joints that look like they were chopped out of a log.

• The main claim to fame, aside from the cat mayor, is that this is the starting point for almost 70% of all the people trying to climb that big ol' mountain.

• They've got a theme song of sorts: "If You're Not a Little Weird, You're Not from Here."

Before the cats took over, the town had human mayors—railroad honchos, fur trappers, even an ex-Playboy bunny who promised everyone free firewood. But none of them lasted longer than two terms. The cold winters had them running for the hills. Then along comes Stubbs, who doesn't make promises he can't keep.

One night, I'm outside the Fairview Inn with Rohn Buser, a musher with a beard that could give Santa a run for his money. His dogs are snoring under the picnic table as we share some Yukon Shine. He tells me, "They picked a cat 'cause humans kept messing up. Cats don't hike taxes, don't steal money, don't chase after secretaries. Plus, tourists throw more cash around when the mayor purrs."

Inside, Denali's up on the bar like he owns the place, looking down at everyone. For a second, the jukebox goes quiet, and everyone holds their breath. Then he blinks, slow and majestic, like he's saying, "Cheers, peasants." Everyone clinks their glasses together.

The night goes on, the music gets louder, and the door slams shut against the cold. The cat's paw prints vanish into the spruce forest, like autographs in the snow. And just like that, the town goes back to being a peculiar slice of Alaskan life, where a cat is king and the humans are just along for the ride.

Thanks Skip