Alaska Native youth are living through a pivotal time, bearing witness to the dramatic impacts of climate change that have occurred during their lifetimes: rapidly melting permafrost, warming oceans and declining salmon runs. Subsistence living, which is critical to Alaska Native culture and rural food security, has suffered in turn, whether it involves Iñupiaq whale hunts, Gwich’in caribou harvest or Tlingit salmon fishing. The threat to a shared way of life is uniting many Indigenous people across the state, calling them to protect Alaska Native homelands and cultural continuity.
In light of this, many Alaska Native youth are dedicating their careers to protecting the environment and bringing Indigenous knowledge into mainstream spaces, including environmental science, policy work, increased tribal co-management and conservation initiatives. High Country News talked to four young Alaska Native women from different parts of the state who are working in climate advocacy, from community organizing to fishery sciences.
JAZMYN LEE VENT
Siqiniq Jazmyn Lee Vent (Koyukon Athabascan and Iñupiaq) has attended Ambler Road meetings for half her life. Vent, who is 24, went to her first meeting at 12 years old. At that time, the Ambler Road project — which would build a 211-mile-long highway to a mining project through sensitive habitat — was in the beginning stages, and different road maps were still being considered.
“I remember that, in our hall, a bunch of our elders (were) sitting in the meeting, and even though they might have not known exactly what was going on in those early stages of the proposed development, they knew that it was really important to show up and speak out against it,” Vent said. “So I really try to carry that with me.”
Vent co-founded No Ambler Road in 2023 to amplify the voices that oppose the proposed road, which could harm caribou migration patterns and habitat along with salmon spawning streams. For Vent and many others working on No Ambler Road, the project is much too risky, given that caribou populations are declining in Alaska and across the Arctic, and people can’t fish in the Yukon River.
Projects like these are often at the whims of the current administration. Last year, the Biden administration rejected the Ambler Road project, citing the harmful impacts it could have on the environment. But the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers never fully revoked the project’s permit, and Alaska’s congressional delegation and Gov. Michael Dunleavy support building the road, while President Donald Trump has long been enthusiastic about resource extraction in Alaska.
Vent wants the federal government to uphold the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (ANILCA) and its obligation to sustain subsistence hunting and fishing. Most of all, though, Vent wants Alaska Native people to be centered in these decisions and for companies, politicians and governments to leave their homeland alone.
“People might think this is crazy,” Vent said, “but I really envision a future where Alaska Native people have title to our land and are able to engage in these decision-making processes that directly impact our livelihoods.”
SOPHIE SWOPE
Anaan’arar Sophie Swope (Yup’ik) founded the Mother Kuskokwim nonprofit three years ago at 24 in her hometown of Bethel, Alaska.
Previously, she was the self-governance director for Orutsararmiut Traditional Native Council, which was in consultation with federal agencies about the Donlin Gold Mine project. If built, it would be one of the largest open-pit gold mines in the world — and it would be located dangerously close to salmon spawning tributaries in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta (Y-K Delta).
“I noticed the energy was low,” Swope said. “I kind of stood up and was like, ‘Hey guys, this stuff is really important, and we have to really fight to take care of all of our natural resources. Because it’s all that we have, and it creates who we are.’”
It was a key experience that inspired her to found Mother Kuskokwim. Swope now works full-time on fighting the Donlin Gold Mine, a project that is supported by her own Native corporation, Calista Corporation, despite its potential impact on salmon populations.
She helped organize a lawsuit against the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, arguing that its environmental impact statement was insufficient — a lawsuit the group recently won.
If chemicals from the mine get into rivers and food, it would be devastating for people in the Y-K Delta, who already suffer from extremely low salmon runs. And Swope doesn’t want future generations to have to worry about toxicity in their food or having a large tailings dam nearby.
“One day, I will have children, and hopefully I’ll have grandchildren, too,” Swope said. “I want them to have the same access to these resources that our DNA was literally created to thrive off of.”
Her elders taught her how to find her own voice. Now she wants younger generations to realize that they can and should use their voices when their way of life is threatened — and that they, too, have an obligation to take care of this place for future generations.
“Our time here on this Earth is very short,” Swope said. “We were gifted all of the things that we have by our ancestors, and we’re only borrowing this space on earth from the future generations.”
MALIA TOWNE
Malia Towne, who is Haida and Tlingit, grew up subsistence fishing every summer on her family’s traditional lands near Ketchikan, Alaska. As the years went by, they watched as the salmon population that their community had relied on for centuries began to fluctuate and decline. “It made me realize that something needed to be done,” said Towne.
Towne’s Tlingit values drove her to work in fishing sustainability.
“Everything is circular within traditional values,” she said. “What I do today affects tomorrow. It’s the whole reason I got into this work, because I want to be able to continue practicing what my ancestors practiced and want future generations to be able to do the same.”
Now a senior at Northern Arizona University, Towne, who is 20, studies environmental science, hoping to help ensure healthy fishing populations within Alaska. Last summer, she worked at the Alaska Longline Fishermen’s Association, a nonprofit that promotes sustainable fishing practices and flourishing coastal communities. Her goal is to protect subsistence salmon harvesting and create more access for subsistence fishers, many of whom are Alaska Native.
“My mom says it’s genetic,” joked Towne. Her grandfather worked in fishing sustainability, and her sister does as well. “It’s in our blood.”
Towne aims to create policies that prevent environmental damage from happening in the first place, as opposed to laws that merely slap Band-Aids on serious injuries that have already occurred. These policies would incorporate an Indigenous approach to conservation, protecting the environment while still allowing for sustainable harvesting and resource use.
Towne cited the recent movement to list the king salmon as endangered. “It’s something that needs to be protected, but you shouldn’t cut off all access, because that hurts more people,” she said. “It’s incredibly detrimental to subsistence fishers.”
After graduating, Towne plans to return to Alaska and continue working on fishing sustainability, ideally in tribal co-management. She hopes that the policies she works on today will help salmon populations thrive for generations to come.
“What we do now is important, whether or not it’s recognized or appreciated today,” she said. “It will be appreciated eventually. Eventually, we’ll be thankful for it.”
MACKENZIE ENGLISHOE
Mackenzie Englishoe’s great-grandparents taught her to live off the land, using Gwichya Gwich’in knowledge that had been passed down for centuries. Englishoe’s great-grandparents, who experienced the dramatic changes caused by colonization, dedicated their lives to ensuring that her generation would be able to continue living the Gwich’in way of life.
“Our relationship to the land, it’s physical, mental, emotional and spiritual,” said Englishoe, who was raised between the remote Chandalar Lake in the Brooks Range, and Gwichyaa Zhee (Fort Yukon), a village of roughly 500 people on the Yukon River. “When I think about the future, I cannot — I will not — live in a future that does not have that, or where I’m not able to provide that for my family.”
Englishoe, 21, is living during another time of change. Using the traditional knowledge her great-grandparents taught her, she works on climate crisis issues that impact villages in Interior Alaska: fostering healthy caribou and moose populations, protecting Indigenous land rights and water and improving wildfire management. She’s been particularly involved in efforts to combat king salmon’s decline in the Yukon River, advocating for closing salmon fishing in Area M near the Aleutian Islands and ending bottom trawling.
“Seeing the king salmon decline over time has really broken me,” she said. “And then seeing people who do not have this connection to the salmon, people who are not from these lands, making decisions about it, and a lack of action from them. … It’s just broken me.”
Last March, Englishoe was elected the emerging leaders chair for the Tanana Chiefs Conference, representing 42 Alaska Native communities in the Interior Region through her role as youth advisor. She wants young Alaska Natives to know that they’re capable of making change and that they deserve to have a seat at the table.
“Indigenous people, we do this work out of a place of love. For our community, for future generations, but also for people who are not Native,” she said. Everything is connected, she explained, from the salmon to the bears to entire food systems beyond Alaska. “So we’re trying to protect everybody, out of love.”
• Lyndsey Brollini, Haida, is a freelance storyteller and reporter from Anchorage. Meghan Sullivan, Koyukon Athabascan, is an investigative journalist from Alaska. How Alaska Native youth are protecting the land for their future ancestors was originally published on April 1, 2025, at High Country News. This article was republished by the Alaska Beacon.
