KNBA - Anchorage

When Billy Owens saw the fire getting close to his property near Bear Creek last Friday, he and his wife put their seven kids in a car. By the time they finished packing, the flames were on their land.

“We just had to make quick decisions,” he said. “Decide the most important stuff, like the cook stove and the things we need to survive.”

He also needed to get 24 birds – ducks and chickens – to safety. Owens put them in cages and strapped them to a four-wheeler. He said it was the only hope for a future for their farm.

“I just stacked the ducks and the chickens on there and apologized for the wind, and we went,” he said. “And they didn’t like it, but we all made it.”

After a week that saw wildfires break out across much of Alaska, the Bear Creek Fire is the state’s highest firefighting priority. It started during the lightning storm on June 19, burning over 26,000 acres on both sides of the Parks Highway which connects Fairbanks to Anchorage.

Laura Knowles evacuated with her family, too. She said they lost their log cabin at Bear Creek in a fire eight years ago. Since then, she’s lived in a bus with four of her younger children.

This weekend, the wildfire destroyed that. Knowles said she was devastated.

“Ever since I was a little kid, I dreamed (of) living in Alaska off grid. This was my off-grid home,” she said in a message. “I am trying to process this all and helping my children process it too.”

Denali Borough Mayor Chris Noel says officials are still assessing the damage, but he knows for certain that people have lost their primary residences. The borough’s preliminary estimate showed that 17 structures have been damaged by the Bear Creek Fire, at least six of them residential. At least 100 Healy residents were asked to evacuate.

“We feel for them,” Noel said. “We know this is a challenging and stressful situation, and we’re doing the best we can to put out timely public information.”

The area has been getting rain after what Noel called extreme fire behavior over the weekend. He says it will take a lot of precipitation to soak the dry duff layers that are fueling the fire, but the moisture is helping firefighters protect structures and slow the fire down.

Overall, around 300 fires were burning across Alaska as of Wednesday, though fire activity has slowed down beginning with Tuesday’s cooler weather. Fire managers were focused on several fires near Fairbanks, as well as fires along the Denali Highway, near Tok and east of Delta Junction.

The forecast showed warmer weather and potential for thunderstorms returning in the next few days.

Meanwhile, the Owens family is living on a neighbor’s land. The night they evacuated, the family camped at a gravel pit across the Nenana River, thinking they would be safe there. But they woke to see that the fire had jumped the highway and was approaching the river, so they had to evacuate again.

“The sky looked like the world was ending,” he said.

Owens says that back on their land, the fire had destroyed the RV they had been living in, along with gear and tools worth thousands of dollars. They also lost family photos and keepsakes they can’t replace.

But Owens says he’s thankful for the community that stepped up to offer his family clothes and supplies. He was also happy that the frame of the cabin he was building survived.

“The only thing I lost was the home I was staying in, but I still have the tools to rebuild,” he said.

The Denali Borough and fire managers will hold a community meeting on Thursday at 6 p.m. at the Tri Valley School to share updates and connect with people whose property was damaged or lost.

When bowhead whales pass Utqiagvik on their way north, it’s a good time to count them. So ever since April 1, observers have been climbing a perch built on sea ice, right at the edge of an open lead, to count the whales as they swim past.

Every 10 years, scientists and local hunters team up to carry out this census of bowhead whales that migrate between Bering, Chukchi and Beaufort seas. It is an effort to evaluate the health of the whale population up north, and it helps set subsistence harvest limits for the years to come.

“We do it for the whaling captains, and we do it in collaboration with them,” said John Citta, a senior wildlife biologist with the North Slope Borough Department of Wildlife Management who is leading the effort. “They’ve taught us how to be on the ice safely.”

Bowheads might be thriving as ice declines 

Whaling captains trained the observers on how to work safely on the ice. They will continue counting whales from the perch throughout the spring bowhead migration.

That visual count is only the first step of the census. Scientists will need to statistically adjust the data to account for the whales the observers don’t see. But so far, Citta said the raw numbers have been high. He said the final abundance estimate might turn out at around 20,000 whales or more. The highest counts in recent years found around 17,000 whales.

“We think there are a lot more whales out there now than what there used to be,” he said. “We suspect the populations continue to grow, but we just don’t know that for certain yet.”

Citta said the bowheads might be thriving as the sea ice in the Arctic declines. Past bowhead research suggests that the whales were in better physical condition in years with less sea ice, he said.

But the shrinking sea ice and increasing open water habitat can also lead to more competition with humpbacks, predation from killer whales or collisions with ships. Citta said the only way to know is to continue monitoring the bowhead population.

Hunters’ contribution to whale count

Whalers have been involved in the bowhead census since the early 70s. That’s when the International Whaling Commission, an organization that regulates whaling, estimated that there were fewer than a thousand whales in the Bering-Chukchi-Beaufort stock. That estimate was so low that the commission first tried to place a moratorium on whaling and then reduced the harvest.

Hunters protested the limit, saying it was based on an undercount.

While that early count only included whales passing through the open lead, hunters knew that some animals traveled far from shore or under thick ice. Over the years, the late Craig George collaborated with local whalers to improve the census methods and account for those whales.

“We were able to improve our techniques over the years,” said Geoff Carroll, a retired wildlife biologist who worked with George. “We were able to show that there’s plenty of bowheads to support the subsistence hunt.”

An acoustic component of the count, pioneered around 1984, helped determine how many whales could be heard migrating when the lead is closed or the weather is too poor to see whales. Kate Stafford, a researcher at the Marine Mammal Institute at Oregon State University who studies bowheads using acoustic monitoring, has worked on the past five bowhead censuses.

“This combination of methods makes for a more robust population estimate and confirms what Native whalers have always known – that whales migrate in heavy ice, sometimes far offshore and at all times of the day,” Stafford said.

Declining sea ice could change the census

Last August, scientists deployed hydrophones – underwater devices that record ocean sounds – on the sea floor. They plan to retrieve them this fall.

“It turns out that bowhead whales really talk a lot when they’re migrating,” said Carroll, who is also an advisor for this year’s census.

An aerial survey will happen later this summer.

The North Slope Borough is collaborating with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration on flights over the Alaskan and Canadian Beaufort seas to photograph migrating whales, Citta said.

While counting whales from the observation perch has been a success this season, Citta said that with sea ice becoming less reliable each year, the method is getting more dangerous.

“We’re worried that those ice-based counts will not be a viable way to count bowheads in the future,” he said. “If that’s the case, we need alternatives, and one of the leading alternatives is an aerial survey.”

After the count is done, scientists will need to process the data, which can take up to two years. The International Whaling Commission expects the final estimate, which will be used to decide whether to renew the region’s subsistence whaling quota, in 2029.

Dashing through prickly spruce trees on his four-wheeler, Oleksii Butenko led his wife and seven children up a trail near Delta Junction in May. The older kids rode their own four-wheelers and dirt bikes, while the little ones held on behind.

At a clearing, they turned off their engines and walked up a hill overlooking the braided Tanana River. The kids explored as the parents sat among early spring flowers. The family visits this spot almost every week, for the views and solitude.

“We liked it here – we like the calm and quiet,” Oleksii said.

The family moved to Delta Junction from Cherkasy Oblast in Ukraine three years ago to escape the war. They came here to join family, but they say they’ve grown to love the very Alaskan lifestyle that Delta Junction offers.

“We were flying directly here, to join them,” Natali Butenko said in Russian. “Here we have freedom, and children can ride quadricycles and bikes. We like this place, and we feel comfortable living here.”

Since Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, more than 700 Ukrainians have settled in Alaska, at least 120 of them in the Delta Junction area. Many of the newcomers, including the Butenko family, used the Uniting for Ukraine program, which allowed them to come to the U.S. with help from a local sponsor.

Even before the war, Delta Junction had strong Slavic roots — Ukrainians make up a much larger share of the population here than in the rest of the state. Amanda Turnbull, a longtime local English teacher, said the large Ukrainian population helped the newcomers have a softer landing.

“It was just kind of like big families getting bigger,” she said. “A lot of them are coming over, and they’re living with their families.”

But Uniting for Ukraine stopped accepting new applicants in January, following an order from President Trump that aimed to secure the border to, in the order’s words, “protect the American people from the disastrous effects of unlawful mass migration and resettlement.”

Some avenues for staying in the country – such as temporary protected status – remain viable for Ukrainians, but immigration policies continue to change swiftly. This week, the Washington Post reported that the Trump administration is considering deporting people from active conflict zones, including Ukraine.

To get through the uncertain times, many Ukrainians in Delta say they are leaning on their faith.

“We don’t know what the future holds,” Natali said. “God blesses our day today, so we thank him for today. And tomorrow, we will ask for his blessing again.”

Leaning on faith

On a sunny Sunday in May, the Word of Life church was full with families. Some of the men were clad in suits, and women wore skirts and dresses, with a few covering their hair with veils. Children ran and giggled between the pews. Several pastors were speaking to the crowd in Russian, as younger parishioners translated their words into English.

The secondary pastor at Word of Life, Victor Linnik, said the church welcomes the incoming Ukrainian refugees and often serves as a place for connection to services and community.

“When you have someone that shares some faith, it’s easier, because we call each other brother and sister,” he said. “So when you get to someone, you get like into a family, and once you get into a family, you feel more comfortable.”

Linnik’s daughter-in-law, Valeriia, moved here from Odesa in 2022. She said that with the church community, she always has a person to call and share her sadness or joy.

Valeriia came to service with her husband, whom she met in Delta Junction. She said her marriage helped her see her new home in a different light.

“It’s a joy to be with a loved one, anywhere,” she said. “That’s what gives color to the place.”

Valeriia said she tries not to worry about politics because it is outside her control. She said she strives to stay humble and find solace in her faith.

“Of course the church is helping,” she said. “God is helping. He calms and soothes the heart.”

Building self-reliance

Natalia and Vladimir Moroz set the table with a tea pot and a homemade Slavic Napoleon cake, to the excitement of their three young daughters.

“Ukrainian soul – we won’t let you go without feeding you,” Natalia said.

The family is from Donetsk, but after Russia occupied the area in 2014, they relocated to Poland. Their move to Delta in 2022 – also to join family – was hard at first. Vladimir said they questioned their decision because they felt like they were burdening people. But with time, they settled into a life here, Natalia caring for their daughters and Vladimir picking up various jobs.

“I think America makes us stronger, more independent, and it teaches us a lot,” Natalia said.

Vladimir started working at a local auto body shop even though he had no experience working with cars before — even changing a tire used to make him nervous. He and his friend built a mobile sauna, started a business renting it out and eventually sold it.

Now Vladimir works in construction and is excited about the stability the work brings to him and his family. In Europe he said making ends meet was a challenge, while in Alaska, working hard allows them to live comfortably.

“If you put effort into work, you expand your opportunities,” he said. “To live in Alaska, you have to know how to do things, how to be self-reliant.”

The Moroz family has also picked up new hobbies in Alaska, like fishing, riding four-wheelers, hunting and even beekeeping.

“Things like this add a taste to life,” Vladimir said.

The family is on humanitarian parole until 2026. They’ve applied for temporary protected status and are waiting for a response.

Natalia said she is feeling nervous about the recent changes in immigration programs, but she trusts that God has a plan for them.

Learning the language

Agnesa Butenko, 18, is Oleksii and Natali’s oldest daughter. She said she always wanted to move to America, but she didn’t realize how hard it would be to leave her friends and adjust to a place where she didn’t speak the language. But she was touched by Alaskans’ hospitality.

“People are extremely kind, and even if you don’t understand the language and you are different, people accept you,” she said. “It makes such a difference.”

Her English has improved so much in three years that she now works as a translator for the school. She helps other Ukrainians – often her family members – adjust to the new language and environment.

“It’s helpful for me, too, because I need more practice to speak English,” she said about her work.

About 30 Ukrainian students have enrolled in Delta’s schools since the war started. The district offers classes in English as a second language as well as translation services and after-hours tutoring.

Amanda Turnbull, the English teacher, has spearheaded some of those programs. Sitting in a classroom surrounded with posters covered with words in English, Russian and Ukrainian, she said she’s seen rapid growth in her new students.

“I have had very few experiences like that in my career,” she said. “I feel so honored to have worked with Agnesa, so honored to have worked with these kids. It is difficult, it is challenging, but it’s amazing.”

Turnbull said if the families of her Ukrainian students don’t have a legal pathway to stay in the country, her ESL class of 10 will be empty. She said the loss would create a hole in the community and could endanger some of her students.

“It hurts my heart so much to think of these high school boys who would, who could, at the drop of a hat, get deported and end up back in Ukraine,” Turnbull said. “They can’t leave again. These ninth graders can’t leave again. What’s going to happen to them? They’re going to get conscripted.”

Putting down roots

Before leaving Ukraine, the Butenko family used to help people who passed through their town while fleeing the war zone. Natali and Oleksii would walk by the long chain of cars, offering tea and sandwiches and inviting the refugees to rest or shower at their house.

Some of their friends are still in Ukraine, but Natali said she won’t go back — even if her family has to leave the U.S. She said she doesn’t want her children to go to war. 

For now, the Butenkos are continuing to build a life in Delta Junction. They live outside of town, on a wooded property with four homes. Five families live there, all from Ukraine – about 40 people total.

And the Butenkos have already buried family here. After settling in Delta, they wanted to bring Natali’s mother over, too. She was sick with cancer, living in Lithuania after fleeing Ukraine.

She died on her way to Alaska.

“Because it happened on the plane, it’s been hard for us to process that she died,” Oleksii said. “Every time we pass the cemetery, we think about our mom living here, being here. It’s hard for us to comprehend. But that’s all right – everything is in God’s hands.”

The family recently bought their own piece of land in Delta to build a future home – two stories, just like the one they left in Ukraine.

Carol Pickett Hull was small in stature but a giant in her sport, and while she will always be remembered for the world record she set in 1989 for the One-Foot High Kick, she was much more than an athlete.

Fans of traditional Native games credit her for helping to build them into the success they are today.

Hull died on May 5 at the age of 61 at her home in Seward, where she had been working to rebuild the Qutekcak Tribe’s Native Youth Olympics team.

It’s a love and dedication to the sport that her friend Nicole Johnson remembers well. Johnson was in the seventh grade when she met Carol, who was a junior in high school.

She says they were, “tiny little powerhouses” back then.

At 5 feet tall, Nicole was only 4 inches shorter than Carol, an Inupiaq with a slight but muscular build.

“There’s nothing that could stop us. Our height. Our weight. Our ages,” said Johnson. “Nothing stopped Carol from doing what she loved to do.”

Carol’s specialty was the One-Foot High Kick, in which you jump with both feet and kick with one foot at a ball hanging on a string, then land on that foot without losing your balance. In the 1989 World Eskimo Indian Eskimo Olympics, Carol executed a flawless jump, to kick at a ball suspended at a remarkable 7 feet.

Reggie Joule remembers that moment.

“When she won the One-Foot High Kick, she was asked if she wanted to go for the record. She had this infectious excitement,” said Joule, a 10-time gold medalist in the WEIO blanket toss. “She was jumping up and down. I want to break the record. I want to break the record.”

In the early days of competition, Joule says the men grabbed the spotlight for their flashy performances. There were also twice as many men in the sport, but Carol and a group of other young women were about to change all that.

“They were coming onto this scene,” Joule said, “with this energy but also with this hunger.”

Joule says the women were eager to learn about their culture and took pride in its strengths, born from a struggle to survive in an unforgiving land.

Like many of the games, the One-foot High Kick has its roots in hunting and fishing traditions. The high kick could be seen for miles across the tundra, so hunters used it to signal a successful hunt.

Carol’s 1989 record at the World Eskimo Indian Olympics would stand until last year, when Emily King, a Canadian from Whitehorse, would surpass her achievement of 7 feet by one more inch.

“We were all cheering her on,” said Greg Nothstine, a longtime competitor and game official. “Carol was out there being her biggest fan and said, ‘You can do it. You can do it!'”

For more than three decades Carol had cheered on many other athletes to beat her record, which Nothstine says is what defines Native Olympics – to compete, not against others, but against yourself to achieve your personal best.

“That is the idea of hoping for others,” Nothstine said, “what we hope for ourselves and that’s really just success.”

Nothstine says traditional hunters always encouraged each other to improve their techniques for the benefit of the entire community.

Over the years, Carol seemed to be an endless source of encouragement. She coached. She officiated and became one of the sport’s biggest cheerleaders.

“She loved teaching games,” said Gina Kalloch, another longtime friend and former competitor. “That’s another reason why so many young women came after her generation.”

Gina met Carol at a WEIO competition in 1984. Soon afterwards, they became ambassadors for the sport and put on shows for tourists.

“She had dark hair and dark eyes and a gorgeous smile and a very engaging personality. She sparkled when she came in the room,” Kalloch said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever meet anyone else like her. She just made such an impact on anyone in her sphere, and that included inmates at the Fairbanks Correctional Center.”

Kalloch says when she and Carol volunteered to teach them games, it was a chance to share something meaningful.

“It goes back to, when I was hungry, you gave me food. When I was thirsty, you gave me drink,” Kalloch said. “And when I was in prison you came to visit me and bring something to you that gives you a bit of self-confidence and pride in yourself.”

When Carol Pickett Hull first entered the sport, the games were held in small gymnasiums with only a few observers. Today, the statewide Native Youth Olympics draws thousands of athletes and their fans, a reminder of how a little encouragement can go a long way.

Carol’s memorial at the Alaska Native Heritage Center on Saturday drew many NYO families. And for the Hulls, the games were definitely a family affair.

Her husband Garry, like his wife, is also in the North American Indigenous Hall of Fame. The couple’s two children, Garry Hull Jr. and Sarah, have also competed in Native games.

A poem the Qutekcak Tribe posted on her Facebook page was among many tributes to Hull’s life and legacy. Here’s an excerpt:

Filipino organizations in Alaska have worked to bring a documentary to Alaska called “Nurse Unseen.” The film was shown at the Anchorage Museum on Wednesday to spotlight a group of immigrants whose service and sacrifices are often overlooked.

It’s a theme that resonates in Alaska, where Filipinos are the largest immigrant group. They can be found at work in hospitals, nursing homes and in many jobs that are hard to fill.

Filipino nurses have a long history of filling in the gaps in the nation’s healthcare system that go back more than a century, when the U.S. colonized the Philippines and the military Americanized training for Filipino nurses.

When producers of “Nurse Unseen” began work on their documentary in 2019, they hoped to tell the story of how Filipino nurses are essential to the national healthcare system. Then came COVID-19.

“That was really the impetus for us to step into action and really move in high gear,” said Michele Josue, the film’s director. Josue also worked with another Filipino film producer, Carl Velayo and Joe Arciaga, a Filipino-American nurse and writer.

In late 2020, a report called “Sins of Omission” brought everything into sharp focus. The National Nurses United exposé found that Filipinos made up 4 percent of the registered nurse workforce — but next to white nurses, had the second highest death rate.

“At the height of COVID, they made up 31.5% of COVID nurse deaths, which is a really shocking number,” Josue said.

So how is it that almost a third of the nurses who died during the pandemic were Filipino? Josue says many support their families back home, so they take extra shifts and jobs that are hard to fill, like in the Emergency Room. Hospitals also recruit them, because they get good training in the Philippines.

“Filipinos are the unsung backbone of health care,” Josue said, “and that’s just a fact.”

Josue says Filipinos gravitate to health care because of a deeply ingrained cultural value called kapwa, which emphasizes the importance of community connectedness, love and caring.

“There are so many other industries, professions, that really rest on the shoulders of hardworking immigrants all over the country,” Josue said. “There should be more narratives out there that outline immigrants in a positive light. It shouldn’t be a bad word.”

Rebecca Carrillo, a nurse from Juneau, says it’s true that many Filipino immigrants come in search of opportunity.

“We came to this country to work and to make a better life for ourselves,” said Carrillo, who retired after 25 years working in the state of Alaska’s Women Infants and Children’s (WIC) nutrition program.

She says it’s a job that once took her up the Kuskokwim River to check out an innovative service designed by Ester Ocampo, a Filipino nutritionist who traveled to fish camps to work with Yup’ik mothers.

“It’s meeting people where they are,” Carrillo recalled, “women who were processing fish, children who were running around, babies on their mother’s back — with Ester trying to ask questions and write stuff down, sometimes trying to entertain kids to stay still for the measurements.”

Carrillo says this is one example of the many ways that Filipino immigrants make a difference in the lives of Alaskans. She says you’ll also find them teaching children in remote communities, where it’s hard to recruit educators – or in her hometown of Juneau, caring for people’s parents and grandparents.

“Ninety percent of health aides and LPNs that staff the (Juneau) Pioneer home are Filipinos,” Carrillo said. “So, if all of those folks are gone, I don’t know how that place is going to continue to run.”

Although Alaska did not lose any Filipino nurses to the pandemic, Carrillo says it’s important to recognize their contributions, which have been overshadowed by a wave of national anti-immigration policies.

From fish processing plants to staffing the Anchorage airport and post office, Carrillo says Filipino immigrants hold down many jobs that help to fill Alaska’s labor shortages. But she says immigrants are often unseen, just like the women in the film, “Nurse Unseen.”

With much fanfare, Daisy Vanblarcom prepared for the final one-foot high kick competition in the Native Youth Olympics on Saturday. She needed to jump, kick a suspended ball with one foot and then land on the same foot.

The highest height she hit was 87 inches, which went above her personal record – and won her first place. The bleachers were filled with people from all corners of Alaska, but for Vanblarcom, they were familiar faces. Vanblarcom, who competed in six events this year and placed first in two, said making friends with other athletes and coaches is a part of her success.

“I compete a lot better when I know everybody and when I’m comfortable around everyone,” Vanblarcom said.

The Native Youth Olympics was held over three-days in Anchorage last weekend. High school students participated in a dozen competitions, each representing a different Alaska Native subsistence activity or skill. The event started more than fifty years ago, with a few dozen participants. This year, it brought about 450 athletes to the Alaska Airlines Center – a record number since before the COVID-19 pandemic.

Joanna and Jen Hopson have been working to revive the games in the North Slope region. They created a program to help develop and train athletes from Utqiaġvik and neighboring villages. They held the regional Native Youth Olympic Games in Utqiaġvik this winter – for the first time in about 15 years.

Joanna Hopson said that the games have been helping students gain confidence and come out of their shell.

“Our athletes that are coming in, they come in to us at practice so reserved, timid,” she said. “As they’re starting to learn more of their cultural games, they’re starting to learn that courage. They’re starting to learn what it means to be who you are, to accept who you are, where you’re at, and then to grow from that.”

Participating in the Native Youth Olympics is often a family tradition. Kya Ahlers, a coach for Salamatof on the Kenai Peninsula, said she trains some of her siblings and is always proud to see them and her other athletes succeed. This year, Ahlers saw her younger sister Abigail Semaken place first in the toe kick competition.

“It’s really a good confidence booster, and really good to see all these young women competing. And I mean, sometimes I do see some girls getting themselves down. But then once I see that, there’s already other girls from other teams coming to comfort her and empowering her again,” Ahlers said. “That really warms my heart.”

Girls lifting each other up was something on the mind of Camylle Hull from Fairbanks. Hull was on the team with Isabel Dosch and Calli Bundschuh, and together they took third place in the wrist carry competition. Dosch wrapped her wrist around a stick, and Hull and Bundschuh grabbed the opposite sides of it, carrying Dosch for 202 feet and 3 inches.

“Our team was an all-girls team, the only all-girls team that got on the podium, and we got further than most of the guys down there,” Hull said. “I think it’s really cool for us, showing that we can do what they can do, like the guys.”

But the community of the games as a whole was the main highlight athletes kept bringing up. Anastasha Wilde of Anchorage, who took second place in a two-foot high kick competition, said the games helped her improve her social life.

“My favorite part about it is that we all come together, and we’re participating together, not apart, and you get to connect with other people and make new friends,” Wilde said. “It’s not about winning. It’s about beating your personal records and improving, not for yourself, but improving for the others around you, so you could help them out.”