Month: October 2025

By: Lois Parshley, Grist

This story was originally published by Grist and Alaska Public Media. Sign up for Grist’s weekly newsletter here.

The Kigluaik Mountains stretch across the Seward Peninsula of western Alaska like a spine, their jagged ridges keeping a record of time. The Inupiaq have long read these ridges and valleys as a living story: Fire and fracture have marked the rock, and glaciers’ slow grind polished it. The talus slopes gleam in the low fall sun, meltwater from the snowfields spilling into streams that thread across the map of caribou trails on the tundra below.

Hidden beneath these remote valleys lies one of the world’s largest known graphite deposits. Over millions of years, carbon deep within the earth was subjected to immense heat and pressure, forming crystalline sheets black and soft as pencil lead. Canadian company Graphite One plans to mine the valuable material for batteries and strategic minerals — despite many residents’ objections, and so far, without the federally required tribal consultation with the nearby communities of Teller, Brevig Mission, and Mary’s Igloo.

The area slated for development drains into Imuruk Basin, an estuary fed by four rivers that create one of the continent’s most biodiverse ecosystems. This vital hunting and fishing area is essential to residents’ food security and the traditions that tie them to the land. As Lucy Oquilluk, president of Mary’s Igloo Traditional Council, told the federal government, sidelining her community denied it “the opportunity to have our voice heard on issues that directly impact our communities and ways of life.”

After President Trump invoked emergency powers to produce critical minerals this spring, the federal government fast-tracked the mine’s permitting. Three of the four local tribes have vehemently opposed the project, and say the public review process has been short-changed. (The fourth, Nome Eskimo Community, has not joined the opposition, and did not respond to an interview request.)

In June, Graphite One became the first Alaskan mine — and among the first in the country — to qualify for FAST-41, a process that expedites federal approval of critical infrastructure. This hastens environmental reviews to as little as 30 days. The complex choreography of federal permits — spanning the Army Corps of Engineers, the Bureau of Land Management, and the Fish and Wildlife Service — is now moving with unprecedented speed.

The company, which did not respond to requests for comment, envisions carving a sprawling operation into the Kigluaik: To access the remote site, it will need to use 30 miles of public road and lay 17 miles of new road, cutting across salmon streams and archaeological sites. It plans to truck the ore year-round over public roads to a temporary holding facility in Nome until a deep-water port can be built. From there, the material will make its way to Ohio, where the company plans to build a processing facility on a brownfield once used by the Department of Defense.

Graphite supply is vital to both the battery industry and national defense, and China dominates the global market. Company CEO Anthony Huston said the site “is the perfect home for the second link in our strategy to build a 100-percent U.S.-based advanced graphite supply chain.” Yet the company plans to rely on a Chinese manufacturer, Hunan Chenyu Fuji New Energy Technology Co., for design, construction, and operations — underscoring how even “domestic” supply chains remain tied to global networks and exposed to geopolitical risks.

On the strength of its promises to reduce reliance on overseas sources, the venture has received significant subsidies. In 2019, Republican Governor Mike Dunleavy nominated it as a high-priority infrastructure project, streamlining permitting. Four years later, Graphite One secured pivotal support from the U.S. Department of Defense. With funds from the Inflation Reduction Act, the company received a $37.5 million grant to expedite its feasibility study. Framed as a national security measure under the Defense Production Act, the funding aimed to develop domestic supplies of critical minerals. The resulting analysis estimated the mine could generate $43 billion in revenue for the Canadian company. In 2023, Graphite One received an additional $4.7 million from the Defense Department to develop a foam fire suppressant. Earlier this month, the company received $570 million from the Export-Import Bank of the United States, the official credit agency of the federal government.

This kind of governmental support has helped fuel a surge in mining across Alaska, where state officials are encouraging rapid development. Dunleavy recently decreed that if a state agency misses a permitting deadline, the project gains automatic approval — raising concerns of a regulatory free-for-all. Earlier this month, for example, the state approved a United States Antimony Corporation operation near Fairbanks, just three months after the company acquired the mine, saying it met permitting exemptions under state law.

In Graphite One’s case, fast-tracking has pushed tribal input to the margins. In September 2023, the tribal governments of three Inupiaq communities sent letters to the U.S. Department of Defense, protesting the fact they had not been consulted as legally required before the agency funded the project’s feasibility study. It did not respond until the White House intervened. “After the fact doesn’t count,” said Austin Ahmasuk, a Nome Eskimo Community tribal member.

During a Zoom meeting more than a year later, the department finally acknowledged the oversight, but the tribes report they never received the promised meeting notes or any follow up. The feasibility study the company produced with that federal funding explicitly tries to exclude tribes as “cooperating agencies,” limiting their ability to influence project planning and environmental assessments. (The U.S. Army Corps told Grist this was incorrect, and that relevant tribal entities have been invited into the FAST-41 process.) All of this “violates free, prior, and informed consent,” Ahmasuk said, referring to a requirement under the U.N. Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, or UNDRIP, that tribes be consulted and involved in any decisions affecting their lands.

A similar pattern is emerging with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. It initially estimated an environmental review would take over two years, but after a 2023 Supreme Court decision narrowed the definition of “waters of the United States,” the agency reduced the review’s scope, despite the company’s plans to expand the size of the mine, and accelerated its timeline. Tribes have insisted on the required consultation before this permit is issued, and while the Corps has agreed in principle, Graphite One submitted an application in August, while a meeting has not yet been confirmed. These expedited reviews, said Hal Shepherd, a consultant who works with tribes on water policy, turn consultation from a meaningful process into a bureaucratic checkbox. “Even if consultation does take place, the tribes are in an uphill battle to have any meaningful input for this project,” Shepherd said.

Such consultation is more than a courtesy — it is a legal and ethical requirement. Multiple federal laws and statutes require agencies to engage with tribes on projects that affect their lands. Yet across the country, critical mineral projects are pressing ahead with minimal input from the Indigenous peoples whose lands and resources they affect. In Nevada, the Thacker Pass lithium mine moved forward in February without free, prior, and informed consent. In Minnesota, tribes report being sidelined as the Department of Defense funds mineral projects, while in Arizona, a transfer of federal lands to a copper mining company was just greenlit despite a lawsuit from the Apache Stronghold.

Canada also has moved to require meaningful Indigenous consultation. Although Canadian regulations generally don’t extend to operations abroad, British Columbia, where Graphite One is based, became the first jurisdiction in Canada to enshrine Indigenous rights under UNDRIP in 2019. In 2021, Canada’s Parliament followed, requiring federal laws to align with the U.N. declaration.

Amid these broader Indigenous rights debates, Alaska Native communities are voicing their concerns: Tribal leaders from around the Kigluaik Mountains gathered September 20 to oppose Graphite One. They discussed its “irreversible damage,” the potential violence against women that often accompanies the arrival of a large workforce in remote locations, and the generational impacts to the landscape. Tribal leaders also brought up the Trump administration’s executive order eliminating federal diversity and anti-discrimination policies, which they worry will undermine potential job opportunities at the mine for community members.

Although some Nome residents support the mine for its potential economic benefits, others are upset that the Bering Straits Native Corporation, a regional for-profit entity where many tribal members are enrolled as shareholders, invested $2 million in the project without a shareholder vote. “The tribe has the treaty responsibility and the right to government-to-government consultation,” said Nome Eskimo Community tribal member Addy Ahmasuk, who is Austin’s daughter. “But the corporation has taken up a lot of power as the owner of the subsurface rights.” When corporate interests exploit divisions within Native communities, she said, sovereignty debates can turn into conflicts over profit rather than a community’s well-being.

These divisions are compounded by accelerated reviews, which Austin Ahmasuk worries means environmental risks will be overlooked. “Even now, at the exploration stage, there’s a very noticeable change in the landscape,” he said, including the construction of roads, which he said will likely damage cultural sites. “You simply cannot avoid the archeological history. You essentially stumble across it everywhere,” he said.

On a recent afternoon, he tried to imagine what his hometown would look like once the mine was built. The company plans to build a facility almost as large as the town itself to store its ore. The public road the trucks would rumble down crosses numerous salmon streams, where families go to put away fish for the winter. “This mine needs so much infrastructure,” he said. “That’s a significant change to the community.” New sections of road risk disturbing wildlife habitat and may prevent access to hunting grounds and fishing sites generations have depended on. Without these lands, he said, families risk losing their main sources of food. Oversight of the mine, he added, will fall largely on the community “to even understand potential violations,” noting that state and federal regulators are rarely present in the region, and in his experience, provide only minimal monitoring. “People who really care about this area, we feel sort of hopeless,” he said.

Addy Ahmasuk, meanwhile, fears the toxic tailing ponds mining creates will pollute Imuruk Basin, which sustains the surrounding communities. Graphite One plans to mill and burn the ore to concentrate it prior to shipping, releasing graphite into the wind near a lagoon many families depend on for potable water, especially communities like Teller that lack running water. “Graphite dust makes water undrinkable,” she said. The ground naturally contains sulfides that, when disturbed by mining, will create a significant risk of acid drainage that will require long-term management. “Pretty much every mine that’s mining in sulfide material has some sort of water quality impact,” said Dave Chambers, founder of The Center for Science in Public Participation. The nonprofit provides technical support on mining and has been following the project closely.

He notes faster permitting has historically led to mining projects that go awry, pointing to the Rock Creek Mine, an open-pit gold mine near Nome that benefited from accelerated oversight. “Not only did the mine not even open because their engineering was so sloppy, but they killed a couple people,” Chambers said. “That’s a really good example of what happens when you try to grease the skids and get a project through as fast as possible.”

For Addy Ahmasuk, the lesson isn’t just to slow down, it’s to rethink what activism can look like. This land is central to her tribe’s creation myths. She’s launched a grassroots organization, Sacred Kigluait, aimed at restoring and sharing the stories that colonization and boarding schools sought to erase. In doing so, she hopes to protect more than just the land under threat from Graphite One — she’s fighting for the living traditions rooted in it. “The center point isn’t stopping a mine,” she said. “The center point is coming together to remember our creation stories and start telling them again.”

This article originally appeared in Grist at https://grist.org/indigenous/in-alaska-a-graphite-mine-races-toward-approval-without-the-required-tribal-consent/.

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