AP- Ice blocks drift past Tristen Pattee’s boat as he scans the banks of Northwest Alaska’s Kobuk River for caribou. His great uncle Ernest steadies a rifle on his lap. It’s the last day of September, and by every measure of history and memory, thousands should have crossed by now. But the tundra is empty, save for the mountains looming on the horizon — the Gates of the Arctic National Park.
Days after Pattee’s unsuccessful hunt, the Trump administration approved construction of the Ambler Access Road — a 211-mile (340-kilometer) route designed to reach massive copper deposits that would cut through that wilderness, crossing 11 major rivers and thousands of streams where salmon spawn and caribou migrate. The approval, which is facing lawsuits though proponents believe construction could start next year, came as record rainfall in Northwest Alaska flooded villages and ripped through fish spawning habitat — the latest climate-driven blow to Indigenous communities already watching caribou and salmon numbers plummet.
As the co-owner of a wilderness guiding company in Ambler, Pattee’s livelihood depends on keeping this landscape intact. An Inupiaq hunter, his ability to feed his family and continue the subsistence traditions of his ancestors depends on healthy caribou and fish populations.
Yet he supports building the road.
“Everything takes money nowadays,” said Pattee, who serves on Northwest Arctic Subsistence Regional Advisory Council, a federal advisory group. Jobs in local villages are scarce, and with gasoline at $17.50 a gallon, the ability to power all-terrain vehicles and boats needed to hunt is out of reach for many. Pattee estimates a single caribou hunting trip from Ambler costs $400. Mining jobs, he believes, would offer a lifeline, and the minerals could slow the climate shifts that are threatening his subsistence way of life.
It’s the irony of climate change in Northwest Alaska: the minerals needed to power the green energy transition sit beneath some of the continent’s last pristine wilderness — a landscape already on the frontlines of the climate crisis, where temperatures are rising four times faster than the rest of the planet.
“I see the climate changing. I’ve been seeing it for years now. It’s scary,” said Pattee. “Losing our culture, our tradition, is very concerning. So let’s do anything we can to help mitigate it.”
The decline before the road
Over the last two decades, the Western Arctic Caribou Herd has plummeted from nearly half a million to some 164,000 — a 66% decline, according to the Alaska Department of Fish and Game. Of those that remain, fewer now cross the Kobuk River during fall migration, where Pattee and other Inupiaq hunters would historically gather in late summer to stockpile meat for winter. While caribou populations naturally fluctuate, scientists say the increasingly delayed cold and snow that triggers the migration south has caused caribou to remain in the Brooks Range, where they are difficult for hunters to access.
The day after Pattee’s unsuccessful hunt, the first snow fell. On Oct. 6 — far later than historical norms — caribou began trickling across the Kobuk. Then the rains came, bringing heavy, late-season downpours that scientists say are becoming more common in the warming Arctic and devastating for salmon. Intense rainfall can damage and dislodge eggs, while rising water temperatures reduce oxygen levels fish need to journey upstream.
One recent study found dozens of clear streams in the Brooks Range have turned orange with toxic levels of metals — changes researchers believe is the result of permafrost thaw — which may help explain recent drops in salmon numbers. Chinook and chum salmon in particular are experiencing “sustained and dramatic declines” with periodic population crashes, which has led to complete closures of some fisheries, according to NOAA Fisheries.
Experts worry about what this year’s record storms will mean for future runs.
“Elders who’ve lived here their entire lives have never seen environmental conditions like this and they’ve never seen fish conditions this poor,” said Alex Whiting, Environmental Program Director for the Native Village of Kotzebue.
Adding pressure to a buckling landscape
The Ambler Road would add its own pressures. Thousands of culverts and nearly 50 bridges would disrupt water flow and fish passages, and more than 100 trucks would traverse the road daily over the decades-long production period. Federal biologists warn the region’s rocks contain naturally occurring asbestos and that heavy traffic would kick up dust that would settle on thousands of waterways as well as the vegetation caribou depend on. The road would also fragment the habitat of the Western Arctic Caribou Herd, potentially hindering migration patterns. The Bureau of Land Management designated some 1.2 million acres of nearby salmon spawning and caribou calving habitat as “critical environmental concern.”
Then there’s the mine. Vast amounts of water would be drawn from rivers and lakes, while groundwater levels and permafrost would be permanently disrupted. The operation would generate enormous quantities of waste rock and require a tailings facility to store toxic slurry, risking spills that could send heavy metals into waterways.
Given the record-breaking rainfall the region has seen in recent years, residents downstream worry about breaches. In Kotzebue, a hub of 3,000 at the mouth of the Kobuk where flooding prompted an emergency declaration this fall, many fear contamination could harm drinking sources and traditional Inupiaq foods like fish and bearded seals, which are already threatened by disappearing sea ice.
Poop “rolls downhill — and that’s where Kotzebue’s at,” said Karmen Monigold, an Inupiaq member of Protect the Kobuk, a grassroots effort working to stop the road, and co-chair of the Kotzebue Sound Subsistence Advisory Council.
Monigold learned to live off the land as a child from her grandparents. Determined to share her connection to nature, she taught her four sons and their cousins to hunt and fish. She’s watched climate change erode the subsistence lifestyle she fought to preserve and fears the road would accelerate that loss.
Like many opponents, she doubts promises that the road would remain private and notes other Alaska roads, such as the Dalton Highway, opened to the public despite similar assurances. An influx of outside hunters and fishers, they fear, would further stress fish and caribou populations. Even Pattee’s support for the road hinges on it being closed.
“We lose so much every generation,” Monigold said. “But right now we still have enough of a culture for it to be worth fighting for.”
In an emailed statement, Kaleb Froehlich, Managing Director of Ambler Metals, the company behind the mining project, said the operation would use proven safety controls for permafrost and will treat all water from the mining process to strict standards. The company also tracks precipitation to size facilities for heavier rainfall and has a binding agreement with NANA, an Alaska Native corporation, to prioritize recruitment from nearby communities.
Ambler Metals declined to comment on concerns specific to the road, including naturally occurring asbestos, traffic impacts, public access and habitat fragmentation, noting the company is not the road developer, though it has contributed to pre-development costs and would be its primary user. The Alaska Industrial Development and Export Authority, the state-owned investment bank developing the road, did not respond to a request for comment.
The carbon footprint of decarbonizing
Critical minerals are becoming increasingly vital — growing demand for green energy technologies could scale production by nearly 500% by 2050, according to a 2020 World Bank report. The Arctic deposit would yield not just copper, but also zinc, lead, silver and gold. At an estimated 46.7 million tons of mineral reserves, it ranks among the largest undeveloped polymetallic deposits in North America.
But there’s no guarantee the minerals would fuel clean energy. President Donald Trump has spoken openly about his disdain for electric vehicles and wind power, and the majority of copper in the U.S. goes to construction projects, according to the Copper Development Association.
The Trump administration has framed the issue as one of national security and deemed reliance on “hostile foreign powers’ mineral production” an acute threat. In March, the White House issued an executive order instructing the Secretary of the Interior to prioritize mineral production and mining as the primary land use on all federal lands known to hold mineral deposits.
Yet even that argument doesn’t quite fit. While the U.S. is heavily reliant on China for some 20 different minerals, the Arctic deposit’s primary minerals — copper and zinc — are not among them, according to the 2025 USGS report. The U.S. sources 45% of its refined copper from Chile, Canada, Mexico and Peru, and 73% of its zinc from Canada and Mexico. The rest is mined domestically.
The real issue isn’t whether the minerals are needed — it’s who gets to decide, said Andrea Marston, an associate professor of geography at Rutgers University who studies mining and Indigenous rights in the Americas. Mining projects like Ambler are sometimes located on Indigenous lands, creating what she calls a false ethical dilemma: mine to save the climate, or protect the land and perpetuate warming. That framing, she argues, obscures other possibilities like investing in mass public transportation, recycling minerals that already exist and designing systems that consume less.
“You cannot justify steamrolling Indigenous lands with a kind of global story of climate change because that just ends up reiterating colonial plunder in a new way,” she said. “The starting point should be: it is their land to decide what to do with.”
A community divided
Ambler mayor Conrad Douglas recognizes the exorbitant cost of living in his village and the desperate need for jobs. But he also knows the Canadian and Australian mining companies that hold the rights to the Ambler deposits may source workers from elsewhere, and he fears what it would all do to the land.
His concerns are layered: fugitive dust, tailings runoff and a cruel cycle where increasingly heavy rains wipe out fish runs, forcing people to rely more on caribou just as the road threatens to further disrupt those herds. With gas prices already putting hunting out of reach for many families, the equation becomes impossible.
“I don’t really know how much the state of Alaska is willing to jeopardize our way of life, but the people do need jobs,” he said, dressed in a pro Ambler Road hoodie.
Douglas worked at Red Dog Mine in the early 1990s and has seen how it benefited neighboring villages with jobs and community support. But he worries the companies behind Ambler won’t take the same approach.
For Pattee, the jobs represent more than income — they would allow people to reconnect with their culture. Young Inupiaq hunters once took immense pride in providing for their families, he said.
“That was their proud moment. That was what they lived for,” he said. “Nowadays, without being able to afford hunting, a lot of that’s been taken away.”
As for impacts on fish and caribou, Pattee believes mining safeguards work. In addition to wilderness guiding, he works as an environmental technical supervisor at Red Dog Mine and has seen good practices firsthand.
Still, “there’s always a worry,” he said.
What would be left
Nick Jans, an author who moved to Ambler in 1979, has watched the landscape transform over 46 years. When he first arrived, permafrost banks held firm against the rivers and caribou poured through by the hundreds of thousands.
The road, he argued, would deliver the final blow to a landscape already stressed by climate change.
“This isn’t about my backyard — this is about your backyard. This is the world’s backyard,” he said, his voice catching. “We have to protect something that was this planet as it was before us. Otherwise, we’re gonna lose our way. And I would say we already have.”
The night after his unsuccessful hunt, Pattee and his family gathered around a table of bowhead whale, beluga, seal and moose — a rare meal all together as relatives had flown in from Anchorage. Like many in Ambler, Pattee’s family members have left over the years to find jobs. In a village this small, each departure is felt — the population has dwindled from 320 in 2010 to some 200 today.
“We’re losing our community. We’re literally losing it,” he said. “People want to be home but they just don’t have the opportunities to keep them there.”
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