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As the commercial salmon season opens, some Alaska fishermen fear for their futures

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As the commercial salmon season opens, some Alaska fishermen fear for their futures


HOMER — On a brilliant spring morning, Buck Laukitis, a longtime fisherman from this Kenai Peninsula town, stood at the city dock watching his catch come ashore.

Crew members aboard Laukitis’ boat, the Oracle, filled bags with dozens of halibut — some of the fatter ones worth $200 or more — which a crane would lift to the dock. There, processing workers on a small slime line weighed the fish, tossed crushed ice into the gills and slid them into boxes for shipment to Canada.

Harvest, unload, sell, repeat — exactly how the iconic Alaska commercial fishing industry is supposed to work. Until you ask Laukitis about the Oracle’s sister vessel, the Halcyon.

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Instead of fishing for another species, black cod, like it’s built for, the Halcyon is tied up at the dock.

For Laukitis to make money, processing companies would need to pay $2.50 for each pound of black cod delivered to a plant. But right now, buyers aren’t paying much more than $1.50, he said.

With Laukitis on the dock last month were his young grandkids and adult daughters — fishermen who run a popular brand called the Salmon Sisters.

Those generations, he said, were on his mind as a sharp downturn in Alaska’s fishing industry continues looming over his livelihood. Some say that the crisis, driven by an array of market forces and economic factors outside fishermen’s control, is the biggest for the industry since statehood.

“We’re trying to do multi-generation fishing,” Laukitis said. “But believe me: It keeps me up at night, wondering about the future.”

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Roughly a year into the downturn, with the major summer harvest of salmon just starting, there are some signs of recovery. Some fishermen say they managed to turn profits even after last year’s plunge in prices. And startup businesses are launching new models for processing that they say could help boost the quality and value of Alaska’s catch.

But major threats persist, many of which fishermen feel powerless to affect — posing existential risks to a $6 billion industry that employs more than 15,000 Alaskans.

Industry and state elected leaders say they expect Russia to continue selling huge quantities of fish into global markets, undercutting the prices of Alaska’s harvests — which also have to compete with farmed fish.

Inflation and high borrowing costs are hammering processing companies, which typically take out huge loans to buy supplies and stage workers and equipment at the start of each summer salmon season. Plants and whole processing businesses have shuttered around the state, while others are putting assets up for sale.

Then there’s the long-term uncertainty that comes with global warming, which appears to be boosting some fish populations but disrupting others.

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Fishermen who have made big investments in recent years now own permits that could be worth a fraction of the purchase price.

Permits to participate in the typically lucrative Bristol Bay salmon fishery were going for $260,000 two years ago; now they’re selling for $140,000.

Many skippers face steep startup costs for the summer season without much confidence that their harvest will pay off. Some who are nearing retirement are having to postpone those plans until they can sell their boats and permits at higher prices.

“There are people who literally cannot afford to go fishing. They’re going to be paying money out of their own pocket to deliver their fish pretty soon,” said Maddie Lightsey, who brokers sales of permits and boats at her family business in Homer. “But they also can’t afford to sell, because the market has crashed and come down so far that they’re dramatically upside down on their loans.”

Most Alaska fishermen are in the business for the long haul, not for short-term investment returns. But some, like 41-year-old Erik Velsko, are starting to hedge their bets.

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Velsko, another longtime Homer fisherman, is training to be a ship’s pilot, in case his chosen career doesn’t work out. Others said they’re looking at jobs in health care and aboard state ferries.

“That’s how much faith I have in, at least, the fisheries we’re doing,” Velsko said. “It was pretty good, for quite a while.”

‘Nothing to fall back on’

The industry turmoil first started generating big headlines after last summer’s Bristol Bay salmon harvest, when processing companies announced they would pay fishermen per-pound prices that were roughly half of the previous year’s.

The prices, which prompted vehement protests from fishermen, were the lowest in two decades, and they could end up being the lowest on record, according to a preliminary analysis by the Alaska Seafood Marketing Institute.

But the focus on salmon has, to a degree, overshadowed that the crisis is broader, covering an array of other species.

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Among the biggest problems is pollock — a whitefish harvested in huge quantities in the Gulf of Alaska and Bering Sea. It’s sold into markets in Asia, Europe and the U.S. to make products like fish sticks, fried fish sandwiches and imitation crab.

Many of Alaska’s big processing companies depend on revenue from consistent, multi-season harvests of pollock to smooth out the short, frenetic summer salmon season.

But processors say that huge increases in aggressively low-priced sales of pollock products from Russia — particularly of surimi, the fish paste used to make fake crab — are crowding them out of the market, especially in Asia and Europe.

Processors say they’re also facing increased competition from Russia-caught salmon, and from farm-raised fish. Other species, like black cod, are also fetching rock-bottom prices — meaning that even fishermen who have diversified into multiple species aren’t insulated from the chaos.

“There’s nothing to fall back on. Everything, across the board, is in trouble,” Lightsey said. “This is different from other downturns in that way.”

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Other dynamics that processors say are limiting the prices they can pay for fish include a historically low value of the Japanese yen against the U.S. dollar. That’s limited the demand for Alaska products in a country that’s often been a huge market.

Inflation and sharply rising borrowing costs in the past two years are also big problems.

Processing companies often take out loans of tens of millions of dollars at the start of each salmon season — money for buying empty cans and plastic, flying workers to remote plants and funding preseason boat upgrades, insurance policies and other necessities for the skippers who sell them fish.

“You had interest rates go up by three times,” said Rob Gillam, whose McKinley financial and research businesses have studied and invested in the Alaska seafood industry in recent years. “At the same time, what we can sell the fish for is going down, not up.”

Wages for processing workers, like for those in other industries, have also spiked. At a news conference last month, Joe Bundrant, the chief executive of the huge processing company Trident Seafoods, said labor costs have risen by 240% in the past five years, with diesel fuel prices also rising sharply in the same period.

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“All the while that the Russians were weaponizing their seafood industry against us, we’ve seen unprecedented cost increases,” said Bundrant. His company is based in Seattle but has operated 11 plants in Alaska — four of which Trident put up for sale last year.

Deferred loans and deepening debts

Processing companies’ woes trickle down to skippers and crew, since fishermen depend on the prices those businesses can pay for their catch. Some of the same trends hitting the processing companies, like inflation, are also affecting fishermen directly.

In interviews, numerous Homer fishermen said they’re facing steep increases in the cost of insuring their boats for the summer salmon season. Jennifer Hakala, whose husband runs a boat in Bristol Bay, said the price of insurance for this year’s six-week fishery spiked to $8,000 from $5,000 in 2023.

To survive, some fishermen are deferring loan payments or taking on more debt. Others, like Hakala, are getting creative.

Typically, her husband hires two deckhands to help on the boat, but this year, they’re depending on their 16-year-old son, and Hakala, who manages a Homer marine supply store, will help out, too.

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“I’m going to fly in on the peak and help them finish off the year — and hopefully we make our boat payment,” she said, referring to the yearly amount that’s due on the loan the family took out to buy their vessel.

Most fishermen in Kodiak have been able to get through the past year without contemplating difficult decisions like bankruptcy, according to Danielle Ringer, a fisherman and fisheries scholar from Homer who’s now based on Kodiak Island.

She’s heard of some skippers who have been working as crew members in fisheries they don’t normally participate in. Others are thinking about working construction instead of taking the risk of gearing up their boat for this coming summer.

“It could be OK,” Ringer said. “But not if it’s a couple more seasons like last year.”

Ringer said she’s seen support coming from the state and federal governments for large and small seafood processing companies.

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Those programs are legitimate, Ringer said, but she’d also like to see more support for individual fishermen, too — ideas like direct aid, or loan forbearance. She endorsed concepts being discussed by policymakers to create new programs modeled on federal supports for agriculture.

“For healthy fisheries and healthy communities, you need all of these different aspects,” she said. “Even if government folks and others are interested in supporting fishermen, I think there are still questions about how to do that the right way.”

Not all bad news

While many Alaska fishermen are struggling, others say they have managed to stay profitable — and that they see bright spots ahead.

Last year, Homer resident Scotty Switzer and his three crew members all made money fishing off Kodiak Island, where big runs of salmon made up for the low price they were paid.

“I’m just grateful to have made something,” said Switzer, 36. “Getting into this industry, I knew there were going to be ups and downs.”

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Switzer took on hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans to acquire his permit, boat and other assets, and he’s still deeply in debt. But, like other fishermen working on their boats in the Homer harbor, he said he’s not feeling too anxious about his future.

“Probably should, could,” he said. “But, I’m in it now.”

For the upcoming season, one processing company, seeking to reassure fishermen, has already announced its minimum price for Bristol Bay sockeye salmon. Silver Bay Seafoods, one of the biggest Alaska processing companies, says it will pay a minimum of 80 cents a pound, a significant bump from the 50-cent minimum it paid last year.

Meanwhile, two startup companies, Northline Seafoods and Circle Seafoods, are hoping to revolutionize the industry’s traditional freezing and salmon processing methods — thereby fetching higher prices from consumers.

Typically, processors send big boats known as tenders to collect salmon from fishermen, then motor the catch back to plants on shore, where workers are flown each summer to handle the fish and operate equipment. Delays in pickup and delivery — and sometimes less-than-meticulous handling and chilling by fishermen — can translate into lower-quality fillets.

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The two companies will park new, floating factory barges directly on or near the fishing grounds, reducing the amount of transit time once salmon are caught.

Once full of whole, frozen fish, the barges will be taken back to Washington state, where the salmon will be processed throughout the offseason without requiring workers to take expensive flights to rural Alaska plants.

“We’re trying to turn it into a manufactured good, as opposed to this seasonal rush of production that’s cut by temporary seasonal workers who have never seen a fish before,” said Charlie Campbell, Circle Seafoods’ co-founder. His company has raised $36 million from investors, loans and federal tax credits, he said.

A ‘bigger, more systematic downturn’

Alaska’s congressional delegation, led by Republican U.S. Sen. Dan Sullivan, has also been chipping away at the problems of Russian pollock and salmon exports.

While the U.S. banned imports of Russian seafood in 2022, a loophole allowed those harvests to continue entering America if they’d been processed in China or other countries.

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Sullivan and other Alaska elected officials successfully pressured the Biden administration to fix that problem in December; he’s also appealed directly to European Union and Asian allies to consider tighter Russian import restrictions of their own.

“When the U.S. government moves in a coordinated fashion, it can get things done,” Sullivan said. “If we got international cooperation from the EU and Japan, there’s no doubt it would stabilize prices.”

Beyond pollock and salmon, there are reasons to be hopeful about the medium- and long-term prospects for two other key Alaska species, halibut and black cod, said Norm Pillen, president of the fishermen-owned Seafood Producers Cooperative, a small processor based in Sitka.

But the near-term is less promising, with continuing low prices and high borrowing and shipping costs, he added. Sitka fishermen are also nervous about a conservation group’s request to have the federal government list Gulf of Alaska king salmon under the Endangered Species Act.

“We’re going to have another tough year to get through,” Pillen said.

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Back on the Homer dock, Laukitis, the boat owner, said that last year, he thought the turmoil in the Alaska fishing industry would be short-lived, like other dips that participants have had to periodically endure over the years.

Now, he sees it differently — as a “bigger, more systematic downturn” that’s landing directly on fishermen. Processing companies may not be able to control the prices they pay for fuel or packaging, but they can reduce the price they pay for fish.

“There’s a disequilibrium,” Laukitis said. “And we’re the ones getting squeezed the hardest.”

Nathaniel Herz is an Anchorage-based reporter. Subscribe to his newsletter, Northern Journal, at northernjournal.com. Reach him at natherz@gmail.com.





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Bill allowing physician assistants to practice independently passes Alaska Senate

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Bill allowing physician assistants to practice independently passes Alaska Senate


JUNEAU — The Alaska Senate has passed a bill that would allow physician assistants with sufficient training to practice under an independent license, removing the state’s current requirement that they work under a formal collaborative agreement with physicians.

Supporters say the change would reduce administrative burdens that can delay and increase the cost of care. But physicians who opposed the bill argue it lowers the bar for training and could affect patient care.

Senate Bill 89, sponsored by Anchorage Democratic Sen. Löki Tobin, passed by a unanimous vote in the Senate on Wednesday, with 18 votes in favor and two members absent. The bill would allow physician assistants to apply for an independent license after completing 4,000 hours of postgraduate supervised clinical practice.

Under current law, physician assistants in Alaska must operate under a collaborative plan with physicians. These plans outline the medical services a physician assistant can provide and require oversight from doctors.

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The Alaska State Medical Board regulates physician assistants and authorizes them to provide care only within the scope of their training. Most physician assistants in Alaska work in family practice, though some are specially trained in particular fields. All care must be provided under a physician’s license through a collaborative agreement that also requires a second, alternate physician to sign off.

For some clinics, particularly in more remote areas, finding those physicians can be difficult.

Mary Swain, CEO of Cama’i Community Health Center in Bristol Bay, testified in support of the bill before the Senate Labor and Commerce Committee in March 2025. Her practice employs two physicians to maintain collaborative plans for its physician assistants. She said neither of them lived in the community, and the primary physician lived out of state.

Roughly 15% of physicians who hold collaborative agreements with Alaska-based physician assistants do not live in the state, according to Tobin. At the same time, Alaskans face some of the highest health care costs in the nation.

Jared Wallace, a physician assistant in Kenai and owner of Odyssey Family Practice, testified in support of the bill at a committee meeting in April.

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Wallace said maintaining collaborative agreements is one of the most difficult parts of running his clinic. He said he pays a collaborative physician about $2,000 per physician assistant per month, roughly $96,000 a year, simply to maintain the required agreement.

“In my experience, a collaborative plan does not improve nor ensure good patient care,” Wallace said. “Instead, it is a barrier in providing good health care in a rural community where access is limited, is a threat that delicately suspends my practice in place, and if severed, the 6,000 patients that I care for would lose access to (their) primary provider and become displaced.”

Opposition to the bill largely came from physicians, who testified that physician assistants do not receive the same depth of training as doctors.

Dr. Nicholas Cosentino, an internal medicine physician, testified in opposition to the bill last April. He said that medical school training provides crucial experience in diagnosing complex cases.

“It’s not infrequent that you get a patient that you’re not exactly sure you know what’s going on, and you have to fall back on your scientific background, the four years of medical school training, the countless hours of residency to come up with that differential, to think critically and come up with a plan for that patient,” Cosentino said. “I think the bill as stated, 4,000 hours, does not equate to that level of training.”

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The Alaska Primary Care Association said it supports the intent of the bill but argued that physician assistants should complete 10,000 hours in a collaborative practice model with a physician before practicing independently.

Other states that have moved to allow independent licensure for physician assistants have adopted a range of thresholds. North Dakota requires 4,000 hours, while Montana requires 8,000 hours. Utah requires 10,000 hours of postgraduate supervised work, while Wyoming does not set a specific statewide minimum hour requirement.

Tobin said the hour requirement chosen in the bill came from conversations with experts during the bill’s drafting.

“When we were working with stakeholders on this piece of legislation, we came to a compromise of 4,000 hours, recognizing and understanding that there was concerns, but also … understanding that it is a bit of an arbitrary choice,” she said.

The bill now heads to House committees before a potential vote on the House floor.

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Dunleavy, EPA visit UAF to discuss regulations in the arctic environment

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Dunleavy, EPA visit UAF to discuss regulations in the arctic environment


Fairbanks, Alaska (KTUU/KTVF) – On Wednesday, Gov. Mike Dunleavy, Alaska Attorney General Stephen Cox and Lee Zeldin, the administrator for the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), spoke to press at the University of Alaska Fairbanks power plant.

During their time at the university, the federal and state leaders spoke about developing resources such as coal, oil, gas and critical minerals in the 49th state.

During his 24-hour trip to Fairbanks, Zeldin said he has spoke to business and state leaders about environmental regulations impacting operations in Alaska, saying the EPA needs to consider whether regulations are solving problems or are solutions in search of a problem.

He also discussed the concept of “cooperative federalism,” where the EPA takes its cues from state leaders to determine where regulations and help are needed.

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“We’re here at the University of Alaska’s coal plant, and the most modern coal plant in the United States of America,” Dunleavy said.

Zeldin said visiting Fairbanks in winter helps inform decisions the agency is considering.

“There are a lot of decisions right now in front of this agency that the first-hand perspective of being here on the ground helps inform our agency to make the right decision,” he said.

Zeldin also said the agency is hearing concerns from Alaska truckers about diesel exhaust rules in extreme cold.

“We then met with truckers who have been dealing with unique cold weather concerns with the implementation of EPA regulations related to diesel exhaust fluid system,” he said.

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When asked about PFAS in drinking water, Zeldin said the EPA is not rolling back the standards.

“So the PFAS standards are not being rolled back at all,” he said.

On Fairbanks air quality and PM2.5 regulations, Zeldin said the agency wants to work with the state.

“We want, at the EPA, to help the Fairbanks community be able to be in attainment on PM 2.5. We want to make it work,” he said.

Dunleavy said energy costs and heating needs remain a major factor in Interior air quality discussions.

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“People have to be able to live. They’ve got to be able to afford to live,” he said.

Zeldin said EPA is considering further changes to diesel regulations and urged Alaskans to participate in the rulemaking process.

“We need Alaskans to participate in that public comment period,” he said.

See a spelling or grammar error? Report it to web@ktuu.com

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Opinion: Life lessons learned from mushing and old-time Alaska

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Opinion: Life lessons learned from mushing and old-time Alaska


A steel arch commemorating sled dog racing was installed over Fourth Avenue in downtown Anchorage in November 2025. (Marc Lester / ADN)

This is the beginning of the Iditarod spring, signaled by the burst of sun and what used to be the long wait for dog teams to pass under the arch in Nome, the finish line a thousand miles away from Anchorage. For old-timers, it’s the story of the way Alaska used to be. What once was a 30-day wait has become about 10 days for winners to celebrate and the rest of us to shout, “Well done.”

My story is about family that welcomed immigrants from all over the world to be among the last groups of Indigenous people in the country, a life of taking good care of dog teams, and of parents who taught their children how to live in a wild, rugged frontier.

I came to be in a different age, a time of dog teams that ruled the trails to mining camps and where the salmon ran strongest — before the introduction of the snowmachine that revolutionized rural and Native Alaska.

For the Blatchford family, it is a recognition that some things will always stay the same and everything else changes. All four of my grandparents were noncitizens. My mother Lena’s parents of Elim were Alaska Natives, as was my dad Ernie’s mother, Mae, of Shishmaref. The name Blatchford comes from his father, the Englishman who was born in Cornwall and arrived in Nome during the gold rush. His brother, William, was one of the early immigrants, and by 1899 there was a creek just outside Nome named after him. He discovered gold. My grandfather, Percy, found gold, too, but it was a different kind of wealth, a finding that he had found home and never left.

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I was born in Nome, delivered by an Iñupiaq Eskimo midwife in a one-room cabin where the frozen Bering Sea met the treeless tundra’s permafrost. Dad had a dog team. I like to think that the dogs were anxious for me to be born because it was hunting time for Dad to hitch them up and mush out to where the sea mammals, snowshoe hares, ptarmigan and other game thrived in the winter. My earliest memories are of dogs; all of them working as a team to bring home the game so we could have a fine meal cooked by Lena. In the Arctic, dogs were essential for family survival. If you didn’t hunt, you didn’t eat.

There are several memories that remain strong. I suppose I can call them lessons of the Arctic.

The first is to take care of the dogs and treat them well. Dog lovers all over the world know very well that a dog, whatever the breed, is loyal and will die to protect the one who feeds and pets it. If you don’t feed a husky, it won’t pull, and it could mean a long time before the family eats. When a dog team is hungry, it will race back home to be fed a healthy meal. Mother Lena must have been a great cook because Dad said the dog team always raced back to the edge of Nome, where Lena was waiting beside the propane stove. For Mike, Tom and me, our job was to take the rifle, shotgun and .22 into the cabin to be cleaned and oiled. Once that was quickly done, we unhitched the dogs and then fed the team.

All three of us boys had special responsibilities to Tim, Buttons and Girlie. Tim, the lead dog, was brother Mike’s pet; Tom had Buttons, and I had Girlie. We made sure they were healthy and well cared for. Dad would often comment that “Papa,” our grandfather Percy, the Englishman, took good care of his dog teams, being kind to the dogs and feeding them. Dad was the oldest of a large family that lived in Teller and later Nome.

“Papa” Percy was a prospector, fox farmer and a contestant in the All-Alaska Sweepstakes, the dog team race from Nome to the mining camp of Candle, a 400-mile race. He didn’t win, but he finished well, very well. The stories of the Sweepstakes have remained with the family for over a century. At a memorial service in Palmer for “Doc” Blatchford, Aunt Marge, without a question or a prompt, said that Papa took good care of his dogs.

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Percy Blatchford was a legend in the Alaska Territory. As a teacher of Alaska newspapers, I would find headlines similar to one in the Fairbanks Daily News-Miner that blazed on the front page: “Blatchford Wins Solomon Derby.” There was even a story in The New York Times.

There’s probably no other sport in Alaska that brought Alaskans together like dog mushing. When old-timers would visit over strong coffee, dogs and dog team racing would come up. In the territory, there were few high schools and fewer gymnasiums, so the only team sport was dog mushing. It was something to talk about that was unique to Alaskans.

I used to travel in rural Alaska quite a bit. In the smaller communities, I would see the teams and would wonder how long they would power the engines that brought the mail and the foodstuffs down and up the trails. When I think of dog teaming, I think of the Iditarod and wonder, and then come to know, what the strength of the story would mean for bringing generations together from Papa Blatchford to his eldest son Ernie and to the fourth generation of Blatchfords in Alaska.

There are times when I think that old-time Alaska is gone. But then my faith and confidence in the old-time spirit are ignited when I see what others in the Lower 48 see. When I was walking in downtown Philadelphia, I looked up and saw on an ancient federal building a stamped concrete sculpture of a dog musher leaning into a blizzard. Such is the way I think of the Iditarod and the lessons I learned growing up with the dog team, preserved in my memories.

Edgar Blatchford is former mayor of Seward, Mile 0 of the Iditarod Trail.

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