Mary Sherbick found out she was pregnant at the height of the pandemic in 2020. Although she and her partner had planned it, the pandemic was anxiety-inducing and isolating. While scrolling on social media, she came across online talking circles for Alaska Native women, organized by Alaska Native Birthworkers Community (ANBC), who were pregnant or postpartum. Sherbick, who is Yupik, immediately signed up.
“A lot of us were also just concerned about the way that we would be treated, and some of our concerns of pain or our birth plans within a hospital setting,” Sherbick said. “I think a lot of the women that I talked to just were aware of the history of how Indigenous women, Indigenous people in general, have been treated, and the sterilization programs that have been done unknowingly to Indigenous people.”
Growing up in foster care and losing her mother at 17, Sherbick did not have the family connection to support her in her pregnancy. And while her relatives introduced her to Yupik foods such as dry fish and agudak, she also felt removed from her culture. Her mother did not encourage Sherbick to speak the Yupik language, due to safety concerns. “There was an attitude on being Alaska Native within an urban setting, specifically within Anchorage, of animosity,” Sherbick said. Because of this, being able to have an Alaskan Native birth worker who could provide an Indigenous perspective was deeply meaningful and centered in sovereignty, she added.
Before giving birth in May 2021 at the Alaska Native Medical Center, which is where the ANBC team works primarily to support mothers, Sherbick attended one of the group’s birth preparation workshops focused on prenatal plant medicine. Participants received ingredients rooted in Indigenous knowledge, including yellow dock root, nettle leaf and red raspberry, to make herbal teas and infusions. “I can control even the potency of it,” Sherbick said. “I used the herbal iron syrup quite a bit because I was already anemic. That really helped with my blood flow and circulation.”
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Sherbick’s experience of having anemia during her pregnancy is one that many Alaska Native women can relate to. According to a research study, Alaska Native pregnant or postpartum women had higher anemia prevalence than non-Native women. Anemia is far from the only pregnancy-related issue that Native Alaskans face.
In 2024, Native American and Alaska Native people had the highest pregnancy-related mortality ratio among major demographic groups, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Alaska Native mothers also have the highest preterm birthrates in the state, with rates rising over the past decade. Native American and Alaska Native women have a higher risk of gestational diabetes mellitus and subsequent diagnosis of diabetes, compared with non-Hispanic white women.
Sherbick, who also dealt with gestational diabetes, knew that she needed a strong birth plan and support from Native birth workers. “I had specific breathing techniques. I had a whole playlist. I had a plan of walking around, and I was really doing OK until my water broke,” Sherbick explained. A partial water break increased her risk of infection and pain, so she ultimately chose an epidural, despite not wanting one at first.
The birth workers “really did a good job at breaking down the medical verbiage and making sure I truly understood what was going on and what were the next courses of action, and if that was something that I agreed to or felt that I was ready to do,” Sherbick said. “I felt really supported and honored because of that. Someone who comes from the same heritage and values as me, it just made me feel that much better.” With her birth worker’s help, she ensured skin-to-skin contact immediately, she said: “There was no wiping. I think there was no bathing for the first 24 or 48 hours. We really wanted to make sure that she felt my presence.”
Abra Patkotak, her ANBC birth worker, said she “started Alaska Native birth workers community because we saw that these families were really isolated and they needed support. It was hard for them and to be alone during the most vulnerable time in your life, that of childbirth.” Founded in 2017, ANBC has provided free birth-related services to Alaska Native women, including prenatal care, labor support, postpartum care and support during miscarriage, abortion, loss, adoption and for LGBTQ2S+ people.
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Mariana Dosal, who is Mexican and a member of the Agdaagux Tribe of King Cove, Alaska, also faced birth complications while in Anchorage. Her first birth was traumatic – she hemorrhaged and nearly bled out. Fearing a similar experience, she sought help from the birth workers at ANBC. “The next time I went in, I had more experience with how to prevent that, from the native birth worker community,” Dosal said. Patkotak “being in there to advocate for what I need allowed me to not lose as much blood the second time. I didn’t go into shock, and I didn’t need blood transfusions.”
Both Sherbick and Dosal worked with Patkotak, an ANBC co-founder who is Iñupiaq from Utqiagvik. She trained to be a doula in 2010 before moving to Utqiagvik, 750 miles north of Anchorage, where she ran a pre-maternal home. There, she saw the challenges that rural Native Alaskan women faced, including having to spend large parts of their pregnancy away from home, to give birth.
Patkotak believes community support was once central to Alaska Native births. “My Amau, my great-grandfather, helped deliver babies. And this role was a role that every single community had,” she said. However, when the Community Health Aid Program started, there was a move towards more westernized healthcare, and midwives and birth workers were absorbed into that healthcare system, “and the time honored, respected role of midwifery was no longer the same”, she added.
After a generation of Native midwives passed away, the knowledge died with them. “Now, there’s this resurgence,” Patkotak said. “I think about them all the time. I call them in to support me.”
“A lot of us in my generation have been separated from that traditional knowledge just through colonization, [and] the medicalization of birth,” added Margaret David, ANBC co-founder. David is Koyukon Dene, and a mom of four, three of whom she birthed at home with support from midwives.
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On a day-to-day basis, ANBC’s work ranges from birth preparation groups to on-call support. Some parents seek help during the prenatal phase, while others need labor support. ANBC also runs a 24/7 call line for referrals from the Alaska Native Medical Center for mothers in active labor. Most of the ANBC team is based in Anchorage, with a smaller team in the valley, because many rural Alaskan mothers have to travel there to give birth. A 2025 study found 43.3% of American Indian and Alaska Native births occurred in areas with low access to birthing facilities, compared with just 3.1% for white, non-Hispanic mothers.
For many mothers, traveling hundreds of miles from home is a financial, logistical and emotional nightmare.
Dosal, who lives in Dillingham, south-western Alaska, spent her last month of pregnancy in Anchorage, nearly 400 miles from home and separated from her partner. The local clinic in Dillingham lacks a birthing center, so women are sent to Anchorage about three weeks before their due date to give birth at a hospital equipped to help with labor and delivery. “That’s a really big hardship for us, because it takes a lot of money to live in Anchorage away from home,” she said. Some people have to stay even longer, depending on the complexity of their pregnancy.
While some financial support exists for mothers in this situation, it often falls short. Dosal spent $500 on groceries her first time in Anchorage just to set up a kitchen. “So it’s not really ideal for expecting mother … and then spiritually it wreaks havoc on your spirit to be in the city when you’re used to rural Alaska,” she said. But while in Anchorage, Dosal prepared for labor with ANBC’s help. “They gave me a medicinal foot bath, and gave me a pregnancy massage, and they have all these nice things for pregnant women,” she said, explaining that it provided her friendship and community that she was missing.
For the birth workers at ANBC, though, support goes beyond labor and delivery. They use a “three sisters” model, where each sister focuses on a specific layer of support to ensure a holistic approach to sovereignty from first breath. One provides free services to Native families, another grows the cohort of Indigenous birth workers and the third focuses on systemic change for better maternal health.
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David explained that for years, ANBC brought other Native trainers from across the country to come and help train birth workers in Alaska. “Last year we had somebody come do a really beautiful lactation training,” she said, but, as of last year, they created their own curriculum and now train those interested in birth work.
They conduct trainings in remote regions too, including a training in Nome, Patkotak said. “We have hopes to expand … we have a lot of hopes to just increase what we’re doing, because it’s so positive, and there’s definitely a good impact.”
By expanding, and bringing birth work to other parts of Alaska, too, they hope to continue connecting birthing families with their Native roots, improving birth outcomes and expanding postpartum support.
For Sherbick, who lives in Anchorage, ANBC’s birthing circles were invaluable postpartum, for advice on colic, teething and more. “I had no idea how great … Muktuk is, which is whale blubber. It’s really good for teething babies,” said Sherbick, who had some in her freezer at the time. “And my daughter loved it.” Sherbick’s husband is Iñupiaq and Muktuk is an Iñupiaq delicacy, one which she said her husband didn’t even know of when he was her age. She thinks that being introduced to this traditional food not only helped her in the early days of being a mother, but also contributed to her daughter’s love for the food.
“And it all comes from these Indigenous women or these Indigenous people who are willing to come together to help support each other in this very sacred time in your life,” Sherbick said.
In 1867, Russia’s decision to sell Alaska to America turned out to be a historic mistake that was to go unnoticed for years to come. The sum paid by the US was only $7,200,000. Although, in the light of the circumstances at the time, it appeared logical, retrospectively, the act looks extremely shortsighted. Russia found itself economically constrained, geographically far away from the region and fearful of its falling into the hands of the British without any compensation. In reality, however, the region had proved immensely valuable both strategically and naturally.
Why Russia agreed to the Alaska purchase
The choice of selling Alaska was based on economic and political reasons. By the middle of the 19th century, the Russian Empire experienced financial difficulties as a result of the expensive Crimean War. It had become increasingly hard for the country to manage such remote and thinly populated areas as Alaska.According to EBSCO, “the Russian-American Company was in decline, and the colony failed to yield any profit”. In addition to this, the lucrative fur trade had declined, making the territory much less economically valuable for the empire.At the same time, Russia was afraid that Britain might capture Alaska in case another war broke out between the two countries. Selling the colony to the friendly United States appeared as a logical step. As the Office of the Historian states, William H. Seward, U.S. Secretary of State, “it was a chance to expand its influence in North America and hinder further growth of Britain”.For Russia, the transaction was a chance to minimise the losses. However, it greatly undervalued the potential of Alaska.
The hidden wealth Russia gave away
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Another thing that Russia did not expect was the amount of riches that Alaska possessed. Within several decades after the acquisition, the state saw discoveries of enormous deposits of gold, oil, and other minerals.“Alaska has produced more than 40 million ounces of gold,” according to the US Geological Survey. Furthermore, Alaska is home to some of the world’s most significant undeveloped mineral deposits, according to the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS). But even more importantly, the state’s oil deposits turned out to be extremely valuable. The Prudhoe Bay oil field was discovered in 1968 and became one of North America’s biggest.In retrospect, the amount paid by the Americans, $7.2 million, or two cents per acre, was rather laughable. According to Howard I. Kushner, the deal “robbed Russia of an enormously rich territory, the true value of which would only be recognised in the twentieth century.”
Strategic and geopolitical consequences
In addition to resources, there is the question of strategy and how important Alaska is to the United States from a strategic standpoint. This is a very good place when it comes to defence strategy. It borders on the Arctic Ocean and also happens to be close to Russia.During the period of the Cold War, the Alaskan region became a frontier area for the United States, becoming home to military facilities and warning systems.According to Col. Michael J. Forsyth, U.S. Army, the closeness of Russia and Alaska, only about ninety kilometres apart across the Bering Strait, meant that this region became highly significant to the United States’ defence plans.From today’s point of view, the strategic location of Alaska makes the state very important to the policies of the U.S. related to the Arctic, energy security, and even environmental policies.Thinking back, what seems clear to us now is that the Russians sold Alaska due to immediate needs rather than future considerations. In order to solve the problem, they lost a valuable resource for Russia.Conclusively, the Alaska Purchase should not have been done as it has had a significant impact that will remain throughout history.
The U.S. Capitol in Washington. (AP Photo/Tom Brenner)
The center of American politics is notin Alaska. Yet while the Last Frontier is far from pundits’ minds, it may now represent our political future as Bristol Bay fisherman and retired educator Bill Hill emerged as the independent challenger to Rep. Nick Begich III.
Bill Hill has described himself as both “pro-choice” and “pro-gun,” a unique blend that perfectly fits Alaska’s unique politics. Alaskans now have a chance to consider what independent representation can look like when it’s grounded in local experience rather than party loyalty. And for the rest of the country, Hill’s candidacy is worth watching. It suggests that the next phase of American politics may not come from the party leadership, but from candidates who defy easy labels and appeal to voters exhausted by ideological rigidity.
A commercial fisherman and educator, named Alaska’s 2023 Superintendent of the Year, Hill is the kind of candidate with deep roots, allowing him to understand the complexities and nuances of the state’s voters. While independents usually face an uphill battle getting elected, Alaska employs ranked choice voting — a system that can help independent candidates who aren’t relying on party affiliation to carry them in a general election.
The blossoming independent movement that Hill represents is driven by widespread dissatisfaction with both Republicans and Democrats. In February, for instance, Gallup noted that a new high of 45% of respondents self-identified as independents.
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Until recently, “independent” was a nebulous term. This explains why political scientists and party operatives have long treated them as “leaners.” But this is no longer the case. Gallup’s poll highlights the fact that independents are beginning to see themselves as independents, not just swing voters.
Recent polling conducted by Independent Center Voice reports that 76% of voters would vote for a “strong, well-funded independent candidate.” For decades, Americans have yearned for more independent voices, but haven’t had strong candidates to stand behind.
In Alaska, that’s no longer the case.
Hill’s official campaign website notes three primary concerns: lowering costs, fighting corruption in Washington, D.C., and protecting Alaska’s way of life. These are exactly in line with what the majority of independent voters are concerned with. Polling conducted by the Independent Center in October found that jobs, the economy and affordability ranked as the top concerns that respondents wanted their local government representatives to focus on.
Hill’s candidacy for Alaska’s House seat represents the new heights a viable and targeted independent effort can achieve. While an independent, nonpartisan message won’t work everywhere, in certain districts and states, it’s the pitch-perfect message that can rejuvenate an electorate exhausted by gridlock and partisan politics.
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This year marks a new era for independents. Rather than labeling themselves as independents just for the sake of protesting the dysfunction of both Republicans and Democrats, the title now stands for pragmatism and common-sense. What’s more, 2026 is the election cycle when independents can throw their support behind viable and legitimate candidates with a path to victory.
Hill’s candidacy is the first in a new wave of independent candidates seeking office, drawn to service but turned off by partisanship. This is good for our country. Congressional leaders are elected to serve their districts, not party bosses that expect voters to fall in line.
Polling notes that while Americans are optimistic about their personal lives, they’re pessimistic about the state of politics. But this can change if more people like Hill answer the call to service. Imagine the change in our political psyche if the majority of Americans could point to their member of Congress in Washington, D.C., and boldly proclaim, “That person represents me and my family.”
In the end, the question is simple. For Alaskans, it’s whether they want representation shaped by local experience rather than party loyalty. For the rest of the country, it’s whether this model — pragmatic, independent and rooted in place — can be replicated elsewhere.
Either way, what’s happening in Alaska deserves close attention.
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Adam Brandon is the senior adviser to the Independent Center, a nonprofit organization of political independents.
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RUBY — Beneath a bulbous waxing moon, we roll along on a ribbon of packed snow. The clear river ice beneath our tires is four feet thick.
That ice we can’t see is the crystal memory of so many cold days of the winter of 2025-2026. The remaining spruce pile of our Tanana friends Charlie Campbell and Ruth Althoff was small enough to be covered by a single tarp.
To get to Tanana, Forest Wagner and I pedaled to Alaska’s largest river via a newish road from Manley Hot Springs.
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When I first saw Forest backdropped by that massive expanse of chunky white, my jaw dropped to my chest in a real-life cliché. You forget how big this river is when you haven’t seen it for a while.
Forest and I are pedaling the White Lonely for the next week and a half, two ants crawling over a cold moon. We never get very close to shore.
In our attempt to ride from home to Nome, the section from the village of Tanana to Ruby is the one that kept me up at night in January. People just don’t travel it much. We are dependent on a packed trail, which Hudson Stuck noted was the greatest gift one northern traveler can give another.
While we float at the speed of a canoe, we shove our bikes off the trail to allow passage of a few snowmachiners each day. Between Tanana and Ruby, they all fit the same profile: one man wearing a praying mantis helmet driving a modern black machine with a plastic red jug of gas strapped behind his seat. Only one stopped to chat. Most waved or gave a thumbs-up in passing while surfing the deep snow around us.
“Travelers,” Forest said.
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The 120-mile stretch between Tanana and Ruby features a few log cabins separated by many miles of frozen river and a few more structures that were once there when I skied this stretch with Andy Sterns 25 years ago. That’s long enough for floods to wash some away or for leaky roofs to collapse.
While we were in Tanana, our hosts remembered summers past during which they harvested king and chum salmon. Those fish were once so numerous beneath our wheels in their pinky-size fry stage, waiting for the river to break up so they could torpedo to the ocean.
In the largest natural-history change in recent times in Alaska, salmon numbers have nosedived to the point that no one can fish for them anymore. The spruce fish wheels anchored now in deep snow will remain at the Tanana boat landing again this summer. Ruth called it a fish-wheel graveyard.
Being out here reminds this urban Alaskan of what we have all lost with the end of those runs of swimming protein and soil nutrients that seemed infinite. Tanana, once famous for its number of dog teams that ran on dried chum salmon from the river, is down to a limited number of aging veterans whose owners can afford to feed the expensive imported-from-America kibble that my wife and I feed our dogs.
The ghosted-out fish camps we pass on this section of the river tell a story of that huge change, when we pay attention to it. But sometimes we just daydream and stand on the pedals to get off the seat. Every hour, we stop rolling, plant our boots on the trail and eat. When we pause to stop chewing, the hum of utter silence wraps itself around us like a hug.
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Since the late 1970s, the University of Alaska Fairbanks’ Geophysical Institute has provided this column free in cooperation with the UAF research community. Ned Rozell is a science writer for the Geophysical Institute.
