Published July 9, 2026 03:00AM
Alaska
The ability to cast a ballot isn’t always guaranteed in Alaska’s far-flung Native villages
KAKTOVIK, Alaska (AP) — Early last summer, George Kaleak, a whaling captain in the tiny Alaska Native village of Kaktovik, on an island in the Arctic Ocean just off the state’s northern coast, pinned a flyer to the blue, ribbon-lined bulletin board in the community center.
“Attention residents,” it read. “In search of elections chairperson to conduct the August and November elections. … If interested please contact the State of Alaska Nome Elections.”
No one was interested, Kaleak said, and the state failed to provide an elections supervisor or poll workers.
When the primary arrived on Aug. 20, Kaktovik’s polling station didn’t open. There was nowhere for the village’s 189 registered voters to cast a ballot. Kaleak, who also is an adviser to the regional government, didn’t even try.
“I knew there was nobody to open it,” he said during an interview in Kaktovik earlier this month.
The development might have shocked voters or politicians elsewhere in the U.S., especially in swing states where any polling irregularities prompt scrutiny from party activists and news organizations, conspiracy theories spreading on social media and calls for investigations.
In Kaktovik, life went on. Some residents were frustrated, but they turned their attention to a more pressing matter: the start of whaling season.
Remote villages, few poll workers
The shuttered polling station represents just the latest example of persistent voting challenges in Alaska’s remote Native villages, a collection of more than 200 far-flung communities that dot the nation’s largest state. Many of the villages are far from the main road system, so isolated they are reachable only by small plane. Mail service can be halted for days at a time due to severe weather or worker illness.
Polling sites also did not open for the August primary in Wales, in far western Alaska along the Bering Strait. They opened late in several other villages. In Anaktuvuk Pass, the polling place didn’t open until about 30 minutes before closing time; just seven of 258 registered voters there cast ballots in person.
This year, with control of Congress on the line, the implications of any repeated problems during the November general election could be enormous. The state’s only representative in the House is Democratic Rep. Mary Peltola — the first Alaska Native to serve in Congress. She is popular among Alaska Native voters, won the recent endorsement of the Alaska Federation of Natives and is in a tight reelection fight against Republican Nick Begich.
“This congressional seat is going to be won by dozens of votes,” Peltola told a federation convention this month.
State, regional and local officials all say they are trying to ensure everyone can vote in the Nov. 5 election. In a written statement, Carol Beecher, director of the Alaska Division of Elections, called her agency “highly invested in ensuring that all precincts have workers and that sites open on time.” She acknowledged it can be difficult to find temporary workers to help run elections.
‘Out of sight and out of mind’
Like other Indigenous populations across the U.S., Alaska Native voters for years faced language barriers at the polls. In 2020, the state Division of Elections failed to send absentee ballots to the southwest Alaska village of Mertarvik in time for the primary election because its staff didn’t realize anyone was living there.
In June 2022, a special primary for the U.S. House was conducted primarily by mail after the sudden death of Republican U.S. Rep. Don Young. Some rural Alaska and lower-income urban districts had notably high rates of ballots disallowed — around 17% — due largely to missing witness signatures on envelopes or other mistakes the state provides no means of correcting.
What to know about the 2024 Election
Two months later, precinct locations in two southwest Alaska villages — Tununak and Atmautluak — did not open for the regular primary and special general election for the U.S. House, which were held on the same day. Ballots from several other villages arrived too late to be fully tabulated under the new ranked choice voting system the state uses for general elections.
“When these things happen in rural Alaska, when it’s out of sight and out of mind, it seems like the system just shrugs and writes it off as a character flaw for remote Alaskans,” said Michelle Sparck, with the nonprofit Get Out The Native Vote. “And we’re here saying this is unacceptable.”
Alaska allows absentee voting, but that can present its own challenges, given the sometimes questionable reliability of mail delivery in rural Alaska.
The Alaska Federation of Natives, the largest statewide Native organization in Alaska, passed a resolution last year raising concerns with mail service. It is surveying residents about their postal service, including how it affects their ability to vote or obtain medicine.
A land of caribou, whales and polar bears
Kaktovik is 670 miles (1,078 km) north of Anchorage, on Barter Island, between the Arctic Ocean and Alaska’s North Slope, an area of vast, treeless tundra nearly the size of Oregon. The temperature can dip to 20 below zero F (29 below C) during the perpetual darkness of winter. Air travel provides the only year-round access to Kaktovik, with ocean-going barges delivering goods in the warmer months.
It’s the only community in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and whether the next presidential administration will support drilling for oil in the refuge — as many villagers hope — is a major topic of concern. The nearest settlement is Deadhorse, about 110 miles (177 kilometers) west, the oil company supply stop that marks the end of the gravel road featured in the reality TV show “Ice Road Truckers.”
Kaktovik’s roughly 270 residents, mostly Inupiat, live in single-story houses laid out in a grid of about 20 blocks. They subsist by hunting caribou and bowhead whales; village whalers landed three bowheads this year.
After butchering the whales on a nearby beach, the villagers pile the bones farther away, where polar bears feast on the scraps. That’s made Kaktovik a popular spot for polar bear tourism. The village also has a polar bear patrol, led by village mayor Nathan Gordon Jr., to run the animals out of town when they get too close.
During the August primary, some residents were away hunting or fishing. The mayor was on vacation with his family in Anchorage.
Plenty of obstacles to staffing polling sites
Madeline Gordon, a former election worker, had taken a new job at a village grocery store. Gordon, the mayor’s cousin, said she told the Nome office of the state elections division in early summer that she wouldn’t be able to run the primary election, but the state nevertheless mailed a box of ballots to her home.
She gave the box to a city clerk, Tiffani Kayotuk. A state official told Kayotuk to hang onto it until further notice, Kayotuk said. The box was still in her office when she went on maternity leave on the day of the primary.
It had been clear well before then that Kaktovik would need help running the primary.
Kaleak, a deputy adviser to the top official of the regional North Slope Borough — equivalent to a county government in other states — posted the flyer seeking help staffing the election on the community center bulletin board. It was still hanging there recently, near one for the volunteer fire department and another for the local fuel depot. He also posted notices on a community Facebook page.
But the position required travel to Utqiagvik, formerly known as Barrow, for training. And, Kaleak said, the pay — $20.50 an hour — wasn’t enough to be attractive in a village where gas is $7.50 a gallon and other goods, shipped long distance, are similarly pricey. Small pumpkins were going for $80 apiece this month.
Taylor Thompson, who heads the legal department for North Slope Borough, said a borough official had reached out to the state elections division before the August primary to find out if they anticipated problems, and offered to fly a borough staffer to the village if needed.
“The state just didn’t take us up on it,” Thompson said.
She said she “lost it” when she learned from a news article that Kaktovik’s precinct hadn’t opened. This time, the borough is sending a worker to Kaktovik to ensure the precinct opens for the general election.
“We’re going to make sure that someone is there, no matter what, if the state’s not going to fulfill their obligations,” Thompson said.
Determined to ensure voters won’t be disenfranchised again
The borough also was trying to coordinate with the state to ensure polls will be staffed in two other villages, Nuiqsut and Anaktuvuk Pass.
Beecher, the elections division director, said the state was notified late on the afternoon before the primary that Kaktovik didn’t have anyone to run the polls. The division immediately reached out to the village and the borough in hopes of finding someone, she said.
“Unfortunately, despite best efforts, sometimes the trained staff are no longer available, requiring the division to secure other workers and get them trained in a short timeframe,” Beecher said.
The mayor said he got an earful when he returned from vacation.
“I end up coming back and hearing about how the primary wasn’t opened and how people had to miss their first-ever election,” Gordon Jr. said.
Charles Lampe, the president of the Kaktovik Inupiat Corp. and a city council member, favors getting city officials trained to work elections. That way, he said, “nothing like this ever happens again.”
For Kaleak, the disenfranchisement of Alaska Native voters should raise as much outrage as the disenfranchisement of voters anywhere else in the country.
“Every person should be able to have a vote, and it should count, and it should be fair,” he said.
___
Bohrer reported from Juneau, Alaska. Johnson reported from Seattle.
___
The Associated Press receives support from several private foundations to enhance its explanatory coverage of elections and democracy. See more about AP’s democracy initiative here. The AP is solely responsible for all content.
Alaska
Black bear breaks into Alaskan mall, eats a peach and relieves itself on floor before leaving: video
Can bearly believe it!
A black bear was caught on camera seemingly running errands at a local shopping mall in Anchorage, Alaska over the weekend.
The bear entered the commissary mall at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson around 9 a.m. Sunday, KTUU reported, citing a JBER spokesperson.
Wild footage shows the young cub strolling through the commissary’s automatic doors and exploring all that the mall had to offer.
The hungry bear stole and ate a piece of fruit before emptying its bowels on the hallway floor on its way out of the building.
Kory Godbout, who works at the barber shop on the military base, was waiting for his first customer of the day when he spotted the furry intruder traveling through the automatic doors.
“My coworker, who is cutting hair in front of me, she yelled, ‘Bear!’” Godbout recalled.
“And I looked up from my phone and the bear was walking into the barber shop right in front of me,” the barber said. “And we all ran into the break room and shut the door behind us.”
After a few minutes, Godbout and his coworkers emerged from the break room and followed the out-of-place bear into the commissary, where it took a peach from the grocery store and ate it.
The barber recalled that a few onlookers were “going big to try and scare” the bear out of the grocery store.
But all of a sudden, the black bear returned to the barber shop.
“By that time, we were able to run back to the shop and then lock the door,” Godbout said.
“And then we were watching him from the window and then that’s when he decided to, you know, use the restroom in the hallway.”
Officers from Conservation Law Enforcement attended the peculiar grizzly scene and were able to direct the wild animal towards a river and into the woods, according to the JBER spokesperson.
JBER’s wildlife program manager Colette Brandt said in a press release that the bear had triggered the automatic doors and that Sunday’s events were entirely incidental, KTUU reported.
While there has been a decline in bear-related calls since the military base installed bear-resistant dumpsters, seven bears have been put down at JBER for public safety over the past year.
Alaska
Fatal crash closes Glenn Highway southbound lanes near Eagle River
ANCHORAGE, Alaska (KTUU) – The southbound lanes of the Glenn Highway were closed Thursday morning near the S-curves due to a fatal crash, according to the Anchorage Police Department.
Police confirmed shortly after 11 a.m. that at least one person was dead. As of 12:45 p.m., one southbound lane is now open to traffic.
An Alaska’s News Source reporter on the scene said the crash took place near the Eagle River Loop Road. Video from the scene shows multiple vehicles took damage in the incident.
This is a developing story. It has been updated with new information.
See a spelling or grammar error? Report it to web@ktuu.com
Copyright 2026 KTUU. All rights reserved.
Alaska
Did I Find a Cure for Male Loneliness? No, But I Found a Way to Embrace Solitude in the Wild.
On the longest solo trip of my life, I stepped off a two-seat float plane onto the rocky shore of Upper Twin Lake in Alaska’s Lake Clark National Park.
I had taken four flights from New Jersey to Alaska to write about the iconic cabin handbuilt by Richard “Dick” Proenneke, the self-taught naturalist whose 30-year solo life in the wilderness was captured in the beloved PBS documentary Alone in the Wilderness. Proenneke never married, never had children, and spent nearly three decades completely alone, save for the birds he fed by hand and bears that occasionally clawed at his logs.
“He must have been lonely out here,” a fellow traveler said during the park ranger’s tour of the cabin.
On that chilly June morning last year, I found myself wondering the same thing. I was just coming to a different conclusion.
Park officials told me the cabin has seen a recent uptick in visitors, which they attribute to Proenneke’s newfound popularity on social media, and to a direct flight to the property by an outback flying service. I visited the cabin as a member of a tour group led by two guides. My group included a doctor, a retired attorney, a veterinarian, and a handful of National Parks superfans. Still, I stuck mostly to myself, spending the trip deep in my own thoughts. In Alaska, I wound up pondering a life like Proenneke’s, sans the means or skills to make it happen.
According to podcasters, writers, polls, therapists, influencers, and anyone else with a mouth or keyboard, there’s a male loneliness epidemic eroding the dated fabric of masculinity, like the snake of patriarchy eating its own tail.
Remedies for this epidemic are everywhere in the media, with new ones popping up weekly. The New York Times wondered if pickleball held the answers; others have suggested buying a personal watercraft, joining a mosh pit, or taking off your shirt at a college football game, or watching a horror-comedy starring Paul Rudd. In recent months, brunch, AI-powered companion dolls, and Jack Black have been mentioned as cures.
Outside wondered whether “outdoor friendships,” volunteering, or getting a pet could work.
These cures may seem unrelated and even, perhaps, a little silly. However, the common theme between them seems to be social interaction, choosing community over individualism, a bowling league or running club over your PlayStation.
Some entrepreneurs have even launched businesses to combat male loneliness. A deep-dive earlier this year in the New Yorker revealed how fathers are paying men to turn their sons into “alphas,” while others are joining men-only retreats to be screamed at. Men are taking reams of peptides, smashing their cheekbones with hammers, and getting chin implants in an effort to chase some warped standard of masculinity.
Most of these solutions seem alien to the introverts of society, myself included. I’m not sure I’ve ever been lonely, per se, or even bored, unless I’m stuck in small talk. I’ve never loved team sports or double dates either. In school, hearing a teacher say “let’s break into groups” made me groan.
During my trip to Alaska, I realized that Proenneke enjoyed solitude but not loneliness. The former feels intentional and rewarding, as opposed to the latter, which causes anxiety and depression. He wasn’t a misanthrope. He welcomed visitors and was thoughtful enough to whittle a variety of walking sticks to match their height.
Monroe Robinson, author of The Handcrafted Life of Dick Proenneke, spent nearly 20 years living at the cabin and maintaining it for the National Park Service. Robinson knew Proenneke, who died in 2003, at the age of 86. “He liked when people came to visit,” Robinson told me later in a call, “and he also liked when they left.”
I can relate.
My aversions to crowds and clubs have been a source of personal confusion over the years. I’m not a misanthrope, either. As a reporter, I crave deeply personal interactions with others and get invested in the people I write about to a fault. Part of me always thought loneliness was a good way to avoid heartbreak. I’ve loved deeply anyhow, and lost people in my life to suicide and divorce.
In June of 2024, I learned my then-wife was deeply unhappy in our marriage. I had a real breakdown. The ensuing algorithms of online divorce content can be toxic for men, a slippery slope greased by manosphere grifters. Well-intentioned friends and family will often just take your side during a breakup, too, and there’s not much growth in that. So I tried to avoid that noise, choosing to walk inside myself, to find a “vast inner solitude” as the poet Rainer Marie Rilke advised.
I wanted to confront my own bullshit.
I spent a few dozen nights sleeping in tents for the rest of that year, mostly in the Northeast. Sometimes I slept in single-digit temperatures. I’d reserved a tent site for my wedding anniversary, a campground where I’d wanted to renew my vows. But after my marriage began to crumble, I took my young daughter, instead of canceling. I put her in a hiking backpack to slog my way up a few summits. I kept on punishing myself too, on trail runs and difficult hikes, hoping exhaustion would tamp down the urge to beg my ex and anyone who knew her for answers. Bad cell service helped with that.
(I also found a great therapist, thankfully.)
On a long-planned family vacation to Southwest Colorado in August of 2024 that I couldn’t afford and couldn’t cancel, the San Juan Mountains loomed everywhere I went. I saw them from the window of my cabin, the dirt roads I drove along with my kids, and the hammock where I finished The Snow Leopard, in which author Peter Matthiessen joins an expedition to find the mythic beast in Nepal after the death of his wife.
The mountains felt timeless and unavoidable there, and they spoke to me, a perfect epilogue to the book’s zen message.
“Accept what’s happening” they said.
And so I accepted that my marriage was over.
In May of 2025, the divorce was finalized. A few weeks later, I was in Alaska as a freelancer, pinching myself as my plane touched down on the icy, blue lake.
Robinson, when I asked, said “feeling lonely was not a thing” for Proenneke. He was too active, too busy trying to survive. Proenneke left society, yes, but he didn’t withdraw from life. In the long winters, when no sun hit Proenneke’s sod roof, when no planes landed on the frozen lake, he would spend months penning thoughtful letters to close friends, family, and his growing legion of fans.

Proenneke cared about his cabin’s appearance too, about beauty, and that matters. He built a stone fireplace, an extra bunk for guests, and hand-carved a much-beloved Dutch door. Windows would be an inconvenient luxury in a trapper’s cabin in Alaska, but Prokenneke fashioned one that offered a grand view of the lake anyway.
While I was contemplating Proenneke’s contentment in Alaska, I was also watching contentment in action with the two young guides in charge of us there. For a moment or two, I envied both of them, the same way I envied Proenneke. Guide Dom Gawel, who is in his mid-20s, was the quieter of the two, and he led a few of us on some longer hikes while others stayed behind at camp. Later, I asked Dom about loneliness. He thought young men feel lost today “because they are comparing themselves to others in a negative way through social media” and “disconnected from nature.”
Luckily, there’s nothing close to a signal at Lake Clark National Park, no texts you feel compelled to answer, no influencers to interact with. That’s not easy to do in the United States.
I also found kinship with Dr. Adam Bolour, my kayak partner at Twin Lakes and roommate at Port Alsworth, a tiny Alaskan village on Lake Clark where we slept on our final night. We talked about fatherhood, relationships, and nature. He was traveling solo too, from California, and while he was upbeat and talkative with everyone, I watched him steal away to read some Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self-Reliance by the lakeshore. I did the same with Proenekke’s book there.
I emailed to ask about male loneliness, when I got back to New Jersey.
“I cherish solo trips, whether I’m married, feeling alone, feeling super connected with someone or a big group,” he wrote. “It’s just great to get away and convene with silence and space.”

My revelations in Colorado and, later, at Proenneke’s cabin, helped me realize I must connect deeply with myself in the outdoors from time to time. Nature can’t just be an emergency room for me, either. It’s long-term maintenance for my physical and mental health, whether it’s trail running, floating in a swimming hole, or staring at mountains. It’s more than a hobby. The version of me who returns from those trips is a better father and, hopefully, a better partner someday.
Unlike Matthiessen, who spent months away from his young, grieving son in search of a snow leopard, or Proenneke, who spent 30 years away from almost everyone, I couldn’t and wouldn’t want to pull myself away from my children and responsibilities to that extreme. I have been guilty of that in the past. I’ll make do with a vow to see mountains like the San Juans as much as possible, even if it’s just a few days to convene with solitude, as Adam does. And if I can’t get to the Sawtooths or Switzerland, I’ll cut myself a break and keep exploring Pennsylvania or the Catskills.
A few months after I got back from Alaska, I tackled Pennsylvania’s Black Forest Trail. It’s the state’s most difficult hike, a 43-mile loop with a mind-boggling 8,500 feet of elevation gain. I was craving solitude, again, and found the trail emptier than the Alaskan backcountry. I saw as many rattlesnakes as people on that trip.
On my final night of the hike, after pushing hard for about 18 miles, I took off my boots and socks and stretched out on a shady vista as the sun began to sink. Two hikers came in, a father and son, after their own long day. They hoped to camp there too and asked if I minded. I said it was fine and then, a few minutes later, reached for my socks and boots.
I shouldered my heavy pack, wished them a deep sleep, and pushed on to find solitude, that little bit of loneliness all the world says is a problem.
Jason Nark is a reporter who covers the outdoors for the Philadelphia Inquirer and and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in The New York Times, Outside, The Alpinist, Adventure Journal, National Geographic, Dwell, and other outlets.
-
Business18 seconds agoBillionaire exodus? California drew 10 times more venture capital than any other state this year
-
Entertainment3 minutes agoDisney Channel maximalism to pop-star glam: What fans wore to Hilary Duff’s L.A. show
-
Lifestyle8 minutes agoL.A. Affairs: It’s hot when a man drives to me. But would this new guy make the trek from the Valley?
-
Politics15 minutes ago
Black mold and $1 wages: Settlement forces immigrant detention centers to protect workers
-
Science18 minutes agoTrump administration seeks to limit federal funding that doesn’t ‘advance’ presidential policies
-
Sports23 minutes agoCommentary: ‘I don’t want any handouts.’ Amid the Angels’ drought, a starry homecoming for Mike Trout
-
World33 minutes agoDoes more World Cup history beckon for Norway? England stand in their way
-
News1 hour agoWaymo called the cops on teen riders, raising privacy concerns

