
‘Rural America costs a lot of money': Trump cuts are decimating a radio station at the edge of the world
On 1 August, for example, KSDP hosted an interview with local fish biologist Matthew Keyes. Asking the questions was Austin Roof, general manager of the station. Over fuzzy microphones, the two volleyed stats back and forth about the escapement rates of 'pinks' and 'kings' (colloquialisms for two of the most fished species of salmon). Roof served as a stand-in for the laborers listening at home or aboard their ships, asking about the noticeably low catches early that summer; Keyes told listeners that while June was among the lowest harvests on record, July had been much better. He then announced the fishing schedule for early August: there would be no fishing allowed for 60 hours straight as officials monitored fish populations, after that, anglers could tune to the radio daily for specific opening and closing times. In a region where livelihoods are tied to this turbulent and highly regulated industry, this information gave residents a chance to plan their summer of labor.
In just the past few summer months KSDP has brought listeners not only crucial information about local fisheries, but also delivered updates and orders to get to high ground in the wake of two tsunamis. All the while, legislators 4,000 miles away in Washington DC were solidifying a decision that will fundamentally alter the media available to millions of Americans, especially in rural areas: on 17 July, Congress voted to rescind all funding for public broadcasting.
Within hours of Roof's fishery interview, the hammer dropped: the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB), through which federal funding is disbursed to public radio and television stations, announced it will close down at the end of September.
The average public radio station in the US gets less than 13% of its budget from the federal government. For many coastal and big-city stations, it is an even smaller portion. But at smalltown and rural stations, where donor bases are less robust, that number can climb above 50%. KSDP, which operates a far-reaching AM signal, a web stream, and four small FM repeater signals placed in villages across a several hundred mile stretch of islands, gets 70% of its operating budget from CPB – among the highest shares of federal support for any station in the country.
'The rural communities are definitely gonna be hit the hardest,' Roof says. 'How do you prepare for the end of the world? The loss of federal funding is truly that seismic for us.'
Chairs in KSDP's broadcasting studio and office are stacked high with jackets. Shoes overflow from a cardboard box in the small meeting room, and haphazardly folded garments fill any unused tables or shelf space. Crammed in Sand Point's city hall, the station doubles as a donation center and hosts clothing swaps a few times a year. If you attend a community barbecue in town, a public back-to-school party, or holiday celebration, there's a good chance the radio station put it on. Power tools are a permanent fixture in the studio, and there is always a neighbor ready to do the simple fixes for free or cheap. Roof has personally ascended the station's 200ft AM tower in climbing gear many times to save money on repairs.
Until a few years ago, KSDP and the Sand Point area did not have a reporter dedicated to their stretch of the Aleutian Islands: a remote archipelago extending south and west from mainland Alaska, and home to roughly a dozen communities ranging in size from about 20 to a few thousand residents. For years, KSDP relied on coverage from the radio station KUCB in the larger Aleutian town of Unalaska, nearly 400 miles (644km) south-west, as well as statewide and national programs.
Now the station finally has its own reporter: Theo Greenly, who splits his time between KSDP and two other radio stations, KUCB and KUHB, each hundreds of miles apart across the Pribilof and Aleutian Islands.
Together with his colleagues Sofia Stuart-Rasi and Maggie Nelson at KUCB in the larger 4,400-person town of Unalaska, Greenly is one of just three journalists covering the 1,000-mile archipelago, and the only one assigned to cover Sand Point.
Greenly's reporting regularly brings him to isolated communities for weeks at a time, as ferries between towns in his coverage area sometimes run only monthly, and flights are often delayed or cancelled. 'There are many, many places to get news from Washington or New York,' says Greenly. 'But there are zero alternatives for news from this region.'
Greenly has covered dangerous sea algae blooms, Indigenous language revitalization efforts, and a cargo ship carrying lithium batteries that caught on fire in a local port. He was on the ground when the Aleutian town of King Cove's main employer, the Peter Pan fishing cannery, closed down, leaving many residents without jobs and many anglers unpaid for the hauls they had already delivered.
In July, a resident of the 400-person town St Paul, located about 400 miles north-west of Sand Point, informed Greenly that the town was running out of food; the sole grocery store, owned by the local tribal government, had been waiting over a month to receive a large shipment of stock that it had paid for, but was stuck at the Anchorage airport. Ace Air Cargo had not flown to St Paul in all that time, citing weather issues. Not long after Greenly reported the story, the company got its cargo planes in the air, delivering more than 10,000lbs of food and two tons of mail to St Paul.
It costs money to report these stories but there is not a lot of money to be made in sharing them – especially in the far-flung, sparsely populated Aleutian Islands. Commercial radio stations are exceedingly rare here; there's simply not enough of listeners. Public media, by design, fills the market gap. 'Rural America costs a lot of money,' says Roof.
Alaska is one of the most heavily federally subsidized states in the US in terms of public services such as education, internet connection and media. Nevertheless, Nick Begich, Alaska's sole congressperson, voted with all but two of his fellow Republicans to take back federal funds that had been allocated for broadcasting.
Greenly followed debate on the cuts closely. 'I mean, there is nobody covering this stuff,' he says, noting that he and his two colleagues in the Aleutians essentially double as the region's only newspaper reporters, as the paper serving the archipelago runs print versions of the public radio pieces alongside stories reported out of Anchorage or by national newsrooms. And he says it is not just locals who will suffer if public journalism in Alaska takes a hit, mentioning that his colleagues were key in covering the 2023 story of the possible Chinese surveillance balloons over Alaska.
'When Shell was doing exploratory drilling in the Arctic, this was their home port. When Chinese and Russian military ships cross into the Exclusive Economic Zone, we are the closest reporters,' he says. 'If you don't have reporters here, the nation is missing out on vital information.'
General Manager Roof says KSDP has enough to 'keep the lights on for a while'. And while he doesn't have imminent plans to close, he knows that losing more than two-thirds of the station's operating budget will fundamentally change what they can do. He says they will have to rely increasingly on volunteers rather than paid staff if they want to survive. And he can't imagine how he will be able to continue hosting things like big public events. 'Those are the kinds of things that really make our community a fun place to live,' Roof says. 'And so I just don't see that coming back.'
Roof is already planning one major change due to the cuts: he expects to have to shut down KSDP's far-reaching but costly AM signal by the end of the year. While AM listenership may be declining nationwide, it still plays an essential role here: AM signals reach much farther than FM, penetrate terrain, and carry extraordinarily far – sometimes hundreds of miles – over water, making it easy to be heard on distant islands or on ships. Roof is planning to shutter the AM signal rather than sell it, as he does not expect anyone to have any interested buyers. The tower, he assumes, will be torn down and sold for scrap.
For now, Roof plans to keep operating KSDP on a handful of very small, localized FM signals located in four villages across the Aleutians, and online via web stream, since many people in this region have internet connection for the first time thanks to new fiber optic lines and satellite systems such as Starlink. But not everyone lives in the villages with FM coverage, and the web is not always reliable, says Greenly. A ship's anchor once ripped apart the fiber cable bringing internet to the Aleutian Islands.
Ultimately, says Greenly, cuts to public radio will have an impact on residents regardless of how they tune in. 'The word 'radio' is kind of a misnomer in a way,' he says. He tells me that people always ask him if people can't just get this information online. 'Yes,' he tells them, 'because we, the radio station, did the work, investigated it, and put it on the internet.' Without the newsrooms and stations supported by CPB, he says, 'they can't get that information.'
Greenly says he doesn't know what will happen to his position. His role as the shared reporter for KSDP and two other local stations is funded by a grant from CPB. But his livelihood, he says, is the least of his concerns. 'I'm more saddened for the nation than for myself. I'm worried about the community. I'm worried about Sand Point,' he says.
As for him, the intrepid local reporter braving the elements to cover stories from fishing to fracking? He says: 'I mean, I go back to bartending.'
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The Guardian
4 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘Rural America costs a lot of money': Trump cuts are decimating a radio station at the edge of the world
In Sand Point, Alaska, the radio dial is mostly empty. For a commercial broadcaster, running a station in this Aleutian Island fishing town of about 600 people just is not worth the cost of doing business. But KSDP, the local public radio station for Sand Point, is a community anchor, bringing listeners music, emergency alerts, live color commentary of high school sports, state and local news. Without a newspaper specifically serving the town, the station is residents' resource for all things local. On 1 August, for example, KSDP hosted an interview with local fish biologist Matthew Keyes. Asking the questions was Austin Roof, general manager of the station. Over fuzzy microphones, the two volleyed stats back and forth about the escapement rates of 'pinks' and 'kings' (colloquialisms for two of the most fished species of salmon). Roof served as a stand-in for the laborers listening at home or aboard their ships, asking about the noticeably low catches early that summer; Keyes told listeners that while June was among the lowest harvests on record, July had been much better. He then announced the fishing schedule for early August: there would be no fishing allowed for 60 hours straight as officials monitored fish populations, after that, anglers could tune to the radio daily for specific opening and closing times. In a region where livelihoods are tied to this turbulent and highly regulated industry, this information gave residents a chance to plan their summer of labor. In just the past few summer months KSDP has brought listeners not only crucial information about local fisheries, but also delivered updates and orders to get to high ground in the wake of two tsunamis. All the while, legislators 4,000 miles away in Washington DC were solidifying a decision that will fundamentally alter the media available to millions of Americans, especially in rural areas: on 17 July, Congress voted to rescind all funding for public broadcasting. Within hours of Roof's fishery interview, the hammer dropped: the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB), through which federal funding is disbursed to public radio and television stations, announced it will close down at the end of September. The average public radio station in the US gets less than 13% of its budget from the federal government. For many coastal and big-city stations, it is an even smaller portion. But at smalltown and rural stations, where donor bases are less robust, that number can climb above 50%. KSDP, which operates a far-reaching AM signal, a web stream and four small FM repeater signals placed in villages across a several hundred mile stretch of islands, gets 70% of its operating budget from CPB – among the highest shares of federal support for any station in the country. 'The rural communities are definitely gonna be hit the hardest,' Roof says. 'How do you prepare for the end of the world? The loss of federal funding is truly that seismic for us.' Chairs in KSDP's broadcasting studio and office are stacked high with jackets. Shoes overflow from a cardboard box in the small meeting room, and haphazardly folded garments fill any unused tables or shelf space. Crammed in Sand Point's city hall, the station doubles as a donation center and hosts clothing swaps a few times a year. If you attend a community barbecue in town, a public back-to-school party, or holiday celebration, there's a good chance the radio station put it on. Power tools are a permanent fixture in the studio, and there is always a neighbor ready to do the simple fixes for free or cheap. Roof has personally ascended the station's 200ft AM tower in climbing gear many times to save money on repairs. Until a few years ago, KSDP and the Sand Point area did not have a reporter dedicated to their stretch of the Aleutian Islands: a remote archipelago extending south and west from mainland Alaska, and home to roughly a dozen communities ranging in size from about 20 to a few thousand residents. For years, KSDP relied on coverage from the radio station KUCB in the larger Aleutian town of Unalaska, nearly 400 miles (644km) south-west, as well as statewide and national programs. Now the station finally has its own reporter: Theo Greenly, who splits his time between KSDP and two other radio stations, KUCB and KUHB, each hundreds of miles apart across the Pribilof and Aleutian Islands. Together with his colleagues Sofia Stuart-Rasi and Maggie Nelson at KUCB in the larger 4,400-person town of Unalaska, Greenly is one of just three journalists covering the 1,000-mile archipelago, and the only one assigned to cover Sand Point. Greenly's reporting regularly brings him to isolated communities for weeks at a time, as ferries between towns in his coverage area sometimes run only monthly, and flights are often delayed or cancelled. 'There are many, many places to get news from Washington or New York,' says Greenly. 'But there are zero alternatives for news from this region.' Greenly has covered dangerous sea algae blooms, Indigenous language revitalization efforts, and a cargo ship carrying lithium batteries that caught on fire in a local port. He was on the ground when the Aleutian town of King Cove's main employer, the Peter Pan fishing cannery, closed down, leaving many residents without jobs and many anglers unpaid for the hauls they had already delivered. In July, a resident of the 400-person town St Paul, located about 400 miles north-west of Sand Point, informed Greenly that the town was running out of food; the sole grocery store, owned by the local tribal government, had been waiting over a month to receive a large shipment of stock that it had paid for, but was stuck at the Anchorage airport. Ace Air Cargo had not flown to St Paul in all that time, citing weather issues. Not long after Greenly reported the story, the company got its cargo planes in the air, delivering more than 10,000lb of food and two tons of mail to St Paul. It costs money to report these stories but there is not a lot of money to be made in sharing them – especially in the far-flung, sparsely populated Aleutian Islands. Commercial radio stations are exceedingly rare here; there's simply not enough listeners. Public media, by design, fills the market gap. 'Rural America costs a lot of money,' says Roof. Alaska is one of the most heavily federally subsidized states in the US in terms of public services such as education, internet connection and media. Nevertheless, Nick Begich, Alaska's sole congressperson, voted with all but two of his fellow Republicans to take back federal funds that had been allocated for broadcasting. Greenly followed debate on the cuts closely. 'I mean, there is nobody covering this stuff,' he says, noting that he and his two colleagues in the Aleutians essentially double as the region's only newspaper reporters, as the paper serving the archipelago runs print versions of the public radio pieces alongside stories reported out of Anchorage or by national newsrooms. And he says it is not just locals who will suffer if public journalism in Alaska takes a hit, mentioning that his colleagues were key in covering the 2023 story of the possible Chinese surveillance balloons over Alaska. 'When Shell was doing exploratory drilling in the Arctic, this was their home port. When Chinese and Russian military ships cross into the Exclusive Economic Zone, we are the closest reporters,' he says. 'If you don't have reporters here, the nation is missing out on vital information.' Roof, the general manager, says KSDP has enough to 'keep the lights on for a while'. And while he doesn't have imminent plans to close, he knows that losing more than two-thirds of the station's operating budget will fundamentally change what they can do. He says they will have to rely increasingly on volunteers rather than paid staff if they want to survive. And he can't imagine how he will be able to continue hosting things like big public events. 'Those are the kinds of things that really make our community a fun place to live,' Roof says. 'And so I just don't see that coming back.' Roof is already planning one major change due to the cuts: he expects to have to shut down KSDP's far-reaching but costly AM signal by the end of the year. While AM listenership may be declining nationwide, it still plays an essential role here: AM signals reach much farther than FM, penetrate terrain, and carry extraordinarily far – sometimes hundreds of miles – over water, making it easy to be heard on distant islands or on ships. Roof is planning to shutter the AM signal rather than sell it, as he does not expect to have any interested buyers. The tower, he assumes, will be torn down and sold for scrap. For now, Roof plans to keep operating KSDP on a handful of very small, localized FM signals located in four villages across the Aleutians, and online via web stream, since many people in this region have internet connection for the first time thanks to new fiber optic lines and satellite systems such as Starlink. But not everyone lives in the villages with FM coverage, and the web is not always reliable, says Greenly. A ship's anchor once ripped apart the fiber cable bringing internet to the Aleutian Islands. Ultimately, says Greenly, cuts to public radio will have an impact on residents regardless of how they tune in. 'The word 'radio' is kind of a misnomer in a way,' he says. He tells me that people always ask him if people can't just get this information online. 'Yes,' he tells them, 'because we, the radio station, did the work, investigated it, and put it on the internet.' Without the newsrooms and stations supported by CPB, he says, 'they can't get that information.' Greenly says he doesn't know what will happen to his position. His role as the shared reporter for KSDP and two other local stations is funded by a grant from CPB. But his livelihood, he says, is the least of his concerns. 'I'm more saddened for the nation than for myself. I'm worried about the community. I'm worried about Sand Point,' he says. As for him, the intrepid local reporter braving the elements to cover stories from fishing to fracking? He says: 'I mean, I go back to bartending.'


The Guardian
a day ago
- The Guardian
‘Rural America costs a lot of money': Trump cuts are decimating a radio station at the edge of the world
In Sand Point, Alaska, the radio dial is mostly empty. For a commercial broadcaster, running a station in this Aleutian Island fishing town of about 600 people just is not worth the cost of doing business. But KSDP, the local public radio station for Sand Point, is a community anchor, bringing listeners music, emergency alerts, live color commentary of high school sports, state and local news. Without a newspaper specifically serving the town, the station is residents' resource for all things local. On 1 August, for example, KSDP hosted an interview with local fish biologist Matthew Keyes. Asking the questions was Austin Roof, general manager of the station. Over fuzzy microphones, the two volleyed stats back and forth about the escapement rates of 'pinks' and 'kings' (colloquialisms for two of the most fished species of salmon). Roof served as a stand-in for the laborers listening at home or aboard their ships, asking about the noticeably low catches early that summer; Keyes told listeners that while June was among the lowest harvests on record, July had been much better. He then announced the fishing schedule for early August: there would be no fishing allowed for 60 hours straight as officials monitored fish populations, after that, anglers could tune to the radio daily for specific opening and closing times. In a region where livelihoods are tied to this turbulent and highly regulated industry, this information gave residents a chance to plan their summer of labor. In just the past few summer months KSDP has brought listeners not only crucial information about local fisheries, but also delivered updates and orders to get to high ground in the wake of two tsunamis. All the while, legislators 4,000 miles away in Washington DC were solidifying a decision that will fundamentally alter the media available to millions of Americans, especially in rural areas: on 17 July, Congress voted to rescind all funding for public broadcasting. Within hours of Roof's fishery interview, the hammer dropped: the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB), through which federal funding is disbursed to public radio and television stations, announced it will close down at the end of September. The average public radio station in the US gets less than 13% of its budget from the federal government. For many coastal and big-city stations, it is an even smaller portion. But at smalltown and rural stations, where donor bases are less robust, that number can climb above 50%. KSDP, which operates a far-reaching AM signal, a web stream, and four small FM repeater signals placed in villages across a several hundred mile stretch of islands, gets 70% of its operating budget from CPB – among the highest shares of federal support for any station in the country. 'The rural communities are definitely gonna be hit the hardest,' Roof says. 'How do you prepare for the end of the world? The loss of federal funding is truly that seismic for us.' Chairs in KSDP's broadcasting studio and office are stacked high with jackets. Shoes overflow from a cardboard box in the small meeting room, and haphazardly folded garments fill any unused tables or shelf space. Crammed in Sand Point's city hall, the station doubles as a donation center and hosts clothing swaps a few times a year. If you attend a community barbecue in town, a public back-to-school party, or holiday celebration, there's a good chance the radio station put it on. Power tools are a permanent fixture in the studio, and there is always a neighbor ready to do the simple fixes for free or cheap. Roof has personally ascended the station's 200ft AM tower in climbing gear many times to save money on repairs. Until a few years ago, KSDP and the Sand Point area did not have a reporter dedicated to their stretch of the Aleutian Islands: a remote archipelago extending south and west from mainland Alaska, and home to roughly a dozen communities ranging in size from about 20 to a few thousand residents. For years, KSDP relied on coverage from the radio station KUCB in the larger Aleutian town of Unalaska, nearly 400 miles (644km) south-west, as well as statewide and national programs. Now the station finally has its own reporter: Theo Greenly, who splits his time between KSDP and two other radio stations, KUCB and KUHB, each hundreds of miles apart across the Pribilof and Aleutian Islands. Together with his colleagues Sofia Stuart-Rasi and Maggie Nelson at KUCB in the larger 4,400-person town of Unalaska, Greenly is one of just three journalists covering the 1,000-mile archipelago, and the only one assigned to cover Sand Point. Greenly's reporting regularly brings him to isolated communities for weeks at a time, as ferries between towns in his coverage area sometimes run only monthly, and flights are often delayed or cancelled. 'There are many, many places to get news from Washington or New York,' says Greenly. 'But there are zero alternatives for news from this region.' Greenly has covered dangerous sea algae blooms, Indigenous language revitalization efforts, and a cargo ship carrying lithium batteries that caught on fire in a local port. He was on the ground when the Aleutian town of King Cove's main employer, the Peter Pan fishing cannery, closed down, leaving many residents without jobs and many anglers unpaid for the hauls they had already delivered. In July, a resident of the 400-person town St Paul, located about 400 miles north-west of Sand Point, informed Greenly that the town was running out of food; the sole grocery store, owned by the local tribal government, had been waiting over a month to receive a large shipment of stock that it had paid for, but was stuck at the Anchorage airport. Ace Air Cargo had not flown to St Paul in all that time, citing weather issues. Not long after Greenly reported the story, the company got its cargo planes in the air, delivering more than 10,000lbs of food and two tons of mail to St Paul. It costs money to report these stories but there is not a lot of money to be made in sharing them – especially in the far-flung, sparsely populated Aleutian Islands. Commercial radio stations are exceedingly rare here; there's simply not enough of listeners. Public media, by design, fills the market gap. 'Rural America costs a lot of money,' says Roof. Alaska is one of the most heavily federally subsidized states in the US in terms of public services such as education, internet connection and media. Nevertheless, Nick Begich, Alaska's sole congressperson, voted with all but two of his fellow Republicans to take back federal funds that had been allocated for broadcasting. Greenly followed debate on the cuts closely. 'I mean, there is nobody covering this stuff,' he says, noting that he and his two colleagues in the Aleutians essentially double as the region's only newspaper reporters, as the paper serving the archipelago runs print versions of the public radio pieces alongside stories reported out of Anchorage or by national newsrooms. And he says it is not just locals who will suffer if public journalism in Alaska takes a hit, mentioning that his colleagues were key in covering the 2023 story of the possible Chinese surveillance balloons over Alaska. 'When Shell was doing exploratory drilling in the Arctic, this was their home port. When Chinese and Russian military ships cross into the Exclusive Economic Zone, we are the closest reporters,' he says. 'If you don't have reporters here, the nation is missing out on vital information.' General Manager Roof says KSDP has enough to 'keep the lights on for a while'. And while he doesn't have imminent plans to close, he knows that losing more than two-thirds of the station's operating budget will fundamentally change what they can do. He says they will have to rely increasingly on volunteers rather than paid staff if they want to survive. And he can't imagine how he will be able to continue hosting things like big public events. 'Those are the kinds of things that really make our community a fun place to live,' Roof says. 'And so I just don't see that coming back.' Roof is already planning one major change due to the cuts: he expects to have to shut down KSDP's far-reaching but costly AM signal by the end of the year. While AM listenership may be declining nationwide, it still plays an essential role here: AM signals reach much farther than FM, penetrate terrain, and carry extraordinarily far – sometimes hundreds of miles – over water, making it easy to be heard on distant islands or on ships. Roof is planning to shutter the AM signal rather than sell it, as he does not expect anyone to have any interested buyers. The tower, he assumes, will be torn down and sold for scrap. For now, Roof plans to keep operating KSDP on a handful of very small, localized FM signals located in four villages across the Aleutians, and online via web stream, since many people in this region have internet connection for the first time thanks to new fiber optic lines and satellite systems such as Starlink. But not everyone lives in the villages with FM coverage, and the web is not always reliable, says Greenly. A ship's anchor once ripped apart the fiber cable bringing internet to the Aleutian Islands. Ultimately, says Greenly, cuts to public radio will have an impact on residents regardless of how they tune in. 'The word 'radio' is kind of a misnomer in a way,' he says. He tells me that people always ask him if people can't just get this information online. 'Yes,' he tells them, 'because we, the radio station, did the work, investigated it, and put it on the internet.' Without the newsrooms and stations supported by CPB, he says, 'they can't get that information.' Greenly says he doesn't know what will happen to his position. His role as the shared reporter for KSDP and two other local stations is funded by a grant from CPB. But his livelihood, he says, is the least of his concerns. 'I'm more saddened for the nation than for myself. I'm worried about the community. I'm worried about Sand Point,' he says. As for him, the intrepid local reporter braving the elements to cover stories from fishing to fracking? He says: 'I mean, I go back to bartending.'


The Guardian
4 days ago
- The Guardian
Fire in the hole: the Indigenous crews blasting the Alaskan rainforest to save it
The morning begins with a sense of anticipation – the calm before 1,200lbs of explosives detonate a stream culvert buried 10ft in Alaska's Tongass national forest. Jamie Daniels, 53, and his crew of Tlingit forestry workers take cover in a glade of alders. A few minutes earlier, together with the US Forest Service and a Southeast Alaska Watershed Coalition (SAWC) watershed scientist, they fed high-grade explosives into the galvanized aluminum culvert on a 40ft sled made of spruce trees. The goal now is to vaporize it, along with the rocks on top. Crouched 1,000ft away from the blast site, Jack Greenhalgh, the US Forest Service master blaster veteran, shouts: 'Fire in the hole!' He presses a remote detonator. Seconds later, four 50lb bags of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil (Anfo) go off. A boom echoes across the valley, and the air goes liquid as a shockwave sweeps over the group, causing workers to grip hard hats. Football-sized splinters of granite shoot into the sky. Leaves flutter to the ground. A cloud of acrid smoke blows over. 'Stand by until we clear the area,' Greenhalgh mumbles, climbing out from behind his berm to inspect the damage – or success, depending on how one looks at it. The area where the group works is called Cube Cove, a 22,000-acre (8,900-hectare) addition to the 1m-acre Kootznoowoo wilderness on Admiralty Island, where the Tlingit people have lived, hunted and fished for at least 10,000 years. The wilderness makes up a chunk of the 17m-acre Tongass – by far the largest national forest in the United States. The Tlingit have long considered Admiralty Island, or Kootznoowoo, as sacred ground – a place of spiritual significance, ancestral knowledge and connection to a traditional subsistence lifestyle. Chartreuse-colored leaves of the spiny devil's club, mustard-colored seaweed on the rocks and citrus-scented spruce tips create a distinct rainforest aroma. Kootznoowoo means 'fortress of the bear', a fitting name for a landscape home to the highest density of brown bears in North America. The landscape carries the marks of centuries of stewardship – from strips of yellow cedar used for ceremonial baskets to totem poles reflecting intricate clan histories. Eagles soar high above, chalky heads on pivot as they watch for herring or juvenile salmon. This morning, Daniels wears a bright orange safety helmet, his hands calloused from carving a 12in (30cm) block of Sitka spruce into a brown bear's head. He lives in Angoon, 15 miles (24km) south of Cube Cove along the coast of the island, population 341. His clan house is shd'een hit, the Steel house, and he comes from Deisheetaan Naahaachuneidii, the original Raven Beaver clan of the Edge of the Nation people. Daniels emerges onto the old logging road, and gestures across the valley. 'All of this, it's not just land to us. It's our ancestors' land. We're here doing more than just fixing roads or removing culverts – we're reconnecting with our history, our identity and our future. Every culvert we remove, that's a promise to our children that the land will heal.' In the 1970s, Daniels's relatives along with others from Angoon fought to protect the island from clearcutting, holding bake sales, bingo games and raffles to fund trips to Washington DC. In 1978, elders met with Jimmy Carter. In 1980, the Alaska National Interest Lands Conservation Act (Anilca) formalized protections for the Kootznoowoo wilderness, now part of the Admiralty Island national monument. However, that designation came with an asterisk: the sale of 22,890 acres of ancestral Tlingit hunting and fishing grounds to the Shee Atiká Corporation, one of the 13 Native corporations created during the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act in 1971. Over the next three decades, more than 80% of that land was clearcut. Culverts, like the one the team is blowing up today, were inserted, blocking the passage of baby salmon upriver. In 2020, the forest service purchased the Cube Cove land from Shee Atiká for $18m. The agency, alongside Kootznoowoo Inc, the Indigenous corporation based in Angoon, and SAWC, embarked on a five-year project to restore ecological functions, reconnect streams and support the traditional practices of the Tlingit people. The addition of Cube Cove signified the largest transfer of land into formal wilderness designation in the forest service's history. 'The purchase of this land opened a door,' Daniels reflects. 'It gave us the chance to reconnect with these lands in a way that honors our ancestors and what they knew – how to live in harmony with nature, not dominate it.' When he was growing up in Angoon, Daniels recalls, his uncles and cousins talked about hunting and fishing in the area before the clearcutting. 'My grandmother spoke of a 'small sockeye run' from here. I always thought she was talking about just a few fish. But actually, it's thousands of fish – just kokanee salmon, which look like small sockeye.' Since 2022, Daniels and his crew – including his 24-year-old son Justin; 33-year-old Roger Williams; and 41-year-old Walt Washington – have been working to undo decades of damage. 'We're trying to get this forest back on its feet,' Daniels explains. 'But it's not just the trees. We're restoring the entire ecosystem: the fish, the wildlife and the cultural traditions connected to this land.' Following the all-clear from Greenhalgh, SAWC watershed scientist Kelsey Dean slings a forest service Pulaski – part ax and part adze – over her shoulder and follows the old logging road to the blast site. She describes dense thickets of spruce as 'dog hair trees' where deer can't forage, and bears can't hunt deer. This six-day hitch we're participating in is just the second blasting session in a much larger effort. At the end of five years, the team will have removed 80 of the 89 culverts left by loggers, and three bridges, Dean says. 'We're restoring habitat, improving hydrologic function and strengthening the land's resilience. After that, it's hands off,' she says, releasing the Pulaski to underline the point. Up ahead, a reddish-brown haze settles over the blast site. The crew gathers along the banks and stares into a triangular trench where the culvert once ran. Sean Rielly, a former wilderness ranger and forest service recreation specialist, slaloms down the mud and begins removing shards of the shattered culvert. Daniels and his crew follow, pushing boulders out of the new streambed. Suddenly, the goop of mud and alder leaves releases, flooding downhill. After an hour of work, a small mountain stream flows freely. 'Now,' Dean says, 'we watch for fish.' The fish are anadromous, she explains – a fancy word that means they spawn and then die. Their decaying bodies provide food for the carnivorous spruce, hemlock and cedar trees in a healthy stand of old growth. The salmon also sustain the brown bears prowling the island, their coats glossy with salmon oil, their humps shifting as they patrol the rivers, waiting for the salmon to arrive. The Cube Cove project reaches its midpoint at a moment when the Trump administration renews logging efforts in the Tongass. In June, the US Department of Agriculture announced plans to remove the Roadless Rule protections, exposing 7m acres of the Tongass to extensive clearcuts. Ecologists warn that cutting much of the old growth could release massive amounts of carbon stored in the trees. In fact, Dean says, when federal funding dried up, Cube Cove progress stalled. Luckily, SAWC was able to use wetlands mitigation money from the state of Alaska to account for the shortfall. 'It's unfortunate, what's happening. The region is just now starting to recover from the violence of clearcutting,' says Rob Cadmus, director of SAWC. 'At Cube Cove, what we're doing essentially is cleaning up the mess left from logging. Going back to those timber bonanza days would be unconscionable, from an economic, environmental and psychic standpoint.' Federal subsidies have long made old-growth logging in the Tongass artificially profitable. By selling timber below market value and covering high costs like road building and transportation, the government incentivizes larger logging companies from the lower 48 to cut down trees, despite the fact that south-east Alaska's economy is shifting toward eco-tourism and fishing – industries that depend on preserving the Tongass intact, rather than transforming the mountains into a moonscape, with no habitat left for salmon to spawn. As the crew works with hand tools, Dean inspects the flow of water, while Greenhalgh examines the composition of dirt. The two assess whether a second 'cleanup shot' of explosives might be necessary before abandoning the site. Hand tools can take care of the rest, they decide. As the sun sets over the mouth of the valley, the group begins a 3.5-mile hike along the logging road back to the ATVs and forest service truck. Along the way, Daniels nods toward an alternating series of oven-mitt-shaped prints in the ground – evidence of the island's apex predators. 'Bear have survived here for thousands of years,' he says. 'And so have we. All of that makes what's happening today feel really personal.' Rielly catches up and talks about all the time he spent behind a desk justifying the need for mechanized equipment and explosives and the minimum tool necessary to help the region's recovery. In 2024, a youth group from Angoon removed a culvert barely beneath the ground using only standard forest service hand tools: Pulaskis, shovels, mattocks and rakes. The effort took seven days. 'If we don't do this work, the land will continue to degrade. Culverts clog, landslides are triggered, watersheds are blocked,' Rielly says. 'This is the only way to get the job done quickly, especially in such remote terrain.' Through the scrim of spruce saplings, stumps of ancient old-growth loom: cedar, hemlock and spruce recorded at more than 1,000 years old. The group crosses the Ward Creek bridge, held in place by steel girders 8ft wide covered by creosote timbers. These will be removed at the end of the project, when the crew erases their footprints. On the other side of the bridge, Daniels, Washington and Williams hop on the ATVs, while the rest of the group pile into the truck for the 12-mile trip back to camp. After showers in the ocean, the group congregates around a driftwood bonfire on the beach, where thousands of logs were once dumped and rafted together, on the way to the mill. Dean sips from a can of lime sparkling water – a treat in the remote area. Dressed now in flannel pajamas, Washington perches on a rock. He describes his work in the forest as engaging in a cycle of 'destruction and renewal'. 'The land will heal itself if left alone,' he says. 'But sometimes you have to set a bone before it can heal properly. I know that this hard work we're doing out here is for my children, and for their children down the line.' 'What you're seeing here is a version of the next generation of conservation – partnerships that connect people, place and purpose,' Cadmus of SAWC says. 'When we're out here working side by side, we build a bond that's stronger than words. At the end of the day, that's what heals us. We're all in service to the land.'