Kenzie Englishoe stands by an idle fish wheel as soon as utilized by her neighborhood in Gwichyaa Zhee on Aug. 31, 2023. (Matt Faubion/Alaska Public Media).
In August, MacKenzie Englishoe returned home to a location she's never really lived.
Englishoe is 20 years old, a student at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. As summer subsided, she packed her bags and boarded a nine-passenger aircraft for the hour-long flight to her mom's hometown: Gwichyaa Zhee, likewise known as Fort Yukon, a village of less than 500 people on the upper Yukon River. The plan is to move here permanently.
" I seem like I've been waiting my entire life to come back here and remain in my neighborhood," Englishoe said.
For Englishoe, this move has actually been a long time coming. Her mom's family has lived in Gwichyaa Zhee for generations, however Englishoe herself grew up with her dad and bro near Chandalar Lake, in a remote stretch of the Brooks Range.
Like most of the town, Englishoe is Gwich' in. She grew up deeply connected to the end up at her daddy's cabin near Chandalar Lake, trapping and hunting from a young age. But she feels like she missed out on being in the village, amongst her people.
" I just wish I had a little bit more of a stronger connection to [Gwichyaa Zhee] when I was more youthful," she said.
Now that she's back, she's offseting wasted time.
Gwichyaa Zhee rests on a flat network of dirt roadways that hug the Yukon River. The speed limitation is 15 miles per hour, and the majority of people welcome each other as they pass.
" Everybody here waves to each other," Englishoe stated, driving through town the day after she showed up. "We're pretty much all household here.".
Running errands, she encounters elders and loved ones: at the regional air conditioning shop, the post office and during open house at the school.
" I'm back for good," she informed each one with pride.
The town of Gwichyaa Zhee. (Matt Faubion/Alaska Public Media).
Gwichyaa Zhee today is very various from the village she keeps in mind going to as a kid.
The very first kings would arrive in late June, swimming up the Yukon River from the Bering Sea to their spawning grounds. 4 years back, the runs quickly collapsed, with fewer fish than ever returning to the Yukon River. State and federal fishery supervisors have all however shut down fishing for neighborhoods like Gwichyaa Zhee ever since.
Researchers state environment modification is driving the collapse, as warmer river and ocean water temperature levels create chaos with the salmon's biology and prey species. Residents say it's made life here indistinguishable. For Englishoe, it implies she can't participate in the very culture and traditions she came home to discover.
Along the bank of the Yukon River, at the edge of town, it's quiet. That's not what August used to feel like, Englishoe stated.
" Everyone would be getting on boats to go to fish camp or visiting each other, or giving fish to each other, smoking fish together," she said.
Now, on the riverbank, half a dozen fish wheels lie idle, in what Englishoe calls the "fish wheel graveyard.".
Twenty feet throughout, the fish wheels look like huge windmills, with internet that would scoop fish out of the river as they swim upstream.
" You could inform they're getting type of old, and a bit more delicate," Englishoe stated, selecting through the tall yard maturing through the internet.
Standing on among the toppled wheels, she envisioned what it was like when fishing was allowed.
" You would most likely sit right here and you would simply watch the webs capture the fish," Englishoe said. "I wager my grandfather was simply smiling, enjoying it, understanding that he was going to be supplied for the winter season.".
In Gwichyaa Zhee, salmon are more than just food-- they're culture and neighborhood.
Englishoe's uncle Michael Peter is 2nd chief of Gwichyaa Zhee. He said going to fish camp is how youths build a connection to their household and their heritage. It's an important part of handing down customs.
" You take your kids out, teach them and show them what we were taught," Peter stated. "We were taught how to preserve and cut and smoke fish.".
Peter has kids of his own who have not been to fish camp in years. He frets that knowledge is being lost for the next generation, including young people like Englishoe.
" She's still learning how to cut fish. And she hasn't really been to fish camp," Peter said.
" I want I might go to fish camp," Englishoe said.
Kenzie Englishoe (ideal) with her uncle Michael Peter outside their home in Gwichyaa Zhee. (Matt Faubion/Alaska Public Media).
As a kid, she wasn't around sufficient to learn to use a fish wheel and catch salmon herself. And now that she's lastly here full time, Englishoe worries she never ever will.
Every generation of her household prior to her has fished on this river. And now it's her turn and she can't.
" It's tough," she stated. "I nearly seem like I'm missing a part of myself.".
Englishoe stated she feels an obligation to help save her neighborhood from existential hazards like climate modification. She serves as an Arctic Youth Ambassador, a program through the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service that helps young Alaskans spread out awareness about challenges in their neighborhoods.
She's especially concentrated on defending more Alaska Native control over fishery management.
It's a lot of pressure: advocating for action on environment change and more tribal sovereignty. She's considering putting her undergraduate studies on hold to take a position in the town mentoring youth.
" It's overwhelming, however I'm pleased to do it," Englishoe stated." Because if our generation does not do it, then there's nobody to be able to get that fish back for our future. It's something that we have to do now.".
On a rainy September early morning, Englishoe sat with her grandpa, Sonny Jonas, at his kitchen area table with a cup of coffee. Images of their family returning generations line the wood-paneled walls of his house.
For many years, Jonas taught kids in Gwichyaa Zhee how to fish and make fish wheels. If Englishoe had actually matured here, or if fishing were open now, he's the one who would have taught her.
Jonas has actually watched climate modification transform the Yukon Flats, simply in his lifetime. It's not just the salmon. Defrosting permafrost has caused houses to collapse. He says summers are unrecognizably warm.
Sonny Jonas (left) at his home in Gwichyaa Zhee sharing stories of his younger life with his granddaughter Kenzie Englishoe. (Matt Faubion/Alaska Public Media).
" There's a great deal of changes around here, I'll tell you," Jonas stated.
The modifications are alarming, he said. However he sees hope in his granddaughter.
" I'm thankful for what she's doing today," Jonas stated. "She's actually trying to get into our culture. And I'm really pleased with her for that.".
As for Englishoe, she's still discovering that culture-- and she's determined to keep it alive, for herself, and future generations.
" That's why I returned. Since I know this is where I'm suggested to be and I'm indicated to have my future family," she stated. "And attempt my finest to provide a better life.".
RELATED: Four years into the Yukon salmon collapse, an Interior Alaska village wonders if it will ever fish once again.
Kavitha George, Alaska Public Media - Anchorage.
Kavitha George is Alaska Public Media's environment modification reporter. Reach her at kgeorge@alaskapublic.org.
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