Soon after Europeans landed in the Americas and began pillaging natural resources while enslaving and killing Indigenous peoples, the demand for a faster trade route for these exploited commodities intensified, by all means necessary. European powers sought a more direct path to Asia, one that would bypass the long and perilous journeys around the southern tips of Africa or South America. In their search for efficiency and profit, they turned their eyes northward and embarked on a quest for a theoretical sea route through the Arctic, a passage that promised quicker access to the lucrative markets of the East. Thus began the long, storied pursuit of what we now call the Northwest Passage.
As far back as the second century, Eurocentric mapmakers speculated about a waterway across the top of the world. By the 15th and 16th centuries, when overland routes to Asia were either blocked or monopolized by powerful states, European explorers were sent in droves to find this fabled shortcut. The elusive route quickly assumed a near-mythical status; the Spanish even called it the Strait of Anián. One failed expedition followed another. In 1497, Venetian navigator John Cabot set sail in search of this legendary passage, and in 1609, Henry Hudson met his fate in the icy waters that would later bear his name. Many crews succumbed to harsh conditions, suffering from scurvy, falling victim to mutiny, or perishing in the unforgiving Arctic environment. The most infamous tragedy came in 1845 when Sir John Franklin’s expedition vanished. His 128 men, along with two ships, became hopelessly trapped in the labyrinthine ice of the Arctic Archipelago, and despite decades of subsequent search and speculation, no expedition succeeded in securing the passage.
For centuries the Northwest Passage remained an Arctic grail, an incredible promise of a shortcut that could revolutionize global trade. It was not until the early 20th century, between 1903 and 1906, that Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen finally proved the passage’s existence by navigating its entire length in a modest wooden vessel. Although Amundsen’s voyage confirmed that the route was real, his journey also underscored a harsh reality: the passage was too tortuously slow and too frequently choked by sea ice to serve as a practical commercial trade lane. For the next hundred years the Northwest Passage remained more an object of scientific interest and legendary allure than a viable corridor for shipping. That is, until climate change began to rewrite the Arctic’s rules.
Today, the impossible is becoming possible. The Arctic is warming at nearly twice the rate of the rest of the world, a phenomenon known as Arctic amplification, and rising temperatures are dramatically shrinking the sea ice cover. Satellite observations have documented a decline in Arctic sea ice extent of more than 13 percent per decade during summer months since 1979. Projections indicate that the entire Arctic Ocean could experience ice-free late summers as early as the 2030s. As the ice recedes, the once-impenetrable Northwest Passage is opening seasonally. In 2007, melting ice revealed open water along routes that had been forever barred by thick, persistent ice. More recently, vessels have begun transiting the passage with greater frequency, marking a dramatic shift from a historical relic into a potential new shipping corridor.
Two years ago, I spent my summer 33 miles north of the Arctic Circle, working as a salmon fisherman in the Chukchi Sea, setting gillnets in the village of Kotzebue. I moved to a remote corner of the world to live with two of my close friends, John and Tahayla, who are both Inupiat and have long had roots in the Arctic subsistence lifestyle. My mornings began in the quiet predawn hours, preparing to set net in waters that, until recently, were still frozen just two months earlier. I witnessed firsthand how environmental change reshapes lives. While our task was simple, setting nets and hauling in salmon, the broader implications of our work were profound. The seasonal thaw that allowed our boat to glide through waters once thought impassable paralleled the historic transformation of the Northwest Passage itself. As the ice receded, it not only opened a route for modern shipping but also exposed the vulnerabilities of a traditional lifestyle. “We don’t know what will happen,” John has said to me. Uncertainty accompanies the upheaval in Arctic ecosystems as shipping conglomerates test these newly accessible routes, given the promise of slashing transit times. Around town, COSCO shipping containers have emerged as repurposed storage sheds. Russian packaging trash washes ashore sometimes.
Geopolitical ambitions in the Arctic now further complicate the picture. As Donald Trump talks of invading Greenland, it is clear that there will be major strategic moves unfolding in the Arctic. Russia has expanded its presence by refurbishing over fifty Soviet-era military outposts and bolstering its icebreaker fleet, including powerful nuclear icebreakers, to ensure control over the Northern Sea Route. Meanwhile, the United States and NATO allies are increasing their Arctic presence by investing in new heavy icebreakers and conducting more frequent patrols in northern waters near Alaska. Concurrently, Canada is deploying additional patrol ships and upgrading its northern surveillance systems to reinforce its sovereignty claims. Importantly, China is steadily increasing its investments in the region through partnerships with Russia on energy projects, funding research and mining ventures. These coordinated moves underscore a growing militarization and economic competition in the Arctic, transforming a once relatively demilitarized region into a stage for power projection and resource security. On a phone call with Adam Chee, a director at a shipping agency, he recalled how, in the last two years, Houthi rebels and a severe drought in Panama disrupted major shipping lanes. Audaciously, he declares that: “Arctic shipping will be the strategic jackpot of the future.” It seems as if geopolitical players and corporate interests are in the region solely to profit, bringing with it profound environmental risks.
Our desire to have access to consumer goods and electronics introduces the constant threat of oil spills in the Arctic environment. The vessels that carry our goods across the oceans still burn heavy fuel oil, a cheap yet dirty fuel that, if spilled in cold Arctic waters, would break down very slowly, causing lasting damage to marine ecosystems and the communities that depend on them. Routine emissions from ships, including black carbon, deposit soot on pristine snow and ice surfaces, reducing reflectivity and accelerating melt. The result is a vicious cycle: increased shipping leads to faster ice loss, which in turn makes the passage accessible for longer periods, further enticing commercial interest and worsening environmental impacts.
The growing number of vessels also increases underwater noise, which disrupts the natural soundscape of the Arctic. Icebreakers (and other large ships) generate intense underwater sounds that interfere with the communication and migration patterns of marine mammals. Such disturbances may force these animals away from their traditional feeding and breeding grounds, thereby undermining the delicate balance of the ecosystem. The introduction of invasive species through ballast water or biofouling on ship hulls further threatens to upset the long-established ecological equilibrium. For Indigenous communities whose subsistence practices and cultural heritage depend on a stable Arctic environment, these changes are a tangible threat to livelihoods.
The human dimension of these transformations is deeply felt by Indigenous communities who have thrived in the Arctic for centuries. Two years ago, the chum salmon harvest, the type of salmon we pulled out of the ocean, hit a decade-long low. “Big Fish,” the major fish processors that were buying from small-scale fishermen like us, told us that prices were low because of an influx of Russian trawlers that oversupplied pink salmon, causing a price glut, worsening the local economy. These economic effects are compounded with environmental degradation. The future of the Northwest Passage will rest upon the geopolitical interests that seek to meddle in the traditional ways of Arctic life. Other countries are rapidly investing in new maritime capabilities in vying for control over access. Indigenous communities, who have lived in the region for centuries, now face the potential of eroding traditions as we weigh progress against preservation in this rapidly changing global landscape, seeking to move things around, by all means necessary?
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