“A different perspective” is what draws some students from the lower 48 to the U. of Alaska at Fairbanks. Zayn Roohi
Tahia Rivara came here from Los Angeles to attend the University of Alaska at Fairbanks because she wanted “a different perspective” on life.
It was a challenge at first, but she tried hard to accept the dark, the cold, and, especially, the snow. There was so much snow. But when the darkness of that first winter faded, the light came back, and so did her spirit. “Really, everything comes back to life, and you do, too,” says Rivara, 24, a senior business major who was born in Chile.
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“A different perspective” is what draws some students from the lower 48 to the U. of Alaska at Fairbanks. Zayn Roohi
Tahia Rivara came here from Los Angeles to attend the University of Alaska at Fairbanks because she wanted “a different perspective” on life.
It was a challenge at first, but she tried hard to accept the dark, the cold, and, especially, the snow. There was so much snow. But when the darkness of that first winter faded, the light came back, and so did her spirit. “Really, everything comes back to life, and you do, too,” says Rivara, 24, a senior business major who was born in Chile.
Alaska’s romantic allure can be appealing to people like Rivara, and it helps reinforce a narrative that may be most familiar to out-of-staters. But that story is hardly the only one out here. Sure, there are genuine challenges endemic to the 49th state’s isolated geography and extreme weather, but it’s also true that the university, located hundreds of miles from any competing college in Alaska’s interior wilderness, faces all the normal challenges of any large, public institution: Enrollment is down, and state funding, which is tied almost wholly to the oil industry, has declined in recent years, though it has started to recover slightly.
In this special report, we look at diversity through a somewhat novel lens — that of geography. Our coverage examines how a college’s location affects its mission, its ability to recruit students and faculty members, and its campus culture.
In reality, out-of-state or foreign students like Rivara made up just over one-fifth of the student body last fall. The university attracts people for plenty of practical reasons, too — for example, the student who lives 30 minutes down the road and wants to study geophysical engineering. And the Alaskan Natives — that’s the term for indigenous people born in the state — from tiny villages accessible only by airplane. And the scholars who study the Arctic or climate change. (Many longtime residents here say the temperature doesn’t drop to 40 below as often as it used to.) Where better to study those topics than in a place where the effects of shifting temperatures are dramatically apparent?
It isn’t easy for the university to balance the challenges of its Alaskan setting with those of fulfilling its goals as a flagship institution. The Chronicle spent a week at the flagship campus here in Fairbanks — the system’s two other main campuses are in the state’s largest city, Anchorage, and the capital, Juneau — to see how it’s done.
Winter Is Always Coming
To understand the university’s appeal, you’ve got to know at least a little about Fairbanks. One week in August, the temperatures rose into the 80s and the locals groused about the heat. (This Chronicle reporter, a resident of Washington, D.C., would like to point out that at least it wasn’t humid.) But the rest of the week, the temperatures hovered in the 60s. The sun was still out past 11 p.m. — something people say can make them feel maniacal. They try to seize every daylight hour available, because they know that come winter, even the simplest errands will be more difficult to accomplish.
The University of Alaska at Fairbanks overlooks its namesake town. The institution was founded in 1917, decades before the expanse of Alaska joined the nation, in 1959. The town itself is small, just about 33,000 proper, and the Fairbanks campus is smaller, with 5,667 in the fall of 2017. Still, this is the most populated area for miles. When in town, you might briefly forget you’re in Alaska, but if you drive more than a few miles outside the city, you’re quickly reminded. The forest dominates, and tall trees carpet the countryside. On some summer days you can catch a whiff of smoke from a wildfire burning somewhere in the state.
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Car batteries and oil don’t function well in extreme cold, so automobiles have engine-block heaters with cords that snake out from the front of the grill or hood. Electrical stations line parking lots, giving drivers a place to plug in. But when asked how they handle the cold, many people here give you the same utilitarian line: “Wear a coat.”
University officials who oversee recruitment tell prospective students the same thing: The cold isn’t as bad as it initially seems. Freshman orientation includes advice on what to wear and how to layer clothing so students’ lives don’t have to stop just because of subzero temperatures.
And while it’s tempting to romanticize or dramatize Fairbanks, it’s got the hallmarks of many American towns and cities: There’s a Walmart, and down the street you’ll find McDonald’s and Starbucks. Mary Kreta, associate vice chancellor for enrollment management, knows the stereotypes and what people think of Alaska at first glance. It’s a constant battle to push back against them, she says.
“Often students’ immediate response is concern about the climate,” Kreta says. “Again, when we’re actually able to connect with the student and engage with them about what it means to live in Fairbanks, Alaska, and how livable and what a wonderful community it is, and what an exciting place it is to live, then students are incredibly excited about the possibility and want to come.”
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As part of its push to attract more students — enrollment at the main campus fell roughly 8 percent between 2013 and 2017 — the university hired a regional recruiter to work in Oregon and Washington state. Another recruiter spends six to eight weeks traveling the contiguous United States to recruit prospective students.
At a Glance: Student Demographics at the U. of Alaska at Fairbanks
Total enrollment, main Fairbanks campus only: 5,667
White: 56 percent
Alaska Native: 13 percent
Asian: 4 percent
Black: 3 percent
Hispanic: 6 percent
Pacific Islander: 1 percent
Other: 15 percent
Female: 55 percent
Male: 44 percent
In-state enrollment: 77 percent
Out-of-state and international enrollment: 22 percent
Note: Figures are from 2017. Because of rounding, percentages do not total 100 percent.
U. of Alaska at Fairbanks
Campus tours are a bit harder to organize but not unheard of. A group of community-college students from Santa Ana, Calif., toured the campus in early August. They were all aspiring firefighters, and during their trip they got a presentation about the university’s Homeland Security and Emergency Management program as a potential field of study. During their trip, they meandered through the campus, went rock climbing, and floated down the local waterway, the Chena River. (Those looking for a lazy river will need to go elsewhere.)
There are location-specific challenges that new students might not immediately think about. The university’s hockey team, its only Division I sport, often plays in the lower 48, which means lots of travel. (The Fairbanks campus also has a rivalry with the hockey team at the University of Alaska at Anchorage.)
Another oddity relates to the continuing quest for affordable housing: Some Fairbanks residents, including students, live in dwellings called “dry cabins.” They are what they sound like: cabins without running water. Denizens of such houses must haul water to their homes. However, the university has several places to shower on campus.
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Growing Up in Alaska
Some students, though, don’t need a lot of convincing to live here. Daisy Herrman, a sophomore majoring in geophysical engineering, was born in Alaska and grew up about 30 minutes out of town, and this place has been her life. After a year at home with her parents, she is just about to move into town.
There were was almost no question that she would attend the university. It was an economical choice, and it offered something she wanted to study. Many of her high-school friends also attend, and they aren’t bothered by the cold or the dark. In between campus tours — she works in the university’s admissions office — she explains that thriving in the cold just requires a little bit of planning.
“You go out there,” Herrman says. “You can’t let winter stop you, or you’re just going to have your life on pause for nine months.”
In-state students like Herrman make up nearly 80 percent of the student population. About 13 percent identify as Alaska Native or American Indian, and 56 percent identify as Caucasian. When branch campuses and other learning sites affiliated with the Fairbanks campus are included, the proportion of Alaska Natives is 21 percent.
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Students attend a class in the Yup’ik language at the U. of Alaska at Fairbanks. About 13 percent of the students at the Fairbanks campus identify themselves as Alaska Native. Todd Paris for The Chronicle
For some students, the challenge with Fairbanks is not its remoteness but its comparatively large size. That was the case for Joe Bifelt, a 24-year-old senior majoring in education, who comes from Huslia, a remote village in Alaska’s interior. There are roads in the village itself, but the only access in or out is by plane. The closest community is roughly 90 miles away.
In high school, Bifelt was one of just a handful of Alaska Natives. It can be challenging for students like him to leave a small community where they know everybody. The cafeteria food can be jarring, too, for students used to eating traditional fare like moose, caribou, or muktuk, a dish made with frozen whale blubber and skin.
The university’s program for Rural, Community and Native Education is dedicated to helping these students succeed. It oversees programs that include student advising, orientation courses, summer intensives, and even recruitment for those who live in the farthest corners of the state.
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Bifelt had considered attending the University of Alaska at Anchorage, but his siblings had gone to Fairbanks and his friends were going, making it an easy choice. Another factor was the university’s proximity to nature. With a car, it’s easy for him to drive out of town and go moose hunting on fall weekends and fishing in the summer. He escapes often.
“I used to think Fairbanks was big,” he says. “And then I got my car, and I’m like, ‘Fairbanks isn’t really big at all.’ "
One Big Natural Laboratory
The university often attracts faculty members whose specialized fields of research makes Alaska an alluring place to study. Arctic research, for example, thrives here, and so does the study of climate. Even volcanology is popular, given the numerous volcanoes throughout the enormous state.
Robert McCoy, head of the university’s Geophysical Institute, described the state of Alaska as one big natural laboratory. The institute oversees research that includes a volcano observatory, a site where rockets equipped with measuring tools are launched into the aurora borealis, and work on the development of drones.
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Attracting scholars whose field of study isn’t strictly attached to the location can be more difficult.
Eric Heyne, a professor in the English department, was ready to give up on academe and look for a job as a technical writer in Seattle. It was the mid-1980s, he was about to turn 30, and he had applied to universities only in Western states — he wanted to be near the mountains — when out of the blue, Fairbanks reached out to him.
He had a tenure-track job if he wanted it, he was told, but he would have to accept the offer without visiting the campus, because the university needed to make a hire quickly. The price of oil was dropping, and the department wanted to make an offer before the money dried up. Heyne had never been to Alaska before — did he still want the job? “Yes,” he said, “I’ll take it.”
Teaching here ever since, he now lives in the mountains, in a home with huge windows, off a steep back road that overlooks the university. His academic career, he says, was partially guided by Alaska’s geography. He became well-versed in Alaskan literature and has published on that topic, although he feels limited at times by his inability to travel long distances to conferences where networking takes place.
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The area, faculty members here say, grows on a person. “It’s a good place to raise children,” people told me again and again. In some geographically isolated college towns, that’s what search committees tell promising job candidates. But here in Fairbanks, on a day when it seemed as if the sun might never set, it rang as genuine. Summers are a delight. And Fairbanks even has a surprising number of Thai restaurants.
Even those who leave may find themselves returning — one professor described it as “the Fairbanks yo-yo.”
Elaine Drew knows that phenomenon well. After she had worked here as a medical anthropologist for a few years, she and her husband left town because a pressing family concern required them to move to Wisconsin. They found themselves wanting to return, and when her husband’s former employer offered him a job at twice his salary, they jumped at the chance. Drew eventually found another position at the university, this time as an assistant professor of anthropology.
Fairbanks, she says, has everything she wants, including a local theater group and a thriving arts scene (though as a self-described foodie, she sometimes wishes there were more dining options).
Administrators aren’t always so lucky to have people who love the state as much as Heyne and Drew do. They have to gauge whether an applicant will have the mental toughness to withstand its extremes. Heyne, a former interim dean of the university’s liberal-arts college and former chair of the English department, explains that people either love or hate Alaska.
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If they hate it — and they’re smart — they’re quick to find a way out. But if they love it and they’re smart, they never leave.
Chris Quintana was a breaking-news reporter for The Chronicle. He graduated from the University of New Mexico with a bachelor’s degree in creative writing.