An American Preserving Russian History: Fort Ross May Get a New Name

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I remember that day perfectly. Summer of 2025. The Pacific Ocean rumbling below, a cool wind stretching across the slopes, carrying the scent of salt, grass, and old wood. I stood in the parking area above the cliff, looking down — to the shore where the former Russian fort Ross lies, a place now more often referred to by its American title: Fort Ross State Historic Park.

California NEWS — RusCali — Once, this was among the southernmost outposts of Russian America on the Pacific Coast — a Russian settlement in Northern California, roughly fifty miles north of San Francisco. In 1812, the Russian-American Company established a colony here to hunt sea otters and trade furs. For nearly three decades, life within the stockade flourished: ships were built, leather was tanned, bread was baked, orchards were planted, redwood was harvested, and trade was carried out with the Spanish and Mexicans further south.

But the sea otter population collapsed. Competition intensified. Logistics from Alaska became too expensive. By 1841, the company sold its buildings, livestock, and equipment to landowner John Sutter. The land itself — legally — had never belonged to Russia; it had already fallen under Mexican and later American jurisdiction.

Today, this place is a California State Historic Park and a U.S. National Historic Landmark. The only original Russian-era structure to survive is the home of the last commander, Alexander Rotchev — now preserved as a nationally significant monument. The remaining buildings are careful reconstructions — yet this remains the only surviving wooden fortress of the Russian Empire from the 19th century that one can still physically walk through, not only read about.

In modern publications and academic works, the site is usually referenced by the Americanized name “Fort Ross.” But for the people of the early 180s it was Krepost Ross, the settlement of Ross, the colony of Ross. The English name is simply a literal translation that became the norm.

I thought about this as I looked down at the squared fortress walls, at the rooftops, at the modest chapel with its dome, and at the Rotchev House standing slightly apart. The wind tugged at the tall grass. The camera weighed heavily on its strap. And in that moment, Hank Birnbaum was already walking toward me — the one person here who doesn’t simply “work at a historical site.” He lives this place and its history.

A farmer, a horticulture worker with Avant Gardens, an educator and bilingual guide with the Fort Ross Conservancy — a person who speaks with equal ease to American schoolchildren, Kashaya Pomo tribal members, and Russian-speaking immigrants from California’s tech regions. The Kashaya Pomo know him by name. Russian tourists affectionately call him “our Hank.”

People like him deserve medals — true examples of those who unite cultures, build bridges instead of borders, and carefully preserve heritage important not only to Russia and the United States, but to the Indigenous peoples whose history here extends thousands of years deeper.

Hank approached, smiled warmly, shook my hand firmly, and without transition began speaking in fluent Russian:

“Well — welcome back to Ross.”

We headed along the dirt path toward the fortress gate. The microphone caught his voice alongside the rustling wind. I expected the conversation to begin with “the Russian colony” — but Hank took a different direction:

“You know, people often forget: long before the Russians came, the Kashaya Pomo lived here for thousands of years. Our thirty years are only a thin layer atop a massive foundation of their story.”

We paused before an exhibit case. Inside were baskets so finely woven that they appeared almost unreal — shapes drawn in threads of reed and seashell, each pattern perfectly precise.

“These are Kashaya Pomo baskets,” Hank explained.
“They are considered some of the finest in the world. And the largest collection isn’t here — it’s in the Kunstkamera Museum in Saint Petersburg.”

He paused.

“I once traveled there with descendants of these basket makers. Among them was the granddaughter of a revered weaver and spiritual leader. When she held her grandmother’s basket, she cried.
Because for them, these are not objects — they are living spirits of ancestors.”

We passed through the gate, and the thick redwood walls sheltered us from the wind. Inside, everything looked exactly like in old sketches: the commander’s house, the storehouse, the blockhouses on the corners.

Hank described how Russian America stretched like a long arc across the northern Pacific — beginning in Russia, extending through Siberia and across the Bering Sea into Alaska, then southward to California. Driven by the fur trade, the Russians developed a functioning colony here: a shipyard, brick production, a windmill, a tannery, carpentry workshops.

Inside the warehouse, Hank held up a model sea otter pelt:

“Sea otters were called soft gold.
One pelt could equal a year’s salary for a farmer.”

Pelts shipped north to Alaska, then across to Asia — returning as tea, porcelain, silk. The global economy, powered by a shy and curious marine animal once abundant offshore.

“Imagine someone in Russia sipping Chinese tea from a painted cup — thanks to a sea otter that lived right here.”

We stepped back outside into the sun, toward the rolling hills beyond the walls.

“That direction,” Hank pointed,
“was Spanish and later Mexican territory. And so this place became a meeting point for two empires — the Russians and the Spanish.”

Spain, pressured by war in Europe, lacked the strength for open conflict. Trade prevailed, not warfare.

“That’s the real history here. No perfect heroes. No pure villains.
Just people — trying to survive, compete, and coexist.”

We walked toward the Rotchev House — a long structure with whitewashed walls and narrow windows.

“Alexander Rotchev lived here with his wife, Elena Pavlovna, who came from a noble family. She corresponded with Pushkin. Imagine that — poetry and high culture on this remote cliffside…”

Inside, sunlight filtered through small windows. A short bed stood close to the wall.

“Beds were shorter because people slept half-sitting,” Hank explained with a smile.
“Pillows everywhere. That was considered healthy.”

Moving on, we reached the wooden chapel standing slightly elevated above the fort:

“This was not a full parish church,” said Hank.
“No resident priest. A few clergy visited from Alaska — among them, the future Saint Innocent of Alaska. He taught, built, and translated holy texts into Indigenous languages.”

We stepped inside. Wooden silence. Light and shadow dancing across icons.

I glanced at the empty flagpole outside.

“Why no Russian-American Company flag?” I asked.
“It used to be here.”

Hank sighed slightly.

“Because the world has changed.
With war, people stopped seeing it as history and started seeing politics.
We want this place to be a bridge, not another battlefield of opinions.”

We sat on a bench along the inner wall. The ocean was still audible — steady, ancient.

I finally asked:

“How did you — an American — come to speak Russian like this?”

Hank laughed lightly.

“Life. I first traveled to the Soviet Union in the early 1980s. Later, I lived in Russia — especially around Lake Baikal. Worked on environmental projects with the UN, USAID… I learned Russian not from textbooks, but from kitchens and long train rides.”

He paused, looking toward the ocean again.

“Then I returned home — family reasons. I found this place — where my experience and language could actually matter. And here I am.”

“Do you miss Russia?” I asked.

“Yes. Deeply.
But under the current leadership — I don’t feel safe to go.
I support Ukraine. And I hope that someday this terrible war will end.”

We spoke about the tensions that occasionally arise here between Russian and Ukrainian visitors.

“It happens. Words flare. Pain surfaces.
But this should be a place of shared memory — not division.”

Hank also remembered online calls from nationalists claiming Fort Ross as “eternal Russian soil”:

“Our Kashaya Pomo neighbors were very calm in response:
‘If we speak honestly — this is our land.
Russians were here briefly.’
And honestly — they are right.”

We walked through the orchard — where old Russian cherry trees still grow.

“Fort Ross is one of California’s very first industrial centers,” Hank pointed out.
“But it is also sacred land.
Our job now is to tell all the stories — Russian, Kashaya Pomo, Aleut, Mexican, American.”

He introduced the idea of dual naming:

“Perhaps someday the signage will read both: Fort Ross and the Kashaya name — T’mn or Metini.
Not to erase Russia, but to expand truth.”

We walked along a quiet path. Volunteer groups, scouts, cultural organizations like the Russian-American “Cedar House” help maintain this history — organizing holidays, singing folk songs, cooking borscht in giant cauldrons.

“When Russian visitors enter the Rotchev House,” Hank said,
“they breathe in the air and say: ‘It smells like my grandmother’s house.’
Nostalgia — that’s powerful medicine.”

We talked about the windmill — a gift from Russian donors rebuilt for the 200th anniversary — later destroyed by coastal weather.

“Maybe that broken windmill,” Hank said,
“is a metaphor. Big ideas, then bureaucracy, then silence.
But it can be rebuilt — differently.”

As the sun lowered, we paused near the fortress gate.

“If one day you retire,” I asked,
“what will you remember most?”

Hank reflected.

“People.
The Kashaya Pomo — their ceremonies, their reverence.
The Alaskan Native families — their history of hardship and strength.
Russian Americans visiting with their children — remembering their roots.
And the 200th anniversary celebration — when it felt like maybe, just maybe, our two nations could build a new chapter together.”

He smiled, faintly:

“The main thing is: may people stop shooting.
Everything else can be fixed.”

Our interview ended there — officially.
But Hank invited us to a table just outside the walls. He set out a samovar, salted herring, bread — simple but heartfelt hospitality. We talked not about politics or exhibits, but about family, Baikal, California, the odd identity of being from “more than one place.”

The tea was warm. The ocean air was cool. It felt like we were sitting between worlds.

When Hank returned to his duties, I lingered in the park. I walked past the chapel, past the Rotchev House, past the empty flagpole. I listened to wind and waves. I knew I would return.

Maybe someday the official name of this place will change — become longer, dual, more honest. But whatever form the sign takes at the entrance —

Fort Ross will never be forgotten by anyone who has stood here even once.

This interview was recorded in the summer of 2025 and originally prepared for publication by the media outlet Slavic Sacramento. It was fully edited and ready for release — but due to unforeseen technical issues, the piece was never published. A shortened version may appear there in the future.

I decided to publish the complete conversation myself — exactly as it happened — because for Californians, Americans in general, and those who care about Russian heritage and Indigenous history, this story matters. It is simple, sincere, human.

There are almost no materials like this — especially with such a genuine American who spent many years living in Russia and then returned home to preserve the shared history of two nations on this rugged cliff above the Pacific Ocean.

As I left, I looked once more at the fort — Ross, Fort Ross, or perhaps one day T’mn — and realized:

As long as there are people like Hank,
and places like this park,
and the freedom to speak honestly,
history remains alive.

And that means we still have a chance —
not to destroy each other, but to understand each other.

Written and produced by Vitaly Ataev Troshin.