A
moan of “whoosh, whoosh” echoed in
the cold silence after the bowhead whale sank back into the water. It
resurfaced, spouted a geyser from its blowhole, arched its back, and
disappeared in a slit of water that cleaved the jagged landscape of white and
blue ice. I saw that whale, and dozens more, during a weekend as a guest cook
at an Inupiat Eskimo spring whaling camp near Barrow, Alaska, about three
decades ago. I had lived in Barrow, the northernmost town in the United States,
for nearly two years before I was invited to the camp, a privilege that the
Inupiat accord only to few outsiders.
For
one magical weekend, I became a silent participant in one of the last primeval
experiences still in existence. That visit is probably the most unusual
experience of my life.
I began dreaming of travel as a child in Karachi, Pakistan, and made lists of places I wanted to go – London, Paris, the Grand Canyon, the Alps, the Himalayas, Australia, Africa, and so on. Alaska never entered those dreams. It was for me, as for most, a place of perpetual ice, snow, cold, and Eskimos living in igloos. Still, I ended up not only living in Alaska, but my long stay here began at the “Top of the World” in Barrow.
A close
up of the ice boulders that we had to pick our way through. They are formed by the pressure of the pack ice pushing against the shorefast ice. |
Every spring, the Inupiat of Alaska’s coastal villages ready for a harvest of bowhead
whales in a tradition going back more than a thousand years. Bowheads come
closest to shore during spring migration to Canadian Arctic feeding grounds.
They travel through areas of open water, known as leads, formed when the ice
pack begins separating from the shorefast ice, which is the ice that forms from
the shore and beyond, beginning in the fall. Inupiat hunt bowheads from camps
set up on the shorefast ice next to the open water. These whales are an
integral part of the Inupiat diet and cultural identity, and learning to hunt
them is a rite of passage for young Inupiat men.
On
a Saturday in early May, I huddled amid camping gear piled on a sled behind a
snow machine in a caravan of three or four. A couple sleds carried umiaks, boats made from walrus skin used
for the hunt. I was one of only two women accompanying our host, Ralph
Aveoganna, a Barrow whaling captain. Only men go out to land whales, but women
help out by cooking and performing other domestic chores. Dixie, an Inupiat
woman, and I went along that day as the designated helpers for the crew of
eight Inupiat men.
We
traveled on a perfect Arctic day of clear skies, about 20 degrees (Fahrenheit), and constant
light. Our trail to the camp, about 14 miles from Barrow, lay through a
landscape with a geography all its own. Smooth stretches that sparkled like
diamond dust. Rough patches strewn with ice boulders of clear aquamarines and
opaque moonstones. Snow dunes carved by the wind. Miniature mountain ranges and
palisades heaved up by the embrace of the shifting ice pack and shorefast ice.
A crew from Barrow paddling in their umiak along the shorefast ice. |
After traveling about 12 miles on the ice past the shore, we halted at the edge of a lead. Ralph and the crew put the umiaks in the water and loaded them up with supplies and camping gear. We set out for camp with the snowmachines following along on the ice.
At
the campsite, Ralph chose a spot about 25 feet back from the lead, where we
quickly set up the tent we’d use for cooking, sleeping, and warming up. Dixie
and I fired up the Coleman stove, put water on for tea, and started rummaging
for lunch supplies. The men began their whale watch crouched by an umiak, standing
behind an ice fence they’d erected at the ice edge, or from seats carved into
tall ice boulders. We spoke in hushed tones so any nearby whales wouldn’t hear
us.
The whaling campsite on the shorefast ice, next to the lead. |
When
I went out with a tray of tea and hot chocolate, I noticed one of the crew
paddling an umiak toward the ice pack. A gunshot shattered the quiet. The crew
forgot the code of silence and whooped with delight. An unlucky young seal had lost
its life. No need for sandwiches or soup now.
I
stood in shock, not sure if I should cheer or cry at the death of that seal,
who happened to show up at the wrong place and time. I ate the game meat my
Inupiat friends shared with me, but I had never seen an animal being killed.
I
had little time to reflect on my feelings. The hunter returned and stepped onto
the ice. A young seal dangled from one hand. I stood frozen, and watched him
skin and cut up the seal. When he was nearly done, he looked at me.
I
swallowed hard and went to the tent to fetch a pot. Still in shock, with a pot
of steaming chunks of dark meat in hand, I returned to the tent. Dixie put on a
pot of rice and asked me to cook the seal, which I sautéed with oil, soy sauce,
and black pepper. An hour later, we ate an impromptu feast on the Arctic ice.
My lingering hesitation about eating the seal disappeared at the first bite of
the meat, which tasted like tender lamb.
When
I returned outside after lunch, one of the whalers clambered down from an ice
boulder, about 20 feet high and five feet back from the lead, and I took his seat.
I settled in and began scanning the lead from his lookout post. Bowheads bobbed
up in the lead all afternoon. The crew scrambled if one seemed within striking
distance, but by late afternoon, the crew still hadn’t come close enough to any
they could attempt to land.
In
my ice cubby, I sat marveling at my surroundings and my small part in the rites
of an ancient tradition. For a long while, I was in a state of suspended
animation until I heard urgent whispers below me and saw the crew prepare to
board the umiaks. In the distance, two dark figures rose in unison and blew
spouts taller than all the other whales we’d seen that day. They swam and dove
in slow motion. Unlike previous forays, the entire crew, except Dixie and
myself, went out this time. A lone darting gun rested on the ice below me.
(Photo by the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) |
Transfixed,
I watched the whales’ ballet and the crew’s movement. A part of me didn’t want
the dance to end, but another wanted the whalers to succeed. I wrestled with
sadness about the whales’ demise and elation that the crew would get their
whale, two in fact, which they’d share with the rest of their village.
Shehla and a member of the whaling crew, standing next to an umiak. |
The
pair of whales farther out had gone. The crew – gun and harpoon ready at the bow
of the umiak – was now frantically moving toward the whale in front of the camp.
The
whale taunted the whalers for a good four or five minutes. When they were almost
within striking distance, it let out a large blow, displayed a large swath of
its back, slapped the water with its tail. And slipped away. Yet another one
gone.
The
umiak returned, and the subdued crew disembarked. Ralph noticed the darting gun
on the ice. He pointed to it and teased me for not catching a whale. I smiled, enjoying
the compliment that he was accepting me as one of them, but also relieved I had
not seen any of the whales meet their end.
In
fact, the crew never did not land a whale during my weekend with them. They got
one the next weekend, when I wasn’t there. At that summer’s Nalukataq, the
festival held after the whaling season, Ralph Aveoganna announced my name as
part of his crew and gave me a portion of the whale. I received not only muktuk (whale blubber) but also the
highly desirable whale flipper that I shared with my Inupiat friends in Barrow.
I
sometimes wonder if that large whale whose long dance I can’t forget is still
swimming around or is now part of someone else’s memory of a successful whale
hunt.
Oh Shehla, your description of this adventure is so clear and dramatic that I feel as if I were a participant. What a beautifully, intense post. Your descriptions pull the reader in to the action. What a great experience. Thanks for sharing it with us.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Patricia. I'm glad you enjoyed the post. It was a memorable day and I'm happy to share the experience.
ReplyDeleteShehla I thoroughly enjoyed reading about this experience that most of us can only dream off. Whales got away but a seal was unexpectedly caught-- lovely analogy for the vagaries of life. I must ask what does whale blubber and meat taste like? Gosh I'm always amazed by your adventures!
ReplyDeleteSoniah Kamal
What an amazing adventure, Shehla! I can see why it is still such a memorable experience for you all these years later. Thanks for sharing this very vivid story with us. Are these whaling expeditions still a big part of Inupiat culture or are they dying out, like so many traditions do?
ReplyDeleteShelah, how special for you to be invited into such a close knit community. Your telling of the experience is captivating and full of wonderful emotion. Thank you for sharing!
ReplyDeleteHeidi and Alli, I'm very happy I had the chance to share this experience with Novel Adventurers.
ReplyDeleteAnd, Heidi, bowhead whaling is an integral part of Inupiat culture and it perseveres. The Inupiat are under a whaling quota set by the International Whaling Commission, which is renegotiated periodically. The population of bowhead was down to about 3,000 when commercial whaling ceased in the 1920s, but it has risen significantly in the past couple of decades and now numbers around 12,000. The Inupiat are allowed to take about 50 whales a year, and are involved in monitoring the behavior, migration patterns and population of the species that holds a special place in their culture and lives.