Inupiat crews embark into the 24-hour blackness to hunt for one of the largest animals that has ever lived. These people have adapted to their environment so well that not even modern technology has altered their fundamental way of life. Their culture is both defined and sustained by their annual hunt for the bowhead whale.
For ten months of the year, a four-foot layer of jagged ice extends a half-mile from the shore. It takes a whaling crew two weeks to carve out a path for their tough sealskin kayaks to reach the edge of the sea. Bowhead whales migrate near the ice during spring. When a whale is spotted, an eight-to-twelve-person kayak is launched. They paddle quickly and quietly out to the whale. The first harpoon thrown has a sealskin flotation sack attached to it. When the whale dives, this buoy drags it back to the surface. When one crew harpoons a whale, all of the others nearby join in. Together they continue to spear the whale as it flees, sometimes twenty miles out to sea.
When the whale is finally killed, all of the hunters gather their boats around it and offer a prayer. After months of work and preparation, after harpooning a whale and chasing it across the ocean, they give thanks; not for their incredible perseverance or astounding skill as hunters, but to the whale, who they believe freely gives himself up, and to God – the only being powerful enough to create so vast a creature.
The kayaks work together to tow the bowhead – which can weigh up to 150 tons – all the way back to shore. This process can take days if they have to fight the current or cross a great distance. When they return to the shore of ice the whale is cut apart. The entire village—including children—shows up to rejoice and help pull the colossal whale onto the ice. Traditionally, the Inupiat used the meat to feed themselves throughout the year, the whale oil to provide light and warmth during the three months of darkness, and the whale bones to frame their sod houses.
Natasha and I arrived in Barrow, Alaska — an Inupiat village for more than a thousand years — on the day after the summer solstice. There is no celebration for the solstice. They have no need to celebrate the longest day of the year because they have three months of continuous sunlight. To us it felt like the middle of winter.
We admired the field of ice that covered parts of the beach, and extended far out to sea. Nearby, a group of little girls was playing in the sand, barefoot and in shorts.
“Aren’t you cold?” Natasha asked. We shivered beneath our five heavy layers.
“It's warm out today!” The little girl exclaimed cheerfully. The high for the day was 41 degrees.
The buildings of Barrow rarely reach above two stories. The permafrost makes it difficult to anchor any deep, sturdy foundation. In front of most houses, there is a snowmobile, ATV, pickup truck, and powerboat, all in various stages of repair. Barrow is a society of hunters and proficient mechanics, many of whom have no formal job.
When we tired of wandering about the city, we took a taxi to the Naval Arctic Research Laboratory (NARL), where we had reserved our accommodations for the next five days. NARL was created in 1948 as part of the war effort. It was home to an advanced missile detection facility. The giant dishes that are communicating with geosynchronous satellites are pointed almost perpendicular to the ground to compensate for the high latitude.
In the 1980s, the Navy abandoned NARL, leaving it in the hands of the city. Today it is still used to conduct cutting-edge scientific research on local plants and animals and to study the effects of global warming. It is also home to the small Ilisagvik College and local businesses.
Within the compound there is a hotel. Signs inside declare that it is strictly for scientists, college affiliates, or workers doing construction at NARL. Apparently this rule is not enforced. I made reservations weeks earlier and they never asked me for my scientist badge of authenticity.
The next day we found a shop within NARL that repairs and rents ATVs and snowmobiles. The shop’s owner, Charlie, agreed to have an ATV repaired and ready for us to rent the following morning. We originally planned on walking to Point Barrow, the northernmost tip of the United States, but during our chance encounter with Charlie, he warned us otherwise.
"There are only two animals in the world that actively hunt humans," Charlie told us, "tigers and polar bears. And we don't got no tigers around here. My ATV died on me once when I was out at Point Barrow. Had to walk most of the five miles back, and while I did, I noticed a polar bear had begun stalking me aways in the distance. Fortunately, I was able to catch a ride along the road before that bear managed to close the distance."
The next day, we rode our ATV out to the tip of Point Barrow, originally named Ukpeagvik in Inupiat. It means "the place where we hunt snowy owls." The peninsula had a giant whale graveyard with twelve-foot-tall carcasses settling into the sand. Pieces of meat clung to the bone. A thin layer of filmy flesh spread out across the surrounding sand. It clung to the bottom of my boots when I stepped off the ATV to walk closer. The stench of rotting decay was overpowering.
We returned to the city center to join the Nalukataq celebration. A giant white fence had been constructed in the shape of a U to protect crowds from the fierce, unrelenting wind. It is against the law and tradition for whaling crews to keep more than their share of the whale that they catch. During the annual Nalukataq celebration thousands of pounds of whale meat are freely distributed to the community. Each day of Nalukataq celebrates the success of different whaling crews. It is the members of the crews who are responsible for wandering around and distributing everything to the community.
We made friends with some locals and borrowed cups and bowls. The feast began with a choice of duck or caribou soup. Afterwards, aqavic—whale meat—was distributed in various forms. We were first given Mikeluk, a bowl of whale muscle, kidney, tongue, heart, and intestine. The tongue is considered a delicacy. The heart felt like chewing on tire. The intestine, I decided I didn’t need to try.
Most of the whale was already cut up in boxes. Some chunks, like fins, were set out on pallets. Men came with giant knives on sticks, and cut massive whale steaks from it. Certain parts of these steaks, near the blubber, yielded the most delicious sashimi I have ever tasted.
Next, we ate Miki-yuk, or raw fermented whale meat and blood—surprisingly the most delicious of all the different types of whale. “If you fall asleep, or your kids get drunk, don’t blame me!” One of the captains declared over the loudspeaker, and everyone laughed.
If we had wanted fifty pounds of whale meat, all we had to do was not refuse it. Despite politely declining over and over, we were given about five pounds of whale which we took back to NARL. The next day, when preparing ramen, I looked at Natasha and reminded her that we did have five pounds of whale meat. “Alright,” she agreed, “I guess we’ll be having whale ramen for lunch.”
At the celebration, one young man mentioned that he had caught a whale by himself this year. I laughed and joked and patted him on the shoulder. Everyone was deadpan.
Turns out he was serious.
He spotted a whale swimming next to the ice, harpooned and fought it one-on-one until it gave up. This man deserves a medal more than any sports team in history—whose combined mass is but a small fraction of this man’s adversary.
We were quick to learn however, that glory does not come without cost. “There have been a few major whaling accidents during my lifetime,” an old man told us. “When I was younger, a crew harpooned a baby whale. Its mother attacked and flipped over the kayak. My brother was on that boat. He drowned.”
In the center of the celebration is the nalukataq, which has been commonly translated as “blanket toss.” This is a poor translation—a misleading understatement. The “blanket” is made from the sealskin of the kayak that successfully caught the whale—a coarse and non-pliable material that in no way resembles a blanket. “Launch” is more accurate than “toss.” Think along the lines of a giant human slingshot aimed at the sky. The force comes from ropes, springy wood planks, and the strength of about twenty-five people that hurl you into the air. The heights reached during the blanket toss are much higher than a typical trampoline. The record out of all the tribes is held by a teenage girl who reached a height of over two stories. It is not uncommon for people to approach this height.
Kids play on the nalukataq during the day, but when evening rolls around they are kicked off promptly. Whaling captains and their crews get the first opportunity at the nalukataq. They get on with bags of candy and as they are hurled into the air, they throw the candy into the crowd. Kids waiting anxiously below scramble to pick it all up.
We knew beforehand that accidents were common, and indeed one girl sprained or broke her ankle within the first twenty minutes. An ambulance was radioed in immediately and the girl was taken to the hospital. As this was going on, the men took the opportunity to go around and tighten all of the knots, and fix the planks to maximize the height of each launch. When the injured girl was gone, the blanket toss continued unabated.
The very next boy, a young teenager, was launched high into the air, soared over the heads of the crowd around him, and landed a good twenty feet away from the trampoline, narrowly missing a small child. He was unharmed and undeterred. He jumped back on immediately.
“What you are seeing here, what your experiencing here,” one local told us, “is what has kept this community strong for over a thousand years.” Indeed the origin of Nalukataq fades back through the centuries of forgotten Inupiat lore.
Watching the kids play with the nalukataq is misleading. There is a form and skill to operating it that is difficult to master. Everyone must work together harmoniously, and it is obvious when this is not achieved. There is also skill to jumping on the blanket. Some people were unable to maintain the rhythmic jumping while experienced old ladies were able to jump around until the crowd’s arms grew too exhausted to keep throwing them.
I was nervous to jump on the nalukataq. Not because I thought that it would be difficult, or because I was afraid I would get hurt, but because I did not know how to cut in amidst all of the locals and vie for a turn. Natasha mustered the courage first. With the help of one of the locals who she had befriended, she climbed up onto the blanket and gave it a try. The crowd jeered and joked every time a foreigner got up. My turn came about ten minutes later.
I steadied myself. When everyone shouted and heaved, I jumped. Looking down from the top of the world, I could see over the surrounding fence. Barrow stood grey against a grey sky. The sun moved in small lazy circles overhead. I still could not spot the end of the sea ice and the beginning of the sea. The cold wind slapped my face and I careened back to earth.
In one swift motion, the crowd caught me in the blanket, lowered it again, and then whipped me back up into the sky. I managed to keep my balance and time my jumps for over a minute before falling. I climbed off of the nalukataq to the sight of smiles and thumbs up.
“Not bad for a first try,” said Herman, the man Natasha had befriended.
After the celebration he invited us back to his home. He was a whaling captain, proud to show off his skills and his culture. When we walked into his house, his wife and daughter were busy sewing wolf and wolverine coats.
Herman showed us his harpoons, his brass gun, and told us all about the history of whaling. Europeans first arrived in the area in 1826, and by the 1850s Barrow had become a critical stop for commercial whaling vessels. The Europeans brought with them new ships and new ways to hunt. Traditionally, the Inupiat used stone-tipped spears. Europeans brought brass guns loaded with small grenades that pierced the whale's thick hide and then exploded.
By 1914, over-hunting brought the bowhead whale to the edge of extinction and the commercial whaling industry to an end. Treaties were later signed to protect the bowhead whale and the rights of the Native Americans to hunt them. Under these treaties, the number of whales that could be caught were strictly limited and the methods of catching them strictly defined. The Inupiat could no longer use their traditional spears, but were instead forced to use the brass grenade guns introduced by the Europeans. It was argued that this was a more humane way of killing the whale since it died faster. Even today, the Inupiat are forced to use this technology dating back to the 1800s. There is only one company, located in Boston, that still produces the brass guns and old-fashioned grenades. However, after decades of diligently following the quotas imposed by the treaties, the population of bowhead whales has regrown, reaching approximately 90% of its original size.
"You know we still catch whales that have old spear points in their blubber," Herman told us. "They are literally harboring artifacts from the 1800’s." Bowhead whales are believed to be one of the longest-living animals on earth, at 150 to 190 years.
Herman showed us a few home videos that he had made of his crew hunting and killing the whales. He even showed us a National Geographic documentary on whale hunting that he starred in.
While he drove us back to NARL Herman told us about the time Barrow was overrun with polar bears like the plot of a sci-fi flick.
"One year the ice along the shores thawed too quickly. The polar bears, who normally ride the ice as it disperses, were trapped here on the peninsula. Hundreds of polar bears, and not nearly enough food for them all. We had to set up a bear patrol to keep an eye on the edge of town, and scare them off when they came. One day a polar bear got by, and came upon a young couple. The woman was pregnant. Her husband told her to run while he sacrificed himself to distract the bear."
When we stepped out of his car near the entrance to NARL, Herman pointed out a large inedible pile of discarded whale matter that the crews had left out on the ice. A polar bear had been spotted snooping around it the day before, but we had not been around at the time.
The next morning I woke up early to check the site, determined to spot a polar bear. While I strolled across NARL, I noticed a building that had not previously been open. A sign indicated that it was owned by the NARL base. Inside was a garage filled with ATVs. There was one guy on duty, cleaning the shop.
“Are these ATV’s for the scientists here at NARL?” I asked him.
“Yes,” he replied. “Would you like to take one out?”
“Do we have to rent them?”
“You just sign them out.”
I left to retrieve Natasha, and came back a half hour later. The guy got out a clipboard and began filling out some paperwork.
“So what project are you working on?” he asked.
“Were searching for polar bears,” I said without hesitating. He regarded me for a long moment, shrugged, then continued filling out the forms.
We took the ATV back out to Point Barrow, where we were indeed searching for polar bears, just without the pretense of advancing scientific understanding. We still had no luck with polar bears. However, after days of stopping anxiously to train our binoculars on black specs only to find that they were plastic bags, we were excited to find that three black dots turned out to be seals.
A few miles farther south, the effects of summer were becoming evident. After a week in Barrow we only needed four layers to stay warm. As we walked along the beach where we had encountered the little girls on our first night in town, Natasha pointed out to sea.
“What is it?” I asked, searching the distance.
“It's gone,” she replied.
Overnight, warming weather and tidal forces had ripped the mile long stretch of ice from the shore and ferried it out of sight into the distant ocean.
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