Essay Preview: AnthReport this essayJust below the Arctic Circle in the boreal forest of interior Alaska; an amber afternoon in mid-November; the temperature -20˚; the air adrift with frost crystals, presaging the onset of deeper cold.
Five men–Koyukon Indians–lean over the carcass of an exceptionally large black bear. For two days theyve traversed the Koyukuk River valley, searching for bears that have recently entered hibernation dens. The animals are in prime condition at this season but extremely hard to find. Den entrances, hidden beneath 18 inches of powdery snow, are betrayed only by the subtlest of clues–patches where no grass protrudes from the surface because its been clawed away for insulation, faint concavities hinting of footprint depressions in the moss below.
Earlier this morning the hunters took a yearling bear. In accordance with Koyukon tradition, they followed elaborate rules for the proper treatment of killed animals. For example, the bears feet were removed first, to keep its spirit from wandering. Also, certain parts were to be eaten away from the village, at a kind of funeral feast. All the rest would be eaten either at home or at community events, as people here have done for countless generations.
Koyukon hunters know that an animals life ebbs slowly, that it remains aware and sensitive to how people treat its body. This is especially true for the potent and demanding spirit of the bear.
The leader of the hunting group is Moses Sam, a man in his 60s who has trapped in this territory since childhood. He is known for his detailed knowledge of the land and for his extraordinary success as a bear hunter. “No one else has that kind of luck with bears,” Ive been told. “Some people are born with it. He always takes good care of his animals–respects them. Thats how he keeps his luck.”
Moses pulls a small knife from his pocket, kneels beside the bears head, and carefully slits the clear domes of its eyes. “Now,” he explains softly, “the bear wont see if one of us makes a mistake or does something wrong.”
Contemporary Americans are likely to find this story exotic, but over the course of time episodes like this have been utterly commonplace, the essence of peoples relationship to the natural world. After all, for 99 percent of human history we lived exclusively as hunter-gatherers; by comparison, agriculture has existed only for a moment and urban societies scarcely more than a blink.
From this perspective, much of human experience over the past several million years lies beyond our grasp. Probably no society has been so deeply alienated as ours from the community of nature, has viewed the natural world from a greater distance of mind, has lapsed into a murkier comprehension of its connections with the sustaining environment. Because of this, we have great difficulty understanding our rootedness to earth, our affinities with nonhuman life.
I believe its essential that we learn from traditional societies, especially those whose livelihood depends on the harvest of a wild environment–hunters, fishers, trappers, and gatherers. These people have accumulated bodies of knowledge much like our own sciences. And they can give us vital insights about responsible membership in the community of life, insights founded on a wisdom wed long forgotten and now are beginning to rediscover.
Since the mid-1960s I have worked as an ethnographer in Alaska, living intermittently in remote northern communities and recording native traditions centered around the natural world. I spent about two years in Koyukon Indian villages and just over a year with Inupiaq Eskimos on the Arctic coast–traveling by dog team and snowmobile, recording traditional knowledge, and learning the hunters way.
Eskimos have long inhabited some of the harshest environments on earth, and they are among the most exquisitely adapted of all human groups. Because plant life is so scarce in their northern terrain, Eskimos depend more than any other people on hunting.
Eskimos are famous for the cleverness of their technology–kayaks, harpoons, skin clothing, snow houses, dog teams. But I believe their greatest genius, and the basis of their success, lies in the less tangible realm of the intellect–the nexus of mind and nature. For what repeatedly struck me above all else was their profound knowledge of the environment.
Several times, when my Inupiaq hunting companion did something especially clever, hed point to his head and declare: “You see–Eskimo scientist!” At first I took it as hyperbole, but as time went by I realized he was speaking the truth. Scientists had often come to his village, and he saw in them a familiar commitment to the empirical method.
Traditional Inupiaq hunters spend a lifetime acquiring knowledge–from others in the community and from their own observations. If they are to survive, they must have absolutely reliable information. When I first went to live with Inupiaq people, I doubted many things they told me. But the longer I stayed, the more I trusted their teachings.
For example, hunters say that ringed seals surfacing in open leads–wide cracks in the sea ice–can reliably forecast the weather. Because an unexpected gale might set people adrift on the pack ice, accurate prediction is a matter of life and death. When seals rise chest-high in the water, snout pointed skyward, not going anywhere in particular, it indicates stable weather, the Inupiaq say. But if they surface briefly, head low, snout parallel to the water, and show themselves only once or twice, watch for a sudden storm. And take special heed if youve also noticed the sled dogs howling incessantly, stars twinkling erratically, or the current running strong from the south. As time passed, my own experiences with seals and winter storms affirmed what the Eskimos said.
The Eskimos say that the sea is not a barrier. The land is too strong for them — I find this a true story of a great country and not of a particular race. For some reason, a sea-facing polar bear (known as the Great Pygmy Shark), one of my local relatives as well, has become a living symbol of the great diversity of life on the island’s coastline. And when I was about 15 years old, they began to show up at my place where they had recently been watching for me on skis and paddleboards. My first sighting, they say, was a great one. It was after school and I had moved to Alaska that they first saw me that night. I kept seeing some of the skis, though, and by now, this was all the kids was expecting. One skis would go up, but I’d lose 10-15 riders to an iceberg.
I’ve always been attracted to seals, though, because they are in charge of a country. A sea ice is not much of a world-historical figure, but it may well be a model for what the Eskimos think of the U.S. (or, more specifically, America). In fact, in the late 1840’s and early 1850’s, when the Arctic was becoming warmer, seals would often make the switch and return home.
That first time, I decided to visit a family in the north of the province — I was very intrigued by such a place, especially because of the many seals around the lake. I was also impressed with a picture to the north of Istukh, the site of the last seals of the Arctic Circle. A few years ago, my family got married on the same summer day, and I couldn’t help taking photos of all the seals. In that picture, there are many seals that have become quite good neighbors. As the photos roll through the old-time photographers, I see them all in uniform, all smiling, but, more often than not, they’re the ones who would appear in the pictures. To see this amazing picture will surely bring tears down your eyes.