Here is an essay I wrote a few years ago that will be published in the sequel to Authentic Alaska: Voices of its Native Writers, by John Creed and Susan Andrews. I edited the names of the living for privacy.
Youthful Experiences Launch a Lifetime of Learning
By [edited]
My Inupiat name is Siliamee. I was born at Kotzebue—a small coastal settlement located 26 miles above the Arctic Circle in Northwest Alaska—on July 6, 1963, the eldest of five siblings. Kotzebue serves as the primary staging area for hunters and seasonal campers from Kotzebue and the seven villages located along the nearby Kobuk and Noatak rivers.
My father, [edited], came to Kotzebue as a young man after serving as a sonar man on a Navy submarine, the U.S.S. Tunny. Though born at Seattle, as a boy my father had lived in Anchorage, where he attended elementary school. My mother, [edited], was born on the banks of the Noatak River just a few miles north of Kotzebue. Mom also attended Mount Edgecumbe, a boarding high school in Sitka, Alaska, before returning home to Kotzebue, where my parents met in the early 1960s.
Until I turned six or so, my family lived with my maternal grandfather in his small home on Shore Avenue, which is its official name although it's called "Front Street" locally. As one might expect, Front Street follows the beach along the shore of Kotzebue Sound. When I was growing up, my extended family didn't enjoy many modern amenities such as running water and sewer in those days, but my grandfather's home nevertheless enjoyed a rich Eskimo cultural tradition.
A carpenter by trade, Ataata (Inupiaq for grandfather) Leslie built his own house, a modest place measuring 18 by 25 feet, in 1958, including one main room in the front with windows looking out on the beach and across Kotzebue Sound. Those front windows were a convenient way for monitoring the sea or ice conditions, since Leslie and the other adults frequently watched for people arriving or leaving across the shore. My grandfather also had built two small bedrooms at the back of the house. He later built a small woodshop onto the back of it, increasing the length of the house to 36 feet.
As his primary source of income, 'Tata Leslie built sleds in winter; in spring he switched to boat building. His products were sought after for their high standards of craftsmanship and quality. His sleds and boats seemed to exude sleekness and speed to my little boy eyes and smelled of wood, linseed oil, and fiberglass resin.
I remember many fall and winter days watching my grandfather in his shop, steaming strips of hardwood in a homemade steamer made of a five-gallon steel gas can, the sweet smell of hot, moist oak or hickory wafting through the shop. After a few hours, the strips would grow soft. Then, he would deftly bend and clamp them around frames to dry and harden for use in the various parts of basket sleds. Most of the sleds that he built were for use with snow machines and thus were more heavily constructed than the ones designed for use with dogs.
That little area of the beach in front of Ataata Leslie's house was the point of seemingly constant departures and returns of relatives going back and forth to camps and villages scattered across the region. More often than not, bird, seal, or caribou carcasses, representing so much of our traditional staples, graced their boats when they lighted onto shore. The carcasses smelled of blood and fat but we all knew how delicious they would taste when cooked.
Amid this childhood backdrop, my parents and maternal relatives taught me, from my earliest childhood, how to hunt, and how to respect nature, including its animals, its plants, its land, its water, and most especially, the arctic weather.
As one of my earliest recollections, I remember plodding through the tundra behind Cape Krusenstern, also known locally as Sealing Point, located twenty-five miles northwest of Kotzebue, with my parents. Sealing Point is a traditional camping and spring hunting ground of my Inupiat ancestry. On that outing, I recall a high, lucent sun seeming to smile its warmth to us. A cool, gentle breeze floating in from the Chukchi Sea was constraining the mosquitoes near the tussocks that cover the earth and away from our exposed hands and faces. The cries of hundreds of birds going about their feathery errands reached us only quietly from afar. My father was carrying a shotgun; I was toting a new BB gun that Dad had given me for my recent third birthday.
"Look over there," my dad said, pointing.
In the distance, we spotted a flock of snow geese milling and waddling about in a small lake. The snow goose, a large, white, migratory bird, nests in great multitudes at Sealing Point. They were bigger than both my BB gun and me, but I decided I was going to hunt one anyway, not knowing that my gun couldn't possibly kill a goose. I immediately stopped and cocked my gun in preparation for the kill.
"Why did you cock your gun?" my dad asked.
"To shoot the ducks," I said. After all, I was a hunter now, with my shiny new gun.
"We're not close enough to them yet. You can't carry your gun ready to shoot, because you might shoot someone," Dad explained.
He solemnly took my gun from me and discharged it into the tundra with a muffled "pop," then handed it back to me. Luckily for the geese, they detected our approach long before we were within range for a shot, and flapped away as we neared. I thought that at least one of them would have felt the deadly sting of my weapon, but so went my earliest lesson in hunting, not only about safety, but also about how sensitive birds are to approaching predators, humans included.
My father taught his children much about survival on both the tundra and the sea, but the Inupiat also hold to an enduring tradition that as part of his duty to a sister, an uncle teaches his nephews to hunt. My Uncle Frank Williams, a tall, intelligent, handsome man, did not exactly teach me the oldest, most traditional, hunting and other survival practices. For in this the age of the firearm, the Eskimo theory and practice of hunting with rifles was already a few generations old when I was a small child. Uncle Frank loved to hunt all types of game as well as teach young Inupiat boys to be successful hunters.
"You should try to shoot seals that are on the ice in the neck if you can," explained Frank as we approached our traditional hunting area. "That way they won't go down their breathing hole."
I was 15 years old when he told me that. We were on a seal-hunting trip, negotiating his boat through the pack ice a few miles out from Sealing Point. It was springtime in early June. The days were stretching longer and longer toward the midnight sun of summer and melting away the last snows of winter. I had my first high-powered rifle, a 7mm magnum. I figured this rifle would dispatch seals of any size so suddenly that they wouldn't ever move after being hit with a bullet from it. In fact I thought it ridiculous to restrict myself to only one spot on a seal to shoot for. It was my opinion that the adult hunters used rifles that were under-powered. I was about to learn—painfully—that the raw power of a rifle could be irrelevant.
As we tooled around in the pack ice, we eventually spied a huge oogruk, or bearded seal, sleeping on a little iceberg about 150 yards from the edge of the ice. As we approached the iceberg as slowly and as quietly as our outboard motor would allow, everyone with a rifle, including my three brothers, Uncle Frank, and another uncle or two, crowded onto the bow of the boat and took aim. There must have been six or seven of us. "Wait 'til it puts its head up," Frank whispered.
In my youth, I ignored him. I decided to shoot the animal through the shoulders. When I had the shot placement I wanted, I fired. Blooie! One of my brothers fired a second after me, though more from surprise than intent. I believe my bullet struck where I aimed it, but not where my uncle and instructor said it should go.
The oogruk promptly arched forward and slid down its escape hole, probably already dead, but now sinking irretrievably to the floor of the sea. The silence that followed seemed to fill the whole world.
Everyone but Frank tried not to look at me. I held my rifle limply, looking at the bottom of the boat. No one present doubted that the seal had died instantly. Still, the humiliation did not lessen as I made my way to the back of the boat. I stayed there for the rest of the trip.
I couldn't believe what had just happened. I'd let my pride and ego cloud my judgment, sending a precious animal to the bottom of the sea. It would be many years before I would have a chance to redeem myself.
"Don't shoot an oogruk in the head unless it's in the water, and unless you can get to it and spear it before it sinks," Uncle Frank told me during another hunt.
The reason, I have since learned, is simple. Arctic seals have evolved a nervous system response over tens of thousands of years that causes its body to arch downward into its escape hole when there is even the slightest hint of danger, such as an approaching polar bear or hunter. Consequently, any shot that does not disable the spinal chord will allow a seal to escape. Even a shot to the head of a seal, which is instantly fatal, will not stop its spinal chord from firing the messages that instruct its body to arch into the water.
Ever since those early learning experiences, I've believed that only a shot to the neck would dependably incapacitate a seal with immediacy. However, after a successful seal hunt one spring, by now in my mid-30s, I discussed the best place to shoot seals with Bob [edited], a long-time seasonal resident and hunter at Sisualik, a subsistence camp about ten or so miles across the sound from Kotzebue.
"The old-time hunters maintained that any shot to the spine, even at the place where it connects to the pelvis, would have the desired effect," Bob explained.
So my education in hunting continues. No one person could possibly learn everything there is to know about hunting in the arctic, but I have learned not to let my ego cause the unnecessary loss of animals. As I've matured and learned more about the way seals were hunted before the advent of the rifle in this area, I've come to respect the knowledge and experience of my Inupiat instructors. I've also realized how precious the lives of animals are.
I still use a 7mm rifle, but I'm no longer cavalier about shooting animals.
Youthful Experiences Launch a Lifetime of Learning
By [edited]
My Inupiat name is Siliamee. I was born at Kotzebue—a small coastal settlement located 26 miles above the Arctic Circle in Northwest Alaska—on July 6, 1963, the eldest of five siblings. Kotzebue serves as the primary staging area for hunters and seasonal campers from Kotzebue and the seven villages located along the nearby Kobuk and Noatak rivers.
My father, [edited], came to Kotzebue as a young man after serving as a sonar man on a Navy submarine, the U.S.S. Tunny. Though born at Seattle, as a boy my father had lived in Anchorage, where he attended elementary school. My mother, [edited], was born on the banks of the Noatak River just a few miles north of Kotzebue. Mom also attended Mount Edgecumbe, a boarding high school in Sitka, Alaska, before returning home to Kotzebue, where my parents met in the early 1960s.
Until I turned six or so, my family lived with my maternal grandfather in his small home on Shore Avenue, which is its official name although it's called "Front Street" locally. As one might expect, Front Street follows the beach along the shore of Kotzebue Sound. When I was growing up, my extended family didn't enjoy many modern amenities such as running water and sewer in those days, but my grandfather's home nevertheless enjoyed a rich Eskimo cultural tradition.
A carpenter by trade, Ataata (Inupiaq for grandfather) Leslie built his own house, a modest place measuring 18 by 25 feet, in 1958, including one main room in the front with windows looking out on the beach and across Kotzebue Sound. Those front windows were a convenient way for monitoring the sea or ice conditions, since Leslie and the other adults frequently watched for people arriving or leaving across the shore. My grandfather also had built two small bedrooms at the back of the house. He later built a small woodshop onto the back of it, increasing the length of the house to 36 feet.
As his primary source of income, 'Tata Leslie built sleds in winter; in spring he switched to boat building. His products were sought after for their high standards of craftsmanship and quality. His sleds and boats seemed to exude sleekness and speed to my little boy eyes and smelled of wood, linseed oil, and fiberglass resin.
I remember many fall and winter days watching my grandfather in his shop, steaming strips of hardwood in a homemade steamer made of a five-gallon steel gas can, the sweet smell of hot, moist oak or hickory wafting through the shop. After a few hours, the strips would grow soft. Then, he would deftly bend and clamp them around frames to dry and harden for use in the various parts of basket sleds. Most of the sleds that he built were for use with snow machines and thus were more heavily constructed than the ones designed for use with dogs.
That little area of the beach in front of Ataata Leslie's house was the point of seemingly constant departures and returns of relatives going back and forth to camps and villages scattered across the region. More often than not, bird, seal, or caribou carcasses, representing so much of our traditional staples, graced their boats when they lighted onto shore. The carcasses smelled of blood and fat but we all knew how delicious they would taste when cooked.
Amid this childhood backdrop, my parents and maternal relatives taught me, from my earliest childhood, how to hunt, and how to respect nature, including its animals, its plants, its land, its water, and most especially, the arctic weather.
As one of my earliest recollections, I remember plodding through the tundra behind Cape Krusenstern, also known locally as Sealing Point, located twenty-five miles northwest of Kotzebue, with my parents. Sealing Point is a traditional camping and spring hunting ground of my Inupiat ancestry. On that outing, I recall a high, lucent sun seeming to smile its warmth to us. A cool, gentle breeze floating in from the Chukchi Sea was constraining the mosquitoes near the tussocks that cover the earth and away from our exposed hands and faces. The cries of hundreds of birds going about their feathery errands reached us only quietly from afar. My father was carrying a shotgun; I was toting a new BB gun that Dad had given me for my recent third birthday.
"Look over there," my dad said, pointing.
In the distance, we spotted a flock of snow geese milling and waddling about in a small lake. The snow goose, a large, white, migratory bird, nests in great multitudes at Sealing Point. They were bigger than both my BB gun and me, but I decided I was going to hunt one anyway, not knowing that my gun couldn't possibly kill a goose. I immediately stopped and cocked my gun in preparation for the kill.
"Why did you cock your gun?" my dad asked.
"To shoot the ducks," I said. After all, I was a hunter now, with my shiny new gun.
"We're not close enough to them yet. You can't carry your gun ready to shoot, because you might shoot someone," Dad explained.
He solemnly took my gun from me and discharged it into the tundra with a muffled "pop," then handed it back to me. Luckily for the geese, they detected our approach long before we were within range for a shot, and flapped away as we neared. I thought that at least one of them would have felt the deadly sting of my weapon, but so went my earliest lesson in hunting, not only about safety, but also about how sensitive birds are to approaching predators, humans included.
My father taught his children much about survival on both the tundra and the sea, but the Inupiat also hold to an enduring tradition that as part of his duty to a sister, an uncle teaches his nephews to hunt. My Uncle Frank Williams, a tall, intelligent, handsome man, did not exactly teach me the oldest, most traditional, hunting and other survival practices. For in this the age of the firearm, the Eskimo theory and practice of hunting with rifles was already a few generations old when I was a small child. Uncle Frank loved to hunt all types of game as well as teach young Inupiat boys to be successful hunters.
"You should try to shoot seals that are on the ice in the neck if you can," explained Frank as we approached our traditional hunting area. "That way they won't go down their breathing hole."
I was 15 years old when he told me that. We were on a seal-hunting trip, negotiating his boat through the pack ice a few miles out from Sealing Point. It was springtime in early June. The days were stretching longer and longer toward the midnight sun of summer and melting away the last snows of winter. I had my first high-powered rifle, a 7mm magnum. I figured this rifle would dispatch seals of any size so suddenly that they wouldn't ever move after being hit with a bullet from it. In fact I thought it ridiculous to restrict myself to only one spot on a seal to shoot for. It was my opinion that the adult hunters used rifles that were under-powered. I was about to learn—painfully—that the raw power of a rifle could be irrelevant.
As we tooled around in the pack ice, we eventually spied a huge oogruk, or bearded seal, sleeping on a little iceberg about 150 yards from the edge of the ice. As we approached the iceberg as slowly and as quietly as our outboard motor would allow, everyone with a rifle, including my three brothers, Uncle Frank, and another uncle or two, crowded onto the bow of the boat and took aim. There must have been six or seven of us. "Wait 'til it puts its head up," Frank whispered.
In my youth, I ignored him. I decided to shoot the animal through the shoulders. When I had the shot placement I wanted, I fired. Blooie! One of my brothers fired a second after me, though more from surprise than intent. I believe my bullet struck where I aimed it, but not where my uncle and instructor said it should go.
The oogruk promptly arched forward and slid down its escape hole, probably already dead, but now sinking irretrievably to the floor of the sea. The silence that followed seemed to fill the whole world.
Everyone but Frank tried not to look at me. I held my rifle limply, looking at the bottom of the boat. No one present doubted that the seal had died instantly. Still, the humiliation did not lessen as I made my way to the back of the boat. I stayed there for the rest of the trip.
I couldn't believe what had just happened. I'd let my pride and ego cloud my judgment, sending a precious animal to the bottom of the sea. It would be many years before I would have a chance to redeem myself.
"Don't shoot an oogruk in the head unless it's in the water, and unless you can get to it and spear it before it sinks," Uncle Frank told me during another hunt.
The reason, I have since learned, is simple. Arctic seals have evolved a nervous system response over tens of thousands of years that causes its body to arch downward into its escape hole when there is even the slightest hint of danger, such as an approaching polar bear or hunter. Consequently, any shot that does not disable the spinal chord will allow a seal to escape. Even a shot to the head of a seal, which is instantly fatal, will not stop its spinal chord from firing the messages that instruct its body to arch into the water.
Ever since those early learning experiences, I've believed that only a shot to the neck would dependably incapacitate a seal with immediacy. However, after a successful seal hunt one spring, by now in my mid-30s, I discussed the best place to shoot seals with Bob [edited], a long-time seasonal resident and hunter at Sisualik, a subsistence camp about ten or so miles across the sound from Kotzebue.
"The old-time hunters maintained that any shot to the spine, even at the place where it connects to the pelvis, would have the desired effect," Bob explained.
So my education in hunting continues. No one person could possibly learn everything there is to know about hunting in the arctic, but I have learned not to let my ego cause the unnecessary loss of animals. As I've matured and learned more about the way seals were hunted before the advent of the rifle in this area, I've come to respect the knowledge and experience of my Inupiat instructors. I've also realized how precious the lives of animals are.
I still use a 7mm rifle, but I'm no longer cavalier about shooting animals.