Alaska magazine October 2017 Issue

GEAR: TREKKING POLES NICK JANS: FISHING THE WULIK RIVER The Magazine of Life on the Last Frontier

NATIVE LIFE TODAY Photo Essay:

OZZIE SWEET’S INUPIAT IMAGES

Native Culture Issue

Bristol Bay Salmon Harvest Interview: Nick Hanson, Eskimo Ninja Tlingit Totem Raising

Unalaska Port of Dutch Harbor

Heart of the Aleutians

Adventure & Discovery • Birder’s Paradise • Hiking & Exploring Phenomenal Wildlife • Bountiful Fishing

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10.17 V OLUME 83, NUMBER 8

FEATURES

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Making Memories

A photographic essay

By Ozzie Sweet

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Subsistence Tradition

Alaska Natives pursue nature’s bounty in Bristol Bay watershed

By Steve Quinn

This replica of the Raven/ Shark Pole in the Sitka National Historical Park was carved by Tommie Jimmie, Sr. The original was part of the Alaska Exhibit at the 1964 New York World’s Fair.

Photo by: EMILY MOUNT

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DEPARTMENTS

QUOTED

“Everything there had to be flown in or brought upriver...”

The Cache

20 Inupiat Masks 22 Fire Island Wind Farm

–WHAT THEY DID FOR FUN, KERI RILEY P. 32

24 Elizabeth Peratrovich on a $1 Coin 24 Indigenous Peoples Day 25 Salmon Sisters

Escape 32 Sense of Place What They Did for Fun

34 Rambles Border Tales

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MOUNTAIN VILLAGE

Adventure 38 Try This

40

HOONAH

Native-run Tourism

42 Out There

Kodiak Petroglyphs

44 Sportsman

Dress Alaska

46 Gear

PLUS: 6 My View North 10 Letters 12 Alaska Exposed 16 On the Edge 48 Natural Alaska 50 History 52 Community 79 Alaska Interview 80 Where in Alaska

On the Cover: Shondiin Mayo, a Koyukon Athabascan Indian, showcases a traditional parka at Riverboat Discovery’s Chena Indian Village Walking Tour in Fairbanks. -Photo by Jessica Peterson / globalgirltravels.com.

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TOP: KERI RILEY; BOTTOM: IMAGE COURTESY ICY STRAIT POINT

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Susan Sommer was on the June 1975 cover of Alaska magazine with her dad, Red Beeman, and brother, Eric, posing with king salmon at the family’s commercial setnet site in Cook Inlet.

Her mom, Marydith (“Bunny”) took the photo.

From This Issue Forward

B

ACK IN JULY, WHEN WE WERE APPROACHING

the deadline for this issue of Alaska magazine and as I took the reins from Russ Lumpkin, and as we shaped our team with new faces, and as contributor and reader emails flooded my inbox, I decided to ditch my desk for a long weekend of backpacking.

I didn’t travel far, just a couple of hours from home Friday afternoon and a short, easy hike up to a mountain pass with friends. We day hiked on Saturday down to a valley where we filtered water and refilled containers, then wandered back up to the ridgeline on ancient caribou trails that crisscrossed the tundra.

From the highest point, we could see four mountain ranges—the Chugach to the south, the Wrangells to the east, the Alaska Range to the north, and the Talkeetnas on which we stood. Years ago, in a college geology class, I learned how the earth changes constantly—in both minute and catastrophic ways—to find equilibrium. I’d struck out for adventure despite the clamor of work, trusting nature’s renewal to propel me to the finish line on time, under budget, and with another fine conglomerate of stories, tidbits, and images for readers to ponder.

After a satisfying day of exploring, which even included witnessing a wedding party arrive at the pass driving ATVs and SUVs up the old mining road, and hearing snippets of the ceremony from a distant ridge, we dove into our tents just as the fog moved in and the rain came down, each huddling inside our little individual cocoons. Between naps, I listened to the rain. Just listened.

The earth seeks a balance, and so should we. As editor of Alaska magazine, I’ll keep this in mind as we plan each issue and try our best to bring you interesting stories of the Great Land. I encourage every Alaska fan

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to get out and see something new—literally and metaphorically—as often as possible. Carry that frontier spirit with you wherever you go. See what’s over the next hill. Then return home and share your findings.

In this issue, you’ll meet Yup’ik old-timers at their Bristol Bay subsistence fish camp, revisit through a photographer’s eyes a simpler time for Inupiat Alaskans, and participate vicariously in a Tlingit totem raising. We celebrate Alaska’s Native people and culture in this issue as well as offer a collection of adventure tales and thoughtful conundrums.

We’ve done a little fancy footwork with a revised editorial team, too. Please welcome Michelle Theall as senior editor and Alexander Deedy as assistant editor.

You’ll know Michelle from her days as the editor before Russ and as a contributing editor. Alexander, an Alaskan with a background in science and journalism, jumped right in and has helped create our new section called “The Cache” to replace “KtoB” (more formally known as “Ketchikan to Barrow”—when Barrow changed its name to Utqiagvik, we decided that KtoU just didn’t have the same ring). They, along with the rest of the team, including our new group publisher John Lunn, the ever-brilliant account executive Melissa Bradley, and numerous others have helped make this transition as smooth as possible.

As a lifelong resident who’s seen this magazine change many times over the years, I vow to try to fill its pages with stories of adventure, informative articles, and striking photos that do justice to the truly incredible last frontier that is Alaska.

Susan Sommer editor@alaskamagazine.com

COURTESY SUSAN SOMMER

My Editorial Vows

You awake to the first real snowfall. What do you do that day?

This month at

alaskamagazine.com Log on and explore life on the Last Frontier.

The Magazine of Life on the Last Frontier

Hello Mr. Snowman, if it’s good packing snow of course…

GROUP PUBLISHER

Bundle the kids up and PLAY!

Wax my skis.

Susan Sommer

SENIOR EDITOR

Michelle Theall

ACCOUNT EXECUTIVE

Melissa Bradley

ART DIRECTOR

GEAR EDITOR CONTRIBUTING EDITOR DIGITAL CONTENT MANAGER DIRECTOR OF PRODUCTION PRODUCTION COORDINATOR PRODUCT MANAGER DIRECTOR OF MANUFACTURING

Give us your best shot!

Edo Pellach’s photo of a brown bear sow and cub reveling in a meal of fresh salmon in the Katmai area was one of the most popular photos last month on Alaska magazine’s Facebook page. Visit facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine to see more amazing imagery from the Last Frontier and post photos of your own.

➜ FACEBOOK POLL: Every issue, we run the results of a poll or survey taken from our facebook page. Check in to participate at facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine.

Same thing I do every day—enjoy Alaska’s many moods.

EDITOR

ASSISTANT EDITOR

Go split the wood I’ve been putting off splitting all summer.

John Lunn

Watch the dogs play in it!

Panic. Then, stock up on milk and bread (and beer).

Ron Vaz

Naturally, go hunting for Bigfoot.

He gets randy with the first snowfall and is less cautious while searching for something to love.

Alexander Deedy Bjorn Dihle Nick Jans Seth Fields Kris Miller

Head outside to get tarps over the woodpile and equipment.

Then go build a pot of coffee.

David L. Ranta Mickey Kibler Donald Horton

Ugh…snow plow the driveway and road for an hour, and then snow blow the walkways and deck.

ALASKA ADVERTISING SALES

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CIRCULATION

ProCirc: 3191 Coral Way, Suite 510, Miami, FL Kolin Rankin, Consumer Marketing Director, ProCirc Mike Bernardin, Circulation Coordinator, ProCirc Retailers: To carry Alaska, call (646) 307-7768

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W W W. A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E .CO M

A publication of Morris Communications Company, LLC 735 Broad St., Augusta, GA 30901 PRESIDENT VICE PRESIDENT DIRECTOR OF CIRCULATION

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Morris Communications Company, LLC CHAIRMAN William S. Morris III PRESIDENT AND CEO William S. Morris IV

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Alaska, ISSN 0002-4562, is published monthly except for combined July/August and December/January issues by MCC Magazines, LLC, a division of Morris Communications Company, LLC. Editorial and Advertising Offices: 301 Arctic Slope Ave., Suite 300, Anchorage, Alaska 99518. Not responsible for the return of unsolicited submissions. Known office of publication: 735 Broad St., Augusta, Ga. 30901. U.S. subscription rates: $24 for one year; $46 for two years. Canada and Mexico add $20 per year (U.S. Funds only). Outside North America add $40 per year (U.S. Funds only). Our trademarks registered in the U.S. Patent Office and in Canada: “Alaska,” “Alaska Sportsman,” “Life on the Last Frontier,” “From Ketchikan to Barrow,” “End of the Trail,” “The Guide Post,” “Main Trails & Bypaths,” “Alaska-Yukon Magazine.” Periodicals postage paid at Augusta, Ga., and additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Alaska, PO Box 433237, Palm Coast, FL 32143-9616. In Canada, periodicals postage paid at Winnipeg, Manitoba; second-class registration number 9771, GST No. 125701896. Canadian Publications Mail Sales Product Agreement No. 279730. © 2017 Alaska magazine. All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A. Volume 83, Number 8.

Contributors >

STEVE QUINN is a Juneau-based, award-

winning, freelance writer whose work has taken him from Metlakatla to Barrow/ Utqiagvik, from Kodiak to Fairbanks, and, most recently to Bristol Bay. This is his third feature for Alaska magazine.

KERI ANN RILEY is a writer/photographer

living off-grid in Alaska and raising the last of eight kids. Whew. Rarely without a camera in hand, Keri is an adoptive mom, fan of simplicity, and a big believer in third chances.

For more of her work, see keriannriley.com.

M.T. SCHWARTZMAN hails from New Jersey. He took his first trip to Alaska in 1988 as a young trade journalist, and it’s been his beat ever since. A writer, editor, and photographer, his travels have taken him from Ketchikan to Kotzebue in search of a story.

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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Galloping, Glaciers

Mindboggling Metabolism

The article “Daring and Danger on Denali” in the June issue brought back interesting memories. In the late 1960s I was the chief of surgery at Basset Army Hospital on Ft. Wainwright in Fairbanks. We were involved in cold-weather injury research, collaborating with Dr. Jack Petajan at the University of Alaska and Dr. William Davis in Anchorage.

We received as patients Ray Genet, Art Davidson, and Dave Johnston as frostbite patients after their successful initial winter summit of Mt. McKinley (Denali), where they were exposed to 100 mph winds and minus 100 degrees Fahrenheit temperatures.

Ray Genet suffered frostbite to his hands and fingers and the others had frostbite to their feet and toes. Genet was treated as an ambulatory outpatient, and the other two were treated at bed rest as inpatients. All responded to treatment and kept all of their extremities to hike again.

Davidson and Johnston, lying at bed rest, were losing weight while consuming 25,000 calories a day. I have never seen such a high degree of metabolism exhibited. Dogs running the Iditarod are given 10,000 calories a day. Adequate nutrition is extremely important for survival with extreme cold, especially exacerbated by elevation.

I appreciate your beautiful Alaska magazine.

NOEL NELLIS, MD South Ogden, Utah

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We flew into Anchorage to visit Chuck and June Meacham. They insisted that we take their pickup and small trailer to the Kenai Peninsula…

After exploring the area, we were hooked! We came to Alaska every other summer for seven years. I was mesmerized by glaciers. While at Juneau in 1987 we used the campground below the Mendenhall Glacier. One evening, I snapped a picture of a young girl galloping her horse over the sand in front of the glacier. Now I see pictures of people using paddle boards on the water there. So when anyone tells me they don’t believe in climate warming, I show them the photo. I think it’s time for the pix I took that evening to return to Alaska.

Each year the Meachams give me a subscription to Alaska magazine. I love reliving my Alaskan memories as I devour each page. Outstanding articles and pictures!

ANNE JOHNSON Honaunau, Hawaii

Ian Johnson (ianajohnson.com) shared this composite photo on our Facebook page of the “midnight sun” at Barrow during summer when it doesn’t set for weeks. It was a reader favorite. Visit Alaska at facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine to see more stunning imagery from the Last Frontier and to post photos of your own.

FACEBOOK POLL RESULTS What is your favorite backcountry meal?

Below are a few reader comments from the poll question posted on facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine “Pretty simple. After a hard cold day I throw some tuna or chicken into a pot and let it boil with some seasoning. Then throw in a pack of instant mashed potatoes with bacon bits. Top with nuts, seeds etc.

Eat hot.” ~ Mike Grabber

“Grayling, still wiggling.

Add butter, onions, peppers, seasoning, wrap in foil and grill. Beer of choice.” ~ Donald Travis Dygert

Where do you read Alaska?

This summer I have been working as a volunteer at the Green Lake Conference Center near Green Lake, WI. My job is to teach stained glass making at the Troster Art Center five days a week.

After standing and working with our students all morning, I like to take a lunch break on one of the benches near the beach area of the lake. One day I had the opportunity to read Alaska while enjoying the beauty of the lake, the lush vegetation, and the Judson Tower in the background.

I worked in the villages of Kiana, Kobuk, and Selawik from 1964-1967 and taught in the public schools at Adak and in Anchorage from 1966-1974.

Dr. Carol Ann Holcom >> Manhattan, Kansas

“Marinated moose meat.” ~ Lysa Lacson

“Candy bar @ Aialik Glacier, Aialik Bay - Kenai Fjords National Park.” ~ Andrea Hughes

I couldn’t leave home without my current issue of Alaska.

I read this issue while in Paris, France, on vacation. << Dan Matson Grand Rapids, Michigan

Connect with us! Send us pictures of where you read Alaska and submit letters to the editor at editor@alaskamagazine.com.

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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ALASKA EXPOSED Chance Encounter

A humpback whale breaches in Tebenkof Bay in Southeast.

Shot from a kayak, this photo epitomizes the raw nature photographer Eric Esterle experienced as an artist-inresidence for the U.S. Forest Serviceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Voices of the Wilderness program.

Focal length: 400 mm Shutter speed: 1/3200 sec Aperture: f/6.3 ISO: 500 ERIC ESTERLE/ ericesterle.com

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OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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ALASKA EXPOSED

Winter Frost

Hoarfrost covers black spruce trees as ground fog and dusk descend on Palmer Hay Flats in southcentral Alaska.

Focal length: 340 mm Shutter speed: 1/20 sec Aperture: f/16 ISO: 200 RAY BULSON/ raybulson.com

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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The September morning we began our float, the gravel bars crunched with frost, and a sharp north wind blustered down the valley.”

The Shoulder of Winter

I Wulik River

Nick Jans reels in a Dolly Varden char from a gravel spit on the remote Wulik River.

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N THE STILL AUTUMN TWILIGHT,

I stood waist-deep in the Wulik River’s cold-pouring flow, staring downward, mesmerized. The hundred-yard-long, green-tinted pool was punctuated by iridescent silver flashes, as if the river were an atmosphere ablaze with fireflies. I cast to a pocket tight against the far cutbank, and let my bucktail jig settle deep. Rod held high, reeling just enough to keep connected, I let the current carry my offering in a fluttering arc, ticking against the bottom.

An electric tap. I reared back, and an answering jolt ripped my rod tip downward. A hand-sized tail boiled the surface as I threw my arms forward and back-spooled, trying to ease the strain on my drag. Then the line went slack. I reeled madly as the fish vaulted through

the surface, dove, and switched directions twice before I could catch up.

Somehow, the single hook clung. Five adrenaline-addled minutes later, I slipped my hand under the belly of an eight-pound, sea bright Dolly Varden char—one in a procession of fish I’d catch and release that evening.

Fifty yards downstream, my buddy Vic was just as busy; upstream a half mile, against a brushy bluff, I could make out the shape of camp, where our trip companions Kent, his wife Jill, and daughter Finley sat around a fire, warming up and resting their casting arms after a long day of rafting and fishing.

The Wulik, in the northwest corner of the state, doesn’t look like much—a braided, clearwater river roughly 50 miles from headwaters to its mouth on the

VIC WALKER

BY NICK JANS

Chukchi Sea coast, cutting from its mountain source through sprawling, wind-raked tundra. Barren peaks and bedrock outcroppings punctuate its course, and the sky looms over a boundless horizon. Lying hundreds of miles off the road grid, access is limited to fly-in gravel bar work by bush planes working out of Kotzebue—itself a remote, frontierfeel bush hub, even by Alaska standards.

For five years, back in the 1980s when I lived in Noatak village, the Wulik was part of my extended back yard, just 30 miles to the northwest over the rolling curve of the Mulgrave Hills. But though I sometimes traveled in winter by snowmobile over its frozen course, I never wetted a line there.

Then I moved 150 miles farther southwest, to the Kobuk country. It was always a river too far.

Three decades later, my friends from Juneau and I had come a thousand miles north to the Wulik seeking a species regarded by many Alaskans as bycatch: the Dolly Varden char, Salvelinus malma.

Dollies, they say, with the hint of a sneer.

A smallish, wiggly object you inevitably hook while angling for something more worthy. But the Wulik hosts a different version of the same fish—sleek, bullshouldered specimens commonly ranging between five and a dozen pounds, with a liberal sprinkling of freakish specimens twice as large. Orange-fleshed, rich in fat, they’re prized by the local Inupiat, who call them ‘trout.’ The last several Alaska state sport angling records for the species, all well over 20 pounds, have come from the Wulik. Little doubt bigger ones are still to be caught.

Not only does Salvelinus malma reach a pinnacle of perfection in the Wulik; the river serves as a vital waystation for hordes of fish whose natal spawning streams lie along the western and Arctic coasts of Alaska, and as far away as Russia. All but a resident handful of the 100,000-plus Dolly Varden counted in the river each year by biologists are anadromous—that is, like salmon, they divide their lives between fresh water and salt.

Some are there to spawn over the summer, but the vast majority enter the river in autumn to overwinter near springs and in deep pools that never freeze to the bottom. In late spring, they head out to sea again.

We’d come seeking this mass of late-season fish, knowing the weather we might face. The September morning we began our float, the gravel bars crunched with frost, and a sharp north wind blustered down the valley. Vic and I, flying in a separate plane, had elected to be dropped a half-dozen miles upstream of Kent’s family. The plan was to travel separately, and meet up in the evenings for camp. As we made our way downstream, gusts shoved our inflatable raft into willow-snarled cutbanks, and even though I leaned into the oars with a roiling current at our backs, we often found ourselves clawing for yards of progress. Mare’s tail cirrus bled into lenticular clouds to the northwest; though the sun shone, weather was coming.

Low and transparent, the Wulik poured through a procession of braided channels.

holding at the head of a deep run. We dialed them in with small spoons and jigs, and soon lost count as the bite heated up—big fish by any Dolly standard except the Wulik’s. An hour later, we caught up with Kent’s family. Flyfishing egg-imitating beads under floats, they’d caught many fine fish, and Kent had lost something bigger. Vic and I fished past twilight, in that pool lit by flashes of silver.

That perfect evening would be the last dry camp of the four-day trip.

The remaining days became a blur of wind, cold rain, snow, aching shoulders, and despite the hard going, dozens more fish—each one glittering and perfect, forged from living steel. And I got one chance to touch a Wulik beast. After a quarter-hour fight in the shadow of a high bluff, I cradled a giant Dolly Varden, around 14 pounds, and gave it back to the river.

Nick Jans displays a whopper Dolly Varden he caught in the Wulik. (For more photos of the Wulik, see his article on page 44).

At the first sizeable pool, fish scattered like birds from our raft’s shadow—a mix of grayling, late chum salmon, and the unmistakable blazing reds, deep greens, and white-etched fins of spawning Dollies. The latter were summer’s fish, gorgeous but gaunt; not the silver-gray, pink-flecked torpedoes we sought. And most were spooked and lock-jawed, ignoring our offerings.

Five wind-blasted miles downstream, we found our first pod of sea-bright fish,

The last night, icy torrents of rain ripped off the Chukchi Sea, battering our tents. Only a slim lens of sky in late afternoon let our pick-up flights slip in. By the next morning, a rising flood would cloud the river, drowning our gravel bar landing strip; and just days later, the first slush ice would whisper downstream, cling and sheet in the eddies, and begin to work outward, sealing over shimmering constellations of fish. We left as we’d come, riding the shoulder of winter.

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Cache The

10.17

Our Cache

Caches have been used in Alaska for centuries.

To store food through winter, some Alaska Native groups would fill holes in late fall with salmon. Once the ground froze it preserved the fish through the barren winter and early spring. Anthropologists suspect the caches were cultural catalysts for Dena’ina and Ahtna people, who had to work together to store the fish and appoint a leader responsible for distributing the supply of frozen salmon.

Early American settlers to Alaska likely introduced the iconic caches that look like little log cabins built on wooden stilts. For those settlers storing food between shipments from southern cities and for many people in the Alaskan backcountry today, caches are a place to keep life-giving food safe from unforgiving elements and hungry animals in search of an easy meal.

Caches are more than just a place to keep food.

They’re symbolic of a people who are resourceful and independent.

For us, The Cache is where we’ll put our valuables.

These pages will be filled with bits of Alaskan life that are important to locals and visitors alike, the stories that make Alaska, Alaska.

Enjoy. ~ The Cache is written and compiled

by Assistant Editor Alexander Deedy MICHELLE THEALL/ michelletheall.photoshelter.com

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Simon Paneak Memorial Museum Anaktuvuk Pass

BY MICHELLE THEALL The Nunamiut village of Anaktuvuk Pass remains home to the last Native inland Inupiat. A smattering of ramshackle nomadic homes sprout from the earth, some built from moss with grass growing on rooftops. Tethered sled dogs, torn mattresses, and piles of scrap metal abut modern infrastructures of schools, a library, a state-of-the-art health clinic, and a senior care facility. Satellite dishes adorn almost every structure. This dichotomy of impermanence and settlement reveal the heart of the people here—once nomadic caribou hunters who formed a community in an isolated glacier valley tucked into the Brooks Range—connected with the outside world, each other, and their history. The traditional lifestyle and culture of the last nomadic Eskimos is displayed inside the 1,000-square-foot Simon Paneak Museum in the northwest corner of the village, where visitors may learn about the subsistence life of Nunamiut and the craft of caribou-skin mask making, an art originating here but now known throughout the world.

Kiinauq, caribou-skin masks, are a unique and authentic craft of Anaktuvuk Pass. Mask-making began over 50 years ago when Justus Mekiana cut a spruce tree, hand-carved it to resemble a human face, and cast a wet caribou skin onto it. The spruce and balsam wood

Barrow/Utqiagvik Life at the top of the world

Barrow, officially Utqiagvik since last year, is the nation’s farthest-north community. Perched at the edge of the Arctic Ocean, it’s known for its extreme location. In summer, the sun doesn’t set for weeks, and in winter, it doesn’t rise for weeks. Barrow/Utqiagvik’s residents take their unique town in stride, though, enjoying subsistence activities and annual festivals like Nalukataq, which celebrates the successful spring whale hunt.

At the Inupiat Heritage Center, learn about Inupiat history, language, and culture. Explore whaling traditions, historical tools, clothing, and masks. Talk to staff about the differences between traditional whaling and today’s practices. Meet Native artisans as they craft items like ulus, sealskin zipper pulls, baleen etchings, and ivory carvings, all of which are 20

A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

used to carve the molds is collected elsewhere in the Brooks Range, since trees do not grow in Anaktuvuk Pass. Each mold or frame is unique to its creator, and many people in the community can identify the artist by stylistic characteristics. Masks are flat on the back, created to be hung and not actually worn.

Stitches made from sinew fasten adornments to the mask, including calf-skin eyelashes and hair fashioned from fox fur.

Mask sales remain a vital part of the village economy and were created for that purpose, with little symbolic or tribal meaning attached. A variety of masks hangs in the gift shop at the museum, available for purchase as unique, hand-crafted souvenirs.

Utqiagvik: The name means a place for gathering wild roots and comes from the word now used for potato, utqiq.

Say it this way, with guttural back-of-the-throat sounds for the representative “k” and hard “g” in the middle: oot — kay-ahg — vik.” available at reasonable prices in the gift shop. Visit the library next door to discover even more about Barrow/Utqiagvik.

“Living on top of the world is incredible!” says Herman Ahsoak. “We eat and live off the animals we harvest from the sea and land, but the biggest nutritional food that our Heavenly Father provides is the bowhead whale. When we eat it, it fills us mind, body, and spirit, and for that I am truly thankful.”

Inupiaq Art

Allison Warden shares her perspective Allison Akootchook Warden is far from a traditional artist. She writes and performs plays, designs installation art, writes 140-character poems on Twitter, sings with the Yada-Di band and raps under the name AKU-MATU. All of it shares her perspective as an Inupiaq woman.

“I am an extension of my great, great, great, great, great grandparents,” Warden says. “I am them in these modern future days and like them I am taking every tool and resource that is available to me and I am molding and shaping it with Inupiaq worldview in ways that help me express and share who I am as an Inupiaq being from an Inupiaq perspective.”

Warden grew up in Fairbanks listening to stories her grandparents told about living in a sod hut in Kaktovik and surviving off the land. In the outside world, she was teased for wearing a parka and admitting to eating frozen fish eyeballs, but in her Inupiaq world she felt totally embraced.

Since 2008, she has performed shows and made art around the world. Much of Warden’s activism and art revolves around the environment. In today’s changing world, her work expresses that Alaska Natives have a voice that should be included in decisions and conversations. Some of her work, like her hip-hop, is meant to encourage youth to be bold and embrace their values.

“My intention between all the things that I do is a healing one,” Warden says. “I hope it has a healing effect on people, whoever they are, and an inspirational effect so that they might be empowered to also create from their heart and be emboldened.”

Warden will be hosting and performing during an Inupiaq Halloween show at the Anchorage Museum on October 31.

when your decolonized mind sees the madness the disease take a moment to transform it visualize the most healed version hold that space” ~ Allison Warden poem

Allison Warden performs as AKU-MATU at the Riddu Riddu festival in Norway.

NICHOLAS GALANIN, COURTESY OF ALLISON WARDEN

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Fire Island Wind Farm

Harnessing Energy Flying into Anchorage at night, you may notice red lights blinking beneath the plane from what seems to be the ocean, a few miles before you touch down. What you’re seeing is the Fire Island Wind Farm.

Developed in 2012 by Cook Inlet Region, Inc., the regional Alaska Native Corporation that owns much of Fire Island, the farm has 11 wind turbines that generate enough energy to power 7,000 Anchorage homes.

Alaska’s major power utilities get about half their electricity from natural gas, and another 25 percent from hydroelectric power. Wind farms that capitalize on Alaska’s blustery coasts generate about three percent of the state’s electric energy.

Eleven wind turbines on Fire Island provide enough renewable energy to power 7,000 Anchorage homes.

OSCAR AVELLANEDA-CRUZ, COURTESY OF COOK INLET REGION, INC.

Alaska’s Backyard Glacier Kelley and Jans capture Mendenhall Photographer Mark Kelley’s book, Alaska’s Mendenhall Glacier, tells the story of Juneau’s nearest glacier in a way only a local could. His images show readers the glacier from

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a distance, in full glory with northern lights above and town lights below, and take them into the heart of the glacier, under the ice in caves that glow a sapphire blue. He catches the glacier through every season and in its rare, defining moments, like a 2011 event that released an icy deluge from the glacier that flooded Mendenhall Lake and sent torrents down Mendenhall River.

Kelley’s book is more than just a compilation of photos. It truly is a story. Enhanced by distinctive prose from Alaska magazine’s own Nick Jans, the book touches on climate change, wildlife, geology, research, and the relationship between Juneau’s citizens and their beloved glacier.

Perhaps most impressive is the way Kelley captures the glacier’s immensity and the surrounding landscape’s rugged and raw beauty. It is sure to send your memory racing back to your own experience at Mendenhall. If you haven’t been, it will surely make you want to visit.

Elizabeth Peratrovich’s portrait will be added to a special $1 coin.

COURTESY OF ALASKA STATE LIBRARY

Minted in gold

Elizabeth Peratrovich commemorated As a Tlingit woman, Elizabeth Peratrovich felt the discrimination widely encountered by Alaska Natives during the early decades of the 20th century. She was denied property in upscale neighborhoods reserved for whites and turned away from businesses that displayed signs reading “No Natives Allowed” or “No Dogs, No Natives.” She refused to stay silent, and she became an influential figure in the fight for Alaska Native civil rights.

In 2020, Peratrovich will be commemorated on a $1 coin issued as part of the U.S. Mint’s program to recognize contributions made by tribes and individual Native Americans.

Peratrovich championed an anti-discrimination bill that was the culmination of the Alaska Native civil rights movement. At a crowded hearing by the territorial government in 1945, she gave a passionate testimony that is often credited as a key factor in the senate passing an anti-discrimination bill, the first comprehensive policy of its kind in the United States.

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Alaska Governor Bill Walker celebrates in Utqiagvik after signing into law a bill establishing Alaska Indigenous Peoples Day. COURTESY OF THE OFFICE OF GOVERNOR BILL WALKER

Indigenous Peoples Day Holiday formally established On the second Monday of October this year, Alaskans across the state will celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day. For the past two years, the day has been celebrated on a temporary basis. But during the 2017 legislative session,

lawmakers passed a law permanently marking the day as a celebration of Alaska’s indigenous peoples and cultures. The day does not replace, but is rather celebrated alongside, the federal Columbus Day holiday.

Mayor Stubbs Remembering Talkeetna’s honorary mayor

Few, if any, have left a paw print on Alaska quite like Stubbs. The rusty orange cat who served as honorary mayor of Talkeetna lost the last of his nine lives in July, and his passing was mourned by fans across the state and the nation. He was 20 years old.

Legend has it that Stubbs was elected as a write-in candidate for mayor in 1998, Stubbs the cat was despite the fact that Talkeetna, a town of honorary mayor of Talkeetna.

900 south of Denali National Park, is COURTESY SPONE FAMILY unincorporated and does not hold mayoral elections. Regardless of how he gained power, Stubbs rarely made controversial decisions in office and his gentle leadership earned him national notoriety and media fame. He spent most days lying around his office at Nagley’s General Store and taking pictures with the stream of tourists who would stop by for an appointment. Occasionally, he would pad into the adjacent restaurant and hop up on the bar for a cocktail of water and catnip.

Stubbs’ owners said one of their kittens, Denali, was a perfect understudy and happily accepts attention from strangers. In the power vacuum left behind by Stubbs, Talkeetna may soon have a new mayor. We’re assuming he likes his catnip cocktails shaken, not stirred.

Fishy Business

Alaska sisters head apparel company Claire Neaton and Emma Teal Laukitis grew up on a homestead in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands and spent their summers commercial fishing with their dad.

Everything they did and had was tied to the ocean and land that surrounded their family. Neither felt complete unless they were outside. Then they left.

Both attended college out of state.

Neaton was on the East Coast, where her classmates would spend their summers sailing or playing in cities.

“We just didn’t even comprehend that there was anything else that you would want to do or rather do than commercial fish,” Neaton says.

Born from the fusion of wanting to express their passion and the need for winter income, the two launched the

Sisters Claire Neaton, left, and Emma Teal Laukitis started Salmon Sisters in 2012 to express their passion with fishing through apparel.

PHOTO BY CAMRIN DENGEL, COURTESY SALMON SISTERS

apparel brand Salmon Sisters in 2012. The growing online outlet now sells flashfrozen seafood, branded pullovers, salmon leather tote bags and, of course, patterned XTRATUF boots to customers across the nation. In 2016, the company started its Give Fish project, which donates one can of wild Alaska salmon to the Alaska Food Bank for every product sold. By the end of 2018, the sisters hope

to publish a cookbook, teach cooking classes, and host camps aimed at exposing more women to seafood and Alaska’s fishing industry.

Above it all, Neaton says their mission is to educate residents about Alaska’s sustainable fishing and to shrink the gap between the supermarket where Alaskans buy their fish and the men and women who reel them out of the ocean.

Making Alaska Laugh Anchorage professionals moonlight as comics Friends had been urging Matt Collins, a lifelong Alaskan, to try his hand at stand-up comedy long before he worked up the nerve to make an appearance at an open mic night. He prepared a single joke, just one set up and punchline. As he sat in the crowd, watching performers take the stage, his confidence grew. At open mics, some people are good, some are bad, and some are awful. Collins realized he was just as funny as anyone on stage. That was seven years ago, and he hasn’t stopped performing since.

Though stand-up has been present in Anchorage since at least the comedy boom of the 1980s, today’s scene consists of about 20 men and women who spend their free time perfecting ways to make people laugh.

“No one is going to get famous in

Anchorage doing comedy, so I think it kind of creates a close-knit group of people who are in it doing comedy just because they love doing comedy,” says Matt Jardin, a marketer-by-day who has been performing stand-up for about three years.

The group members often help one another write material and support each other when they organize comedy showcases. Anchorage residents happily support those local showcases; nearly everyone has a good turnout, Jardin says.

This year has been a good one for comedy, and both Collins and Jardin would love to see continued growth.

“Comedy is maybe something everyone should try once,” Collins says. “Unless you’re deathly afraid of talking to crowds.”

Keep up on shows by following the Facebook page AK Comics.

Comedian Matt Jardin performs in February at a benefit show for Planned Parenthood held at Anchorage’s Williwaw.

COURTESY OF MATT JARDIN

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Deep Mystery

Researchers aim to unlock link to sablefish population Alaskan longline fishermen prize black cod, a fish that yields a flaky texture and buttery fillet and fetches a high price per pound. Though black cod, or sablefish, are not considered overfished off Alaska, their numbers have been declining steadily since the 1980s. Unlike salmon, the abundance of sablefish doesn’t seem to be linked to the number of spawning adults. Which leaves a key component of black cod management and forecasting a mystery: which sablefish survive and why? A boom of recent research aims to close that gap.

“Really what it boils down to is: If you know what’s coming or you have a pretty good idea of what’s coming you can prepare for it,” says Wess Strasburger, a researcher with the Alaska Fisheries Science Center in Juneau.

Strasburger is one of many scientists conducting extensive research to determine the key factors that allow black cod to survive from hatching to full grown adults. His hypothesis is that survival is directly linked to how fast a sablefish grows in its first year. Through surveys conducted in the eastern Gulf of Alaska, he is measuring growth rate, searching for factors that influence growth and questioning whether faster growth leads to better survival.

The answer could mean unlocking a big mystery for an important commercial species. For Strasburger, it’s exciting to be in on early research and help solve one of the ocean’s puzzles.

Researcher Wess Strasburger caught these three-inch juvenile sablefish in the eastern Gulf of Alaska during summer 2017.

COURTESY OF WESS STRASBURGER

Great Alaskan Bowl Company founder Lewis Bratcher and his daughter Emily Berriochoa represent Alaska at the White House’s Made in America Product Showcase.

COURTESY OF THE WHITE HOUSE

Art at the Table Fairbanks company shapes bowls from birch logs

Birch bowls from the Great Alaskan Bowl Company ripple with streaks of dark and light wood unique to each piece. When Lewis Bratcher started the company in 1991, he wanted a quality product that couldn’t be replicated, and would fit a niche market. When

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native Alaskan birch logs arrive at his Fairbanks shop, they undergo a 22-step process of shaping, sanding, oiling, and drying to become bowls. It is one of only a few wooden bowl mills in the country still manufacturing at a commercial rate.

Earlier this year, the company was chosen to represent Alaska at the first Made in America Product Showcase, which featured a manufactured product from every state. Bratcher and his daughter flew to Washington, D.C., and set up their bowls in the East Room of the White House between companies like Stetson Hats and Gibson Guitars.

“I’m still pumped about it,” Bratcher says.

Bratcher is always innovating and looking for new ways to make and market his bowls. He hopes new heart-shaped and arrowhead-shaped bowls will grow the company’s presence.

“We’re a true manufacturer,” he says. “So, as a result of being a true manufacturer we’re able to do some fairly artistic things.”

Curing Cancer

Alaskan sea sponge may hold treatment

A golf-ball-sized green sponge that grows in deep water off the coast of southeast Alaska may hold the key to treating pancreatic cancer, researchers announced earlier this year. Discovered in 2005 by National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration fisheries biologist Bob Stone, the species of sponge appears unremarkable.

“You’d never look at this sponge and think this is a miracle sponge, but it could be,” Stone says in a NOAA release.

Adapting to life in dark, cold water hundreds of feet deep may have caused the sponge to develop unique chemical compounds that lab tests reveal could help treat pancreatic cancer, which spreads rapidly and is rarely detected early. Though scientists caution there is still a long way to go before a drug could be prescribed to patients, the sponge offers hope.

Past and Present

A remodeled exhibition at the Anchorage Museum explores Alaska’s history and asks the question: What are people’s relationship to this place we call Alaska?

“How has the landscape affected people and how have people affected the landscape, going back 10,000 years. Really, it’s a universal story about people and place,” says Aaron Leggett, the museum’s curator of Alaska history and culture.

The museum opened the new Alaska Exhibition to the public in September, as part of a renovation and expansion project that includes a renovated atrium, a larger Discovery area and 22,000 more square feet of space for displaying art from the museum’s permanent collection. The Alaska Exhibition replaces the museum’s history area, which underwent its last major remodel in 1986. Fifteen stops in the exhibition explore themes like adaptation, landscape, boom and bust, cold, and Alaska’s strategic position in the world.

Leggett said that although the exhibition looks at Alaska’s past, a lot of the issues facing people 100 years ago are still questions many are asking today.

This Russian gut cape, made of sea lion gut, bird feathers, and human hair, was collected in 1889 and is one of the items that will be on display in the remodeled Alaska Exhibition at the Anchorage Museum.

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TOP: COURTESY NOAA; BOTTOM: COURTESY ANCHORAGE MUSEUM

Museum’s exhibition explores Alaska history

Allie Ostrander battles bugs at the race’s turn-around point

Vertically Challenged

Alaskans set the pace in Mount Marathon Race The 90th Mount Marathon Race, Alaska’s oldest and most prestigious footrace, drew a field of nearly 850 runners to Seward on July 4.

They ran the rugged 3.2-mile course that averages 34 degrees inclination from sea level to 3,000 feet and back.

Allie Ostrander’s winning time of 49 minutes, 19 seconds was the second-fastest women’s time in race history.

From the small town of Soldotna on the Kenai Peninsula, 20-year-old Ostrander has an impressive racing resume: second at the NCAA championships for cross-country, eighth in the 5,000-meter at U.S. Olympic trials, and a collegiate national title in the 3,000-meter steeplechase.

In the men’s race, Anchorage’s Scott Patterson, a Nordic skier, seized his first title, clocking 44 minutes, 30 seconds.

The race dates back to 1915, when two Seward bar patrons wagered whether the 3,000-foot mountain could be scaled in under an hour—a feat achieved by Alec Bolan the following year.

Today the annual event draws thousands of spectators and attracts athletes from across the world. And in recent years, decades-old race records have fallen. Bill Spencer’s 1981 winning time of 43 minutes, 21 seconds was shattered in 2013 by Eric Strabel, with 42 minutes, 55 seconds. And that record fell twice more: in 2015 when Swedish mountain runner Kilian Jornet clocked 41 minutes, 48 seconds; and in 2016 with David Norris’s time of 41 minutes, 26 seconds.

In 2015, Jornet’s girlfriend Emelie Forsberg established a new women’s record of 47 minutes, 48 seconds. The previous women’s record was 50 minutes, 30 seconds, estab-

PHOTO BY FRANK E. BAKER

BY FRANK E. BAKER

lished by Nancy Pease in 1990.

Bill Spencer’s 1973 Junior Race record of 24 minutes, 30 seconds has never been broken.

That race requires running to the halfway point on Mount Marathon and back.

Seward’s Fred Moore, 77, has the record for most consecutive runs: 48, and the best time in the 70-79 age group with 1 hour, 7 minutes, and 9 seconds.

In the 2017 race, runners were besieged by swarms of small brownish flies, which University of Alaska (Fairbanks) entomologist Derek Sikes believes are members of the Bibionidae family. The bizarre swarming, he noted, was related to their reproductive cycle.

Frank E. Baker is a lifelong Alaskan and freelance writer who lives in Eagle River, Alaska.

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D E ST INAT IO N AL A S KA

Web of Tradition

Traditional snowshoe frames were made from birch or willow, with webbings of caribouor moose-hide babiche (thin rawhide line).

Photo by: MIRA / Alamy Stock Photo

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SENSE OF PLACE

What They Did for Fun

BY KERI RILEY

Mountain Village, where the author learned about a different kind of fun, is a small Yup’ik community along the Yukon River in western Alaska. The original name, in the days when it was a simple Native fish camp, was Asa’carsarmiut, which means “beginning of the mountains to the north and to the south.”

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I

SAT IN A SMALL DARK ROOM IN A VILLAGE

along the Yukon River in Alaska. The woman across the table from me was tiny, wrinkled, and worn. She chopped fish with an ulu as we spoke, preparing a pot of food on a narrow propane stove in the corner.

I was there to interview the woman and her husband as they sought adoption of their two grandchildren and to create a report for the courts. I’d brought with me my list of standard questions. We’d been talking for a while, with me scribbling down the facts of the case. It was time to gather details of their childhoods.

“When you were a child,” I asked, pen in hand, “what did you do for fun?” The old

A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

woman looked back at me, her weathered face expressionless.

“What do you mean?” she asked, and continued to chop. Her husband was there.

He sat quiet in the corner, not much of a talker, like most I’d encountered in the village of a few hundred people an hour’s plane ride from anywhere.

“When you were growing up here in the village, what did you do for fun? Did you swim in the river or play with your friends?” I asked.

She paused for a moment, staring out the window of her hillside home looking over the quiet river where she’d spent her 68 years.

She finally spoke. “We cut fish,” she said.

KERI RILEY

A city girl gains perspective from village elders

He sat quiet in the corner, not much of a talker, like most I’d encountered in the village of a few hundred people an hour’s plane ride from anywhere.”

“We cut fish, and we picked fish, and we got wood.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if she had misunderstood the question. I had asked about fun and she spoke of work.

“We cut fish,” she said, motioning to the meat on the table before her. “Like our grandmothers. They teach us how to cut fish; we teach our children. That’s how it works.”

I looked at my notebook containing my list of carefully thought out questions. I wasn’t sure what to write.

“For fun?” I asked.

“We pick fish from the nets,” she said.

She continued to chop fish into chunks, scrape it up with the edge of the ulu, and drop it in a large bowl in the center of the table. “It’s how we do things here. We pick fish, and we don’t sell them. We give

them away. My grandfather said to never sell what we catch. If someone is hungry we feed them. Or barter. Never sell.”

She raised her eyes to a wall scattered with family photographs from years past. I looked over at her husband, who nodded his head and stared out at the water. He didn’t look at me.

“Then we go up river, fifteen, twenty miles. There we get sticks. Wood. Alder is good for burning. Three dollars a sled load for alder. Five dollars for spruce.”

A small window barely lit the dark room. Outside lay rolling orange and brown tundra,with not a tree in sight.

From the dark corner, the man looked down at gnarled hands in his lap as if he was seeing what used to be.

“I went to school until sixth grade,” he said. His voice startled me. “Then I fish.

We go to the fish camp in the summer, us

and the kids. We teach them to cut fish. To use the ulu. Our culture. We pan for gold and stay in the little fish camp shack.” It was the most he had said since my arrival.

The two-room, plywood-floored house was much like all the other village homes I’d been inside, the walls plastered with photographs. Everything there had to be flown in or brought upriver. The furnishings were old and sparse, frugal but comfortable. One light dangled over the table. The bathroom was a curtained-off honey bucket. I wondered what the “fish camp shack” must be like.

“But what did you do for fun?” I repeated, impatient with my blank page.

They looked at each other, smiled as if to say, stupid, stupid girl. Then the woman spoke slowly as if I was a small child.

“We cut fish. We got wood. We did this…or our people died.”

Stupid girl, indeed, I thought. I put down my pen, closed my notebook, and began to listen.

Keri Ann Riley is a writer/photographer living off-grid in Alaska and raising the last of eight kids. To see more, visit keriannriley.com.

Today, Mountain Village is the headquarters for the Lower Yukon School District, which provides a stable cash economy. Residents also rely heavily on subsistence harvests of salmon, moose, and waterfowl.

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RAMBLES

Crossing the line sometimes gets you â&#x20AC;&#x153;nowhereâ&#x20AC;?

BY JILL MISSAL

C

TOK

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Alaska mountains along the Klondike Highway in White Pass near the U.S.-Canada border.

rossing the Alaska-Canada border marks a milestone in what is still an adventurous undertaking. Though both roads that reach it, the Stewart-Cassiar and the Alaska Highway, are mostly paved and information on road conditions is readily available, the mystique of traveling a dozen hours in a day without encountering a significant settlement remains. >>

COURTESY NATIONAL PARK SERVICE

Border Tales

Most of the five border crossings feature a large gap between border stations. Firsttime border crossers scramble for passports when they first see the signs indicating “Customs – 1 mile” (or, in the other direction, “Customs – 1 km”). They slow to pass the squat buildings marking customs and immigration for opposing traffic, only to drive for up to 45 more minutes before reaching the appropriate crossing.

The shape of the Alaska-Canada border—a perfectly straight line following the 141-degree longitude line for a thousand miles, abruptly devolving into tangled chaos on its southern end—results from a border dispute between the U.K. and the United States. When Alaska was purchased from Russia, its borders were unclear and poorly surveyed. When the Gold Rush swelled the population of the

region and the need to establish a clear boundary became evident, legal actions led to today’s border. The end result left Canadians out of sorts, a feeling that has subsided with time but helps to explain the “no-man’s land” sensation of crossborder driving to or from Alaska.

Many settlements and towns were already established when the border negotiations were complete. Practical northerners all, neither Canadians nor Alaskans saw any sense in moving settlements, so border crossings were established close to or in the the nearest town. The mosttraveled road crossing, the one between Beaver Creek, Yukon, and Northway, Alaska, features a Canadian border station nearly 18 miles from the actual border. The American crossing at the location is a mere few hundred feet from the border, but this distance was much farther before 1971, when the border station was located 90 miles away in Tok. The Tok border crossing handled traffic for both the Alaska Highway and the Top of the World Highway until the Poker Creek-Little Gold Creek border crossing was established. If one drives the Beaver Creek crossing and is surprised by the “no man’s land,” the Top of the World crossing might be an even bigger surprise, as it is one of the very few jointly-built border crossings between the United States and Canada— one building houses both operations. How the building’s workers keep track of which of them is on Yukon time and which is on Alaska time is anyone’s guess; you will have to change your clocks an hour when you pass by.

If you venture south to Haines, you may find the border crossing there a tad more typical, as the two border stations are less than a mile apart. However, you will have to turn those clocks back an hour. Were it the other way around, ferries would likely be missed more often!

“Golden Triangle” travelers taking the short ferry from Haines to Skagway can use that extra hour to visit the Fraser border crossing near White Pass, above

Skagway. It’s this crossing that helpfully features a sign showing exactly where the border lies. There’s another “no man’s land” here, with eight miles of Alaska to cross before entering the United States.

The Canadian station is at the Fraser railway station, nearly eight miles from the border. A short hike to International Falls will entertain adventurous travelers, as the route begins on the Canadian side and crosses into the U.S. (and back, assuming you want to return to your vehicle. This is highly recommended, as entering Alaska without formally crossing the border is frowned upon).

Finally, for a truly bizarre border experience, Cassiar drivers can take a side trip to Stewart, Alaska, which has no formal border crossing into the United States.

Road travelers just zip on in without stopping. This is because the two towns, just a few kilometers apart, essentially operate as one town, both taking either country’s currency. Utilities, fire protection, and even phone service are imported from Canada; Hyder, Alaska, residents are the only Alaskans to not have the 907 area code, instead using British Columbia’s, and operates on British Columbia time as well.

Be aware, though—your quick dash into Alaska might be longer than you think, as returning to Canada will require going through the entire border rigmarole with Canadian Customs. And if you’re late getting back to Canada, you’ll get another unique border experience when you use the after-hours phone system to clear customs and immigration.

Like most other things in this part of the world, even border crossings have their own unique characteristics. With only five points of entry into Alaska via the road system, the intrepid traveler could certainly visit them all and experience the truly Alaskan experience of our slightly bizarre borders.

Jill Missal is an Alaskan writer who was raised in the woods of Kodiak Island on the edge of the Pacific.

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E XPE RIE NC E T HE L A ST F RO N T IE R

The Aurora Returns A full moon lights up Denali and her companions while the aurora dances overhead.

Photo by:

ANTHONY MADDEN /

facebook.com/ AnthonyMaddenPhotography

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TRY THIS

Native-run Tourism

Tour guide Karlie Spud stands in the doorway of Klukwanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cultural Heritage Center.

Explore indigenous culture and help keep traditions alive

W

hen I was a kid, I went on a field trip to the American Museum of Natural History in New York. I saw the giant blue whale and the huge dinosaurs.

But the display that impressed me most was the 63-foot-long Great Canoe, carved in the 1870s from the trunk of a single cedar tree and painted with totemic images of a killer whale by Haida artist Charles Edenshaw.

Something about Native culture is fascinating. Part of it is the mythology, part of it is the imagery, and part of it is the mystery. Alaska is alive with the Native culture of many different clans and tribes. In fact, it is one of the top draws for visitors to Alaska.

And while there are plenty of opportunities to see Native culture, one of the best ways is to travel with a Native-run company or to visit Native-owned attractions. >> 38

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COURTESY TOM MORPHET, CHILKAT VALLEY NEWS

BY M.T. SCHWARTZMAN

SOUTHEAST ALASKA

Ketchikan: Just south of Ketchikan lies the Native village of Saxman, famous for its tribal house and totem park. In addition to the standing totem poles— mainly replicas of originals that were abandoned in nearby villages—new poles are being created by contemporary artists in the carving shed. Offering a personal point of view is former Ketchikan and Saxman mayor Joe Williams Jr., who leads tours called Where the Eagle Walks.

Sitka: Tlingit-family-owned, Sitka-based Alaskan Dream Cruises operates five small ships that carry between 10 and 74 passengers. Eight- to 11-day itineraries call at Native communities such as Kake, Kasaan, and Metlakatla. Their latest endeavor is called True Alaskan Tours, which offers independent excursions ranging from whale-watching to helicopter flightseeing throughout the Inside Passage. Also in Sitka, Tribal Tours runs Tlingit cultural tours from a Native point of view.

Juneau: Native-run Goldbelt, Incorporated’s Mount Roberts Tramway has been a Juneau landmark since 1996. The tram

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begins at the Juneau cruise docks and rises 1,800 feet for a breathtaking view above the Gastineau Channel. At the top lie hiking trails, a theater, and a restaurant. Also in Juneau, a new Tlingit and Haida Culture Immersion Park is expected to open in summer 2018.

Bartlett Cove: The Huna Tribal House, built as a collaboration between the Hoonah Indian Association and the National Park Service, opened in 2016. It serves as a gathering place for tribal members and as a learning center for visitors to Glacier Bay.

Hoonah: Located west of Juneau and southeast of Glacier Bay in Alaska’s largest Tlingit village, the Icy Strait Point cruise port is centered on a 100-year-old cannery and serves up more than 20 adventurous excursions, including the longest and highest zip line in North America. It is visited by most major cruise lines each summer.

Klukwan: The Jilkaat Kwaan Cultural Heritage Center is one of the newest and most remote Native-run attractions.

Located in Klukwan—a tiny village of only about 100 residents on the Chilkat River just north of Haines—the center was built to house tribal heirlooms including what is known as the Whale House Collection, the treasure of the local Gaanaxteidi clan.

Part of it is the mythology, part of it is the imagery, and part of it is the mystery.

SOUTHCENTRAL ALASKA

Anchorage: The Alaska Native Heritage Center is the only place where you can learn about 11 major cultural groups in one setting. Since opening in 1999, the center has benefited visitors and Alaska’s Native people alike: The storytelling, crafts demonstrations, and dance performances are not only entertaining, but they keep the Native interpreters who work here connected to their cultural heritage—especially the younger people.

IMAGES COURTESY ICY STRAIT POINT

Huna Tlingit performers share song, dance, and storytelling with visitors to the town of Hoonah.

INTERIOR

Denali National Park: Deep within Denali National Park lies Kantishna Roadhouse, operated by Native-owned, Fairbanks-based Doyon Limited. Getting there means riding a bus 90 miles to the end of the only road through the park.

Guests come for the hiking, fishing, biking, and other outdoor activities. It’s just 25 miles from the base of the mountain and a short hike from Wonder Lake.

SOUTHWEST

Bristol Bay: On the shores of Lake Aleknagik lies the Bristol Bay Native Corporation’s Mission Lodge, which offers fly-out sport-fishing. The lodge’s gift shop stocks original artwork by Natives from the Bristol Bay area, providing a unique keepsake and supporting local artisans.

FAR NORTH

Hughes: Native tour operator Koyukuk River Tribal Tours welcomed its first guests this past summer. Three- or six-day vacation packages originate in Fairbanks and offer the unique opportunity to fish and observe subsistence activities on the

Koyukuk River accompanied by guides and elders from this remote Native community.

Barrow: Tundra Tours, a division of the Arctic Slope Regional Corporation, owns the Top of the World Hotel in Barrow, the northernmost city in the United States.

Attractions here include the Inupiat Heritage Center and the unforgettable experience of standing on the edge of the Arctic Ocean with the polar pack ice just offshore.

As you can see, Alaska’s Native-run tourism operations are as diverse and widespread as the Native communities themselves. Native history and culture are front and center, but not always.

Sometimes, by traveling with these outfits you simply play a role in generating economic activity and creating jobs, helping to support the livelihood of Alaska’s Native people.

M.T. Schwartzman has been covering Alaska’s tourism industry for more than 25 years, writing hundreds of magazine articles on the state and editing several guidebooks.

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41

OUT THERE

Kodiak Petroglyphs and the Sovereign Sky

PullQuote.”

Campers discover clues to the past

BY JOE AND DAWN LEA BLACK

camping in the remote southwestern “Refugium” section of the Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge, my husband, our longtime buddy Ron Mullisen, and I discovered petroglyphs on a boulder that is aligned with the winter solstice sunrise. The engravings are faint, heavily weathered, brushed by bears, and mingled with lichens, making the features difficult to differentiate. Nearby is a rock with a curious groove.

Ron had returned to Kodiak from California, eager to once again get rained on, bitten by white sock flies, and maybe see a bear. While he checked out the groove, Joe examined a larger greywacke rock about five feet square and two feet tall.

Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge Openings in rocks are considered traditional places for shamans to enter earth on spiritual trips.

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It was split vertically and horizontally with a hole going all the way through where the two splits met. Joe walked a few steps away and glanced at the large rock. Two mask-like faces stared back at him from the indentations in the stone.

It was as if he were under observation, being watched by a supernatural couple transcending millennia. He blinked, and they disappeared. Had he really seen those faces, or were they just an illusion?

He approached and scrutinized the indentations, then photographed the rock from various angles.

Several weeks later, when Joe and I reviewed the photos at home in Kodiak, I mentioned I saw a face on the rock: “That looks like the Alutiiq mask of the ‘Great One,’” distinguished by a large nose. As a historian, I had studied collections of Kodiak Native masks and

co-authored a book, Natalia Shelikhova.

With renewed focus, we studied the photographs. The rock displayed two mask-like faces with a possible phallic symbol in line with the large-nosed face. The curious groove in the nearby rock could be female symbolism representing the renewal and rebirth brought by Mother Earth. The possible phallic symbol could represent fertility.

Immediately, questions emerged: Are these petroglyphs? Could they have something to do with the winter solstice’s commencement of renewal observed by ancient peoples? Famous ancient winter solstice sites exist at New Grange, Ireland; Stonehenge, England; Karnac, Egypt; and Machu Picchu, Peru. But Kodiak, Alaska? There didn’t seem to be a historically documented winter solstice viewing

JOE AND DAWN LEA BLACK

L

AST YEAR, WHILE HIKING AND

Rock with petroglyphic masks and phallic symbol.

site on Kodiak, though Natives did hold winter dances and ceremonies.

In ancient times, the winter solstice could be the most important event of the year. The universal, natural, seasonal progressions were not to be taken for granted. Chaos could always intervene.

Winter was and still is a crucial time when the sun is getting weaker and lower in the sky. The earth is cold, dark, and barren. Animals and plants have retreated. It is time to pray and have ceremonies advocating and commemorating order and light. The cosmic balance should be restored. Life depends on the existence of light, with the sun as the great source of both light and life.

In December, Joe decided to go camping alone at the petroglyph site to test out the possibility that it was a solstice viewing site for marking when the sun starts its seasonal upward swing. Standing behind the petroglyphic faces, Joe looked in a southeastern direction, watching for the sun to rise from behind a low mountainous ridgeline about a mile away.

Soon, the sun rose parallel to the upwardly sloping ridgeline, with only a sliver of its disk visible, making precise incremental measurement of the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s movement possible. Then the sun went behind a peak for a few minutes, to reappear fully, in blinding brilliance. The low angle of the sun sent its rays into the horizontal split in the rock. Joe determined that this unusually split rock was at the exact location to be touched twice by the dawn of the winter solstice and that petroglyphs of seemingly ceremonial masks and fertility symbols were at this site.

This area could be an ancient astrological site where shamans interacted with the sky and earth to inscribe an indelible message in stone which would help people to know and observe the winter solstice.

Then they could set the dates to properly propitiate and encourage the divine forces of nature. The chief forces of natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sky are often considered masculine and those of the land and sea feminine. One main function of the winter solstice rituals would thus be to help restore fertility.

Rocks, openings in the earth and their alignment with the solstice sun, could provide a meeting place for Father Sun and Mother Earth. With proper rituals, in

nine months Mother Earth would be fruitful, fish and game would be plentiful, berries would be ripe.

In July, Joe and I returned to the Refugium by floatplane for a day trip to once again photograph the petroglyph site and see what changes might have taken place. A mother bear and her three yearling cubs watched from across the river. Some bear had left a bit of fur and, apparently, a scratch on the petroglyphic rock. From the uprooted edible plants

and changes in the lichens, it was obvious that bears liked this area.

After our trip, we turned over the exact location of this site to the Kodiak National Wildlife Refuge and the Alutiiq Museumâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s archaeological personnel for further examination.

Joe, of Cherokee heritage, and Dawn Lea live in a jointly hand-made log house in Kodiak.

They love writing, traveling, camping, kayaking, and renovating houses.

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

43

ALASKA SPORTSMAN

Dress Alaska

Layer up to enjoy the great outdoors

S

HIVERING, I PAUSED ON A ROCKY

ridge. Hours before, I’d set out in afternoon warmth, sweating in my military surplus pants and shirt as I climbed. Now the sun had faded, and I faced a brutal northwest wind straight off the Arctic Ocean. I was spiraling toward hypothermia, thickheaded and stumbling, with a couple of tough miles between me and camp.

I somehow managed to stagger back, shed my damp gear, and dive into a life-saving sleeping bag. But that experience, 36 years ago, was an early lesson in perhaps the single most important Alaska outdoor skill: knowing how to dress—not only for current conditions, but those that might well lie ahead, whether over the course of a day hike or a wilderness expedition. The good news: dressing right for Alaska is relatively simple, and doesn’t have to cost a bundle.

Layers don’t have to be bulky, as Nick Jans demonstrates during a fishing trip to the remote Wulik River in northwestern Alaska (see Nick’s column on page 16 for that story).

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Moisture is enemy number one, whether from within (sweat) or without (rain, condensation, rivers, etc.) Ditch the old-school fabrics. I love my favorite jeans and hoodie, but not for backcountry travel. And yeah, that goes for cotton underwear and socks, too. Pure cotton sops up water and dries slowly. In the process of doing so, it sucks heat from your body. Its naturally loose weave also ranks low on wind resistance and in ounce-for-ounce durability. Wool, while

tough and relatively warm when soaked, weighs a ton, dries slowly, and is expensive. Goose down and fur totally flunk the wet test.

The high-tech concept of Alaska wear revolves around adjustable layers of synthetic fabrics. Totally modular, they can be worn in any number of combinations to suit you and the conditions. You wear what feels right, and always carry a light pack with layers you add or subtract as needed. These fabrics are lightweight,

(THIS PAGE) VIC WALKER; (OPPOSITE PAGE) NICK JANS

Ditch the old-school fabrics. I love my favorite jeans and hoodie, but not for backcountry travel.”

BY NICK JANS

breathable, fast-drying, and wick moisture away from your skin. Many are odor-resistant to boot. Arranged beneath a wind-resistant outer shell, they trap air, the best insulator of all.

Let’s start with pants. What you’re looking for is nylon or a cotton-nylon blend. Even 20 percent nylon makes a huge performance difference. No worries if they have zip-off lower legs, and the more big pockets, the better. Buy them comfortably loose, and a bit short is better than too long. Allow for some space to add layers underneath. For under-layers, polypropylene or other synthetic fabric long underwear fit the bill perfectly. My personal favorite, though, is cheap acrylic fleece sweatpants. Less restrictive and warmer than snug-fitting long underwear, they keep you comfortable over a wide variety of conditions. And, if it’s below freezing, wear both long johns and sweats under the outer nylon pants. As for briefs and socks, there’s a new generation of superior, moisture-wicking, synthetic blend choices as well.

Above the waist, start with a lightweight synthetic (woven acrylic, polypropylene, or nylon) pullover. Over this

foundation, add an acrylic fleece jacket; and for an outer shell, choose a lightly insulated synthetic zippered jacket with plenty of pockets, featuring a wind-andwater resistant shell. For gloves, I favor insulated, rubber-palmed, knit-backed commercial fishing gloves. They’re cheap, tough, and warm. Headwear? I tend toward the standard ball cap, with either a synthetic-blend watch cap or an ear band handy if needed—both to hold your hat on in wind and to add warmth.

A set of light but good quality breathable rainwear (hooded parka and pants) is a must. Keeping dry is critical to maintaining your body heat; and the rain suit also can serve as an added wind-blocking shell. I like a set that weighs a pound or so and packs small for hiking. It should be cut large enough to fit over your other layers. If I know I’m going to be out on a boat or sitting still in nasty weather, I go for heavier commercial fishing rain gear, and sometimes layer the light rainwear suit underneath.

Footwear is a personal choice, depending on what you’re up to. A pair of good jogging/trail shoes is fine if trail conditions are decent and you’re just doing day hikes; I’d recommend a

heavier pair of water-resistant hiking boots for backcountry work. My own all-around favorite is the XTRATUF, the ubiquitous brown rubber knee boot made by Goodyear, practically a uniform requirement for longtime Alaskans.

Their traction, comfort, fit, and versatility are hard to beat—yeah, even for hiking. And just wearing them marks you as a local.

All well and good, but where to find all this stuff? You can shop outdoor specialty stores or catalogs and pay top dollar for brand-name items of somewhat higher quality, or with a bit of resourcefulness, pick up equally functional alternatives (except for those boots!) online or at big box stores for a third of the price. Call me stingy, but I’ve assembled a solid collection of well-designed, sturdy bargain wear that works perfectly. If you live in a place where the local selection isn’t good, keep in mind that you can find most of your setup in Alaska big box stores and local businesses once you get here, at prices similar to what you’d expect at home. The right gear will not only make your time in Alaska much more comfortable and enjoyable; it may just save your life.

Frost blankets the author’s camp on the Wulik River during a late fall trip.

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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GEAR

Trekking Poles for all Travels Don’t fall for anything less

BY BJORN DIHLE If you appreciate your knees and, like me, tend to fall down most when you venture beyond the pavement, a good set of trekking poles can make life a lot more enjoyable. The days of good ol’ fashioned walking sticks seem to be gone, replaced with a surprising array of technology-infused and lightweight “sticks,” the hip slang for trekking poles. Whether you’re looking for an ultralight folding pole to take overseas or a set of rugged sticks for a wilderness wander, finding the right product takes some research. Here are five trekking poles I tested this spring and summer.

Editor’s Choice Black Diamond Alpine FLZ Trekking Poles This was the first pair of folding poles I’d ever used and, with my tendency to break almost everything I touch, I wasn’t sure they’d hold up. Sure, they looked good, packed away to nearly nothing, and had a comfortable cork grip, but that meant nothing if they failed partway through a long wilderness trek. I abused them on numerous mountain hikes, just waiting for them to bend or snap. Didn’t happen. I took them on a 130-mile trek on Kodiak expecting them to be toast afterward. Didn’t happen. The one con I experienced was that the wrist straps fray. They are a little heavier than some of the other folding poles on the market, but if you’re looking for a rugged four-season product that can also be used as a ski pole, I would highly recommend the Alpine FLZ. $150.00; blackdiamondequipment.com

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Komperdell Peak Hunter Trekking Poles These lightweight two-part aluminum poles are one of the cheaper products on the market. Don’t be fooled by the price; Komperdell has long been recognized for its quality trekking poles and maintains a three-year guarantee on all of its telescopic poles. I used the Peak Hunters on mountain hikes and found them comfortable and reliable. My partner used them on the Chilkoot Trail, a 33-mile classic hike following the most popular route stampeders used during the Klondike Gold Rush, and loved them. While I would not recommend them on something like a trek across the Brooks Range, they are a great choice for three-season trail hiking. $50.00; komperdell.com

Leki Micro Vario Carbon DSS Trekking Poles These newly released folding trekking poles are for serious hikers who want the absolute best performance in their product. For three-season sticks these are my pick. The poles are ultralight, use a Dynamic Suspension System that greatly reduces pole shock and vibration while on the trail, and break down to a mere 15 inches for easy storage. They are the only folding pole I know of with shock absorbers. The foam grips are super comfy and the wrist straps are well constructed. For their weight, the Micro Vario Carbon DSS are very strong and rugged. I would consider these on a long three-season wilderness trek. $220.00; leki.com

Big Agnes Passport Tension Lock These are by far the lightest and most compact folding pole I reviewed. Ideal for travelers and day hikers alike, the Passports are perfect for adventures like the Camino de Santiago and other pilgrimages. They’re advertised for moderate/arduous use on day and overnight trips on trails or in wilderness. They held up during the few mountain hikes I used them on but are best suited for less rugged use. They come with rubber stoppers for pavement. I’d recommend these as an ideal traveler trekking pole. $75.00-$150.00; bigagnes.com

Montem Ultralight Carbon Fiber Trekking Poles Lightweight, rugged and well-built, these poles are likely the best deals you’ll find on the market. Made with 100% carbon—the two poles together weigh less than a pound—I was impressed with how many positive and passionate reviews I found of this product online.

After testing them on a few long day hikes I understood the hype. They’ll join me on numerous adventures to come. They have comfy grips and are super light and surprisingly sturdy. Montem has created a high quality and competitive product at half the price. $99.95; montemlife.com

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

47

Who’s Right?

BY JULIE ST. LOUIS

Mat-Su Valley

In 2016, the judge in this battle confirmed the public’s entitlement to use the Historic Iditarod Trail across the plaintiffs’ property based on an 1866 law that allows the federal trail to be informally claimed by states and local governments based on frequent use.

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A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

T

WO TRAILS, TWO VIEWPOINTS,

two ways of life, history, and law collide over the fate of land rights in the Mat-Su Valley. A June 2016 decision in favor of the State of Alaska capped four years of legal wrangling in a landowner dispute centered on a portion of the historic Iditarod Trail.

Before there was the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race there was the 2,300-mile historic mainly winter Iditarod Trail, now called the Historic Iditarod Trail in some sections and the Iditarod National Historic Trail in others, managed by Bureau of Land Management and Alaska Department of Natural Resources, to differentiate between the route of “The Last Great Race on Earth®” and the one that got its name from a now abandoned gold mining town that reached its peak in the mid-1900s.

Fast forward to today where parts of the historic trail system are preserved by federal and state agencies and used for travel and recreation. The segment in question, also known as the Knik to Susitna Trail, is at the confluence of the Matanuska and Susitna (Mat-Su) valleys about an hour’s drive from Anchorage.

The legal maneuvering formally began in 2012 when two landowners and sisters, Kelly Dickson and Donna Defusco, filed seeking a quiet title to their inherited homestead property free of public easements and rights-ofway. However, according to the State, regular use of one of two disputed rights-of-way by fur traders, miners, skiers, dog mushers, and neighboring homesteaders dates back to the late 1800s and use of the other, aptly named Homestead Road, began soon after their father, Benjamin Cowert, applied for a homestead in 1958.

JULIE ST. LOUIS

Land use fight continues over Historic Iditarod Trail access

The case has been complicated for both sides and provides a glimpse into how land-use issues have evolved during the course of Alaska’s history—beginning with Alaska Native tribes, Russian fur traders, gold miners, the early days of mail service by dog team, the beginnings of building the railroad, all the way up to today where many old homesteads are now cookie-cutter subdivisions.

While the judge in the case confirmed the public’s entitlement to use the Historic Iditarod Trail across the plaintiffs’ property, the sisters say the decision will have a negative effect on private property owners across the nation.

Dog mushers, the main user group in winter, maintain that the trail areas in dispute have consistently been open to them to train their racing teams.

When the sisters, who no longer live in Alaska, first expressed concern over members of the public trespassing on two portions of their family’s 240 acres of private property, confusion ensued on just which Iditarod Trail was in question: the Historic Iditarod Trail or the Congressionally designated and federal and state operated Iditarod National Historic Trail.

Despite both sides attempting to find a suitable workaround that would make each happy, none was found, leading to the court battle. The State relied on testimony by several renowned dog mushers dating to the beginning of the Iditarod Trail Sled Dog Race, including past winner Dick Mackey and current competitors Dee Dee Jonrowe and Ray Redington, Jr. Dickson thinks that the State is manipulating Alaska history and feels let down by the court system. “We never thought the judge would turn her back on the historical data. Ever. Who could do that? It’s Alaska’s history,” she says.

“People think that I just don’t want people on my property or that I’m anti dog or anti musher, and that reasoning is incorrect. We want to preserve the correct history and our homestead.”

While other Alaska land use disputes have garnered national attention over the years—the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, for example, and the “Papa Pilgrim” vs.

National Park Service battle in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park—this smaller-scale conflict, now in the appeals stage, could also have lasting consequences.

Land use disputes are often complex and take years to resolve. This one between two Alaskans and the State began in 2012 over public easements and rights-of-way crossing an old homestead.

Julie St. Louis has immersed herself in Alaska life for a decade, from banding waterfowl to mushing dogs. She’s currently Alaska reporter for courthousenews.com.

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49

Evening sky with Inuit constellations used in navigating.

Arctic Pathfinders

BY MICHAEL ENGELHARD

“L

ISTEN AND LOOK INTENTLY

to the great outdoors as though it were a great symphony, where land and ice are one.” Jose A. Kusugak from Repulse Bay, Nunavut, remembers how, as a child snowbound in his family’s sod house, he listened intently to the wind, an activity his parents encouraged. Eavesdropping on the elements, playing aaqsiiq, the “Silent Game,” young Jose heard “rolling snow, driving and building and shaping snowdrifts.” On the igloo roof, he heard a different sound and the faster tempo of impetuous natiruviaq—“flooring

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A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

snow.” The boy knew that this layer meant good nursery lairs for seals and easier travel for people on the sea ice. For families sustained by hunting along the sea ice edge or on featureless tundra, paying attention to environmental clues could be lifesaving.

Generations of indigenous northerners thus honed their perception through decades of traveling in terrain shifting and treacherous.

With sea ice conditions quickly changing and people now drowning on Snow-go rides, these skills are once again tested. But the ancient lore is in danger of being forgotten. Elders tell of youths that go snowmachining and get lost

(THIS PAGE) COURTESY OF DIGITALIS EDUCATION SOLUTIONS; (OPPOSITE PAGE) COURTESY BO EIDE

Ancient navigation methods still in use today

myths, which of course vary according to or run out of gas, unable to find their way region. For Canadian Inuit, the Big Dipper home. Artificial features such as radar is “Caribou” (Tukturjuit). Boötes owes its towers and radio masts are replacing Inuktitut name “Two in Front” (or Sivullik, snowdrifts and stars as natural compasses “the First Ones”) to the story of an orphan for younger hunters. As shown in the 2011 boy chased by his grandfather. In this film On the Ice, North Slope search and scenario, astronomy’s Arcturus is the rescue teams benefit from the savvy of angry “Old Man.” travel-wise elders. Native languages, Traditionally, people ventured across however, are vital for expressing complex the sea as much as they did across land, wayfinding concepts, and a lack of fluency and their mental seafaring kit was just as hinders transmitting such knowledge.

One master navigator, Fred George from amply stocked. Like a quivering compass needle or the frozen grass that Fred the Yup’ik village Akiachak, has traveled George described, floating kelp (qiqquaq) the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta for 60 years. undulates lengthwise in offshore currents.

Things his dad taught him guide George.

This is a great indicator of direction when The area’s snow-bearing northeast winds, for example, weigh down tundra grass and you cannot see the sun but requires intimate knowledge of an area’s coastal freeze it fixed in a southwesterly orientatopography and tidal profile. Loons and tion. The same harsh winds cause terns returning from feeding sorties at sea scattered, stunted trees to lean that way provide additional pointers: their nests and to grow most of their branches and leaves on the trunk’s lee side; waves on the spell the comforts of terra firma.

An Igloolik elder recalled an incident in delta’s countless lakes congeal in these which two men drifted on moving sea ice. winds and covered with hard October With the wind and the sun’s position snow, align at right angles to that guiding him, one of the men tried to reach direction. Like Polynesia’s transoceanic shore directly, by heading south. His mariners who sensed wave sets even companion deployed a harpoon and a blindfolded in an outrigger’s bottom, Fred George registers snow wave direction with float instead, to gauge the tide’s currents.

He knew that, initially, the ice would move his body as he travels over them. seaward, but that soon a counter current On winter nights with clear skies, would take charge. He therefore walked constellations lead George, as they have voyagers the world over for millennia. With north, away from land. The one who’d headed south changed his mind and the help of Venus or the Big Dipper and a watch, this Yup’ik Argonaut charts his course across ocean-like tundra. (In 1999, when much of this was observed, Venus, the evening star, was usefully visible from February to April. When Venus—the brightest celestial body in the western sky— stood at 9 o’clock of George’s watch face, north was at 12.)

As in the western classical tradition, constellations were named creatively and ingrained in stories that served as mnemonics and to explain the world. In Yu’pik minds, Leo became “Fish Hook” or “Arrow,” and Orion’s three belt-stars the “Raven’s Cane.”

Corona borealis—the “Northern Crown”—is “Kuspuk Hem,” and the twin stars of Boötes are “Fish Trap.” Some monikers Sastrugi snow drifts were hitched to creation north of the Arctic Circle.

followed and eventually, the volatile mass carried both back to shore-fast ice. In situations such as this, one would also want to avoid open water.

Bluish-gray cloud bellies warn men of just that, ice-free stretches reflected on a low ceiling. Atmospheric phenomena can even lead hunters to prey. A common Arctic refraction known as “looming” conjures objects from below an observer’s horizon line. They hover above it, distorted and sometimes inverted. A person who can read a “pop-up” mirage or puikkaqtuq can plot his way to distant walrus basking on pan ice.

In his prime, Fred George headed Akiachak’s rescue team of three younger men, whom he mentored for years.

Despite FAA grid maps that helped plan their missions, the team, once embarked, relied on observation techniques perfected through the ages. Teaching and learning such orienteering skills anchors the past in the present. It bonds generations, which, like the land and sea ice, remain one.

Michael Engelhard is the author of the essay collection, American Wild: Explorations from the Grand Canyon to the Arctic Ocean, and of Ice Bear: The Cultural History of an Arctic Icon. He lives in Fairbanks, and, as a wilderness guide in the Arctic, appreciates route-finding skills—and maps.

OCTOBER 2017 A L A S K A

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Standing Tall

BY EMILY MOUNT

Glacier Bay National Park

Tlingit tribal members move a totem into place at the totem-raising event in Glacier Bay. Lead carver Gordon Greenwald is on the far left.

52

O

N AN OVERCAST SPRING DAY, TWO

dugout canoes escorted a pair of catamarans into Glacier Bay National Park. Hundreds of Tlingit people had come to witness a historic event: two totem poles raised in their ancestral homeland.

Excitement was palpable as singing and dancing led the way up the beach to the red cedar poles.

Following greetings and speeches, dozens of people flanked the poles and maneuvered them to Xunaa Shuká Hít (Huna Ancestors’ House).

Totem poles, or kootéeyaa in Tlingit, were first carved by the Tlingit, Haida, and Tsimshian of Alaska and British Columbia. Traditionally, stone tools were used to carve decay-resistant red cedar. Upper-class members of society commissioned poles for a variety of purposes: to identify family houses, honor deceased individuals, or house the remains of the dead.

Totem figures represent specific individuals, family lineages, stories, and animals. Gordon Greenwald, lead carver of the Glacier Bay totems, said, “The primary elements are like chapter titles. It’s a book of short stories in that every object has a story behind it. It’s representing more than just what you can see.”

Through trade with early explorers and fur traders during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Alaska Natives acquired metal.

A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

Metal revolutionized totem carving, as did newfound wealth acquired from the fur trade.

Totems proliferated up and down the coast, with cultures as far south as Oregon adopting totem carving.

In the late 1800s tourists, scientists, and prospectors steamed north to Alaska, eager for a taste of the Last Frontier. Totems were wildly popular and visitors ransacked poles from villages for museums and private collections. Miniature souvenir totems were sold locally in addition to being manufactured as far away as Japan. In the American mind, totems had become synonymous with Northwest Coast culture.

At the dawn of the twentieth century, Alaska’s territorial governor John Green Brady set out to put Alaska firmly on the map. In 1904, Brady shipped 15 poles, a canoe, and two Haida houses to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in St. Louis. Alaska’s Native-themed display vied for the attention of millions alongside the automobile, x-ray machine, and waffle cone.

The next year the display journeyed to Oregon’s Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition before returning to Alaska, where Brady established a park to display the totems. In 1910, the totems were incorporated into Sitka National Monument (now a national historical park).

EMILY MOUNT

Alaska totems through time

But as Americans fell in love with the totem, traditional carving and Native culture experienced systematic suppression. Children were forcibly removed from families and shipped hundreds or thousands of miles away to boarding schools. “The purpose of the boarding schools was assimilation, not education, which is what they called it,” Greenwald said. “You had to abandon wherever else you were coming from. This was a dark period in our history, and not just ours as Tlingit people but ours as Native Americans all over.”

After decades of facing the possibility of losing their culture, Alaska Natives experienced an unexpected boon: in the 1930s public interest in Native cultures rejuvenated traditional arts.

Under the New Deal, the Civilian Conservation Corps hired Alaska Natives to repair and replicate totem poles in Southeast Alaska.

Over 100 poles were refurbished, leading to a resurgence in totem carving.

Today’s totem poles often mingle traditional elements with new ideas. Greenwald and fellow carvers Owen James and Herb Sheakley, Sr. are currently carving a “healing totem” depicting the twentieth century struggle between the Tlingit

and National Park Service in Glacier Bay. This pole is one of many collaborative projects between the park and Hoonah Indian Association (HIA). Greenwald hopes to “heal some of the wounds of the past with this project and hopefully move on to future cooperative working situations and understanding.”

Relationships between the tribe and park service are strengthening through joint endeavors like the totem raising.

Before the totems were lifted from the ground, clan leaders led the audience in a ceremony to name and breathe life into the poles: Xunaa Yéil Kootéeyaa (Huna Raven Totem Pole) and Xunaa Ch’áak’ Kootéeyaa (Huna Eagle Totem Pole).

Beneath a light drizzle, Greenwald, James, Sheakley, and HIA’s Tribal Administrator Bob Starbard set the poles in place. An elder told the crowd, “This is part of the dream, the dream of our ancestors. We heard the story of Glacier A totem is lifted into place Bay for so many years, and in front of Xunaa Shuká Hít. when they told the story, they had tears in their eyes.

Now they’re here. They’re watching us. They’re hearing us. We must show the utmost respect for our ancestors, and the dedication of our kootéeyaas.”

Once the poles were raised people funneled into Xunaa Shuká Hít for celebration, food, song, and dance. Drumbeats resonated across the water like a heartbeat, a reminder that Alaska Native cultures are alive and well beneath totems which have stood watch since time immemorial.

Emily Mount is a naturalist and photography instructor for Lindblad Expeditions/ National Geographic and former national park ranger.

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Making Memories Ozzie Sweetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Inupiat Images

[ABOVE] Respect for elders is a key tenet of Alaska Native cultures.

[RIGHT] Ozzie Sweet visits with local women and children. He holds a Newsweek magazine that features his photograph on the cover.

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Photos by

Ozzie Sweet

M

aking photos, rather than simply taking them, was Ozzie Sweetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s signature method. Although Sweet passed away in 2013, his images live on in pages and on covers of iconic American publications and by the diligent handling of his photography collections by JG Autographs Inc. and its creative imprint, House of Roulx. We thank Jared Gendron of House of Roulx for providing us with these photos Ozzie Sweet made in Alaska in the late 1940s. And we invite our readers to help fill in the gaps where information on location and individuals is scarce. If you know more about any of these images, please email us at editor@alaskamagazine.com.

During Sweetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s early years as a photojournalist, he visited Alaska on assignment for Pan Am Airlines to create promotional pieces aimed at increasing tourism and destination interest. He traveled 6,600 miles over four months by boat, plane, truck, horseback, and on foot. Sweet was impressed with the tenacious lifestyle Alaska Natives led, and that reaction is tangible in these images of Inupiat life in the far north. ~Ed.

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[LEFT] The blanket toss today is held as entertainment but originated as a way for hunters to get a better view across flat land or ice packs.

[BELOW] Children gather for a group photo. Coastal Inupiat traded sea mammal hides with interior villages for land mammal pelts like the wolverine and wolf fur ruffs of the kidsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; parkas.

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A man carves a tiny polar bear from walrus ivory. Federal Trade Commission regulations allow only Alaska Natives to carve and then sell new marine mammal ivory, while old ivory can be carved by anyone.

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Gut skin parkas, made from seal intestines, kept hunters and travelers dry. Fine sinew thread and a special watertight stitch made these garments just as waterproof as todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s modern fabrics.

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[RIGHT] Drumming is an important aspect of Native song and dance. In Inupiat regions, steamed and bent driftwood frames covered with stretched walrus stomach or caribou hide were typical, with a handle of bone, ivory, or antler.

[BELOW] Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s parkas sported a larger hood for carrying babies and toddlers.

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[ABOVE] Friends pose for a photo.

[LEFT] Traditional ceremonial mask making was the purview of men. Inupiat masks were left unpainted.

[BELOW] A kayaker maneuvers through chunks of sea ice. Various types of kayaks were used along Alaskaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s northern, western, and southwestern coasts.

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Fur, one of natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best insulators, kept people warm in the harsh Arctic environment.

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Subsiste [BOTTOM] Subsistence camps like this one at Lewis Point sit along the Nushagak River. Each summer, camp owners arrive to catch sockeye and king salmon and prepare it for their freezers upriver in their New Stuyahok homes.

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PHOTO CREDIT

[TOP] Evan Chocknok, Sr. hauls in fish caught in his net. Chocknok pulled in more than 50 sockeye, plus two king salmon, one of them nearly 50 pounds.

Chocknok worked nearly two hours until a late summer Alaska sunset began to arrive near midnight.

Alaska Natives pursue nature’s bounty in Bristol Bay watershed

S

tanding on a bluff overlooking the Nushagak River in southwestern Alaska, Tim Wonhola, Sr. smiles, grateful for the breeze that pushes the scent from salmon strips hanging in a nearby smokehouse toward him.

It underscores an annual cultural rite spanning millennia, one that Tim, a 71-year-old Yup’ik man, and his wife, Mary, the smokehouse caretaker, say they’ve enjoyed since childhood and during 42 years of marriage. >>

nce Tradition STORY & PHOTOS BY STEVE QUINN

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It

speaks to a way of life—harvesting wild animals, sea life, and plants—centuries old practices that have come to be known as subsistence, a key element of Alaska Native culture and identity.

“It’s living off the land,” said Tim, who lives farther north in New Stuyahok. “I can close my eyes, twirl around and point to any direction and I can find food. Even in the winter. There are a lot of edible things you don’t know about. You would starve first before me.

“We learn how to live it from an early age. We don’t forget what we’re taught and we teach others. We learned how to find locations by what the elders have taught us by the traditional knowledge.”

Camps such as these in Lewis Point sit about a 20-minute skiff ride from Dillingham, a fishing port of 2,400 year-round residents and which is considered the region’s hub to the smaller communities along the Nushagak River.

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[TOP] Elsie Albrite and Evan Chocknok, Sr. focus on cutting sockeye salmon into thin strips that will eventually find their way into the smokehouse. The two are childhood sweethearts reunited seven years ago.

[RIGHT] Ann Edwards takes a break from cutting up smoked fish into smaller sections, but makes sure she leaves her work area and ulu knives clean for when she is ready to resume work.

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[LEFT] Even with the fish in the smokehouse, “the work doesn’t stop,” says Tim Wonhola, Sr., who puts the final touches on a new entrance to his bunkhouse.

[BOTTOM] Evan Chocknok, Sr. begins his morning by bringing wood to the bunkhouse he shares with girlfriend Elsie Albrite, who walks behind him.

[RIGHT] Mary Wonhola says she constantly keeps busy while her fish are in the smokehouse. Using all of her five-foot, 85-pound frame, she splits wood used to keep the bunkhouse warm.

They

can also be found along beaches throughout the Bristol Bay watershed. Elders often spend the most time at them. Family members—adult children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews—visit from as far away Barrow/Utqiagvik, more than 1,000 miles north, and pitch in.

Tim says the nearly 50 million fish in this Bristol Bay watershed are as sacred as they are substantive food: “Every living thing lives off fish.” He works through arthritis that gets more painful each year. “Eagles eat it. Bears eat it. Humans eat it. Aquatic life eats it. That’s why we don’t waste it. We yearn for it. Our body craves for it.

“My mother would greet the first king salmon that comes to her table. Tears would come down her eyes. She would say, ‘Now my kids won’t go hungry; fish are returning.’ The elders used to say take want you need, not what you want, and leave the rest for tomorrow.”

One mile downstream from the Wonholas’ camp, fish have just been caught by Evan Chocknok, Sr. He and Elsie Albrite must now prepare 75 fish—mostly sockeye and a few kings almost too large for Chocknok to carry up the eroding bluff stairs—for the smokehouse.

This is no weekend trip to the cabin to cast lines under the sun and wait for a fish to bite. Winds whip on the bluff. Dark, foreboding clouds hover low enough to prevent commuter flights essential to daily life from connecting people from one village to another in an area where few roads link these communities.

High-tide swells prevent skiffs from crossing the rivers.

“It’s the hardest work on earth, but I love it,” says Evan, who also lives in New Stuyahok, after pulling to shore a 60-foot-long, eight-foot-deep net teeming with fish, setting aside chronic pain to both legs and lower back.

Using an ulu knife—its crescent-shaped blade used to skin animals, cut fish into strips, and eat—Elsie smiles at her first cut into a sockeye salmon.

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[TOP LEFT] Elsie Albrite cleans ulu knives, getting them ready to be sharpened and used for another round of cutting salmon into strips.

[BOTTOM LEFT] Elsie Albrite hangs fish on wooden rods, getting them ready for the smokehouse. Even as her hands tire from cutting the fish, she says hanging is a welcome next step.

[TOP RIGHT] Fresh cut sockeye salmon hangs for drying before getting placed in a smokehouse. They are a signature sight at fish camps, signaling the fish are one step away from the smokehouse.

PHOTO CREDIT

[BOTTOM RIGHT] Everybody pitches in at the Lewis Point fish camp.

Here, Maeva Wonhola carries water from the beach to the camp.

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“This

is a good fish,” she says. They all are. A month earlier, she had a benign tumor removed from her kidney. Doctors told her to take a year off from the fish camps to enhance her recovery. Instead, she and Evan—childhood sweethearts reunited seven years ago—share duties of cutting salmon into large and small strips that will first be soaked in water and then brined, a step that helps pull out moisture while the fish is smoked.

She began working about 10 hours after Evan finished hauling in his net and moving the fish near the carving tables.

“I really like this camp; it’s nice and quiet,” she says. “I wasn’t supposed to be here, but I didn’t want him to be alone.”

At first glance, the camps resemble buildings long since abandoned, but a closer look reveals sturdy, heated bunkhouses, a steam bathhouse, smokehouses, and open-air structures where salmon are hung to dry before entering a smokehouse.

While Elsie cuts fish, Mary Wonhola tends to fish in the smokehouse. She moves strips around the house to ensure balanced smoking. She burns driftwood sticks, cottonwood for its moistness, and birch fungus in evening. When she walks away from the smokehouse, the scent remains embedded in her clothing and hair, and gets stronger with each visit.

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PHOTO CREDIT

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“It’s

the best perfume in the world,” she says.

“That’s my subsistence.”

While the fish hang in the smokehouse, work continues around the camp. Tim cuts plywood and begins building a new sheltered entry to the bunkhouse. He also wants to fortify the east side of the house, where a brown bear tore open a hole after the Wonholas left camp last year. There are also a few nets that need mending for next year.

Meanwhile, at five feet tall and just 85 pounds, Mary splits wood for the stove that also keeps the bunkhouse warm.

She cleans clothes and towels rubbing them against the 19th-century-design washboard and ringing them out with gnarled hands that reveal decades of hard living. She then hangs them on a line while battling wind gusts attempting to pull the clothes off the line.

Subsistence gathering doesn’t end with the salmon. Next the Wonholas and others will pick berries on Alaska’s tundra throughout the region; together with their families they will hunt moose, caribou, and even beaver, which can be used to

make mittens and hats. “Oh boy, those are the warmest hat and gloves you can get,” Tim says. “And it doesn’t cost you a dime.

“But the culture is really strong here. It’s so powerful, it makes you satisfied that you don’t have to go hungry even if you don’t have a job. You don’t have to be homeless because everywhere is home. Everywhere you turn, it’s home.”

It’s a year-round cultivation, a recurring gift from the land and water.

“The land is home; it’s our home,” Tim says. “We know where to go to hunt. We learn how to live it; we learned how to find locations by what the elders have taught us, and they used the traditional knowledge.

“Each season a certain place provides food and we look forward to that season. It hasn’t changed; it’s always been like that here. That’s why people here call this, ‘A place that’s always been.’”

Steve Quinn is a Juneau-based freelance writer who spent large portions of this summer visiting several Alaska Native communities.

[LEFT] Ann Edwards sits in her smokehouse selecting strips she deems ready to cut into smaller pieces and store in bags.

[TOP] Evan Chocknok, Sr. carefully places his net in a tub after hauling more than 50 sockeye and king salmon.

It’s already 11 p.m. and he is grateful for the haul and extended summertime days. “Those are good fish, but it’s hard work. I’m ready for bed.”

[BOTTOM] Dorothy Wonhola fights the wind to hang clothing on the line. Even during the summer, there is a constant battle with the elements: howling winds, rain, and clouds creating a ceiling as low as 500 feet some days.

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Kodiak and Western Alaska Wild adventure, civilized comfort

Kodiak

Unalaska/Port of Dutch Harbor lies about 900 miles southwest of Anchorage.

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I spent the last two days reeling halibut from the depths and hiking to the summit of Pillar Mountain. From here I’m headed west to another new frontier for me: Unalaska and Dutch Harbor. I’ll have a few action-packed days there visiting historic World War II sites, trekking to Humpy Cove, and wandering the bustling docks. Mostly I’m excited for new views of windswept volcanic peaks and a chance to see what life is like in the Aleutians.

As I stand here, watching the sow plod onward, I’m rapt. I can’t believe it took me this long to witness these creatures. Looking back on everywhere I’ve been and looking forward to everywhere I’m heading, I can’t help thinking that no matter how long I’ve lived in this state, Alaska always has more to offer. >>

A L A S K A M A G A Z I N E . C O M OCTOBER 2017

(THIS PAGE) COURTESY OF NOAA; (OPPOSITE PAGE) COURTESY OF SUSAN SOMMER

F

ROM HERE THE SOW ALMOST LOOKS DOCILE, AMBLING ALONG WITH feet wet from a recent wade, trailed by two cubs. I know she is, as a Kodiak brown bear, the largest land carnivore on the planet. She is 1,000 pounds of muscle and sinew, and I have just witnessed her three-inch claws efficiently snare salmon. I’ve lived in Alaska all my life, but this is the first time I’ve come to Kodiak and seen these awe-inspiring bears.

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Baranov Museum In the town of Kodiak, be sure to visit the Baranov Museum. Explore the area’s rich history, from Alutiiq culture and the Russian colonial period to the early American era and World War II. The Baranov Museum is located within a 200-year-old National Historic Landmark building.

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Room restaurant and savor Alaskan king crab, thick cuts of prime rib, and 14 local beers on tap. Enjoy the views of St. Paul Harbor and downtown Kodiak.

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Branch River Air Service Near Katmai National Park and Preserve, the community of King Salmon makes a perfect base camp for discovering the Alaska Peninsula’s wild places. Branch River Air Service, located on the banks of the Naknek River in King Salmon, will get you where you want to go. The company has five float planes available for fly-out fishing, river rafting, flightseeing, and bear viewing. Rafts are available for rent. The area around King Salmon is rich in fish and wildlife.

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Ounalashka Corporation The local Native corporation in Unalaska and owners of much of the surrounding land, the Ounalashka Corporation is proud of the area and its diverse options for sport fishermen, birders, hikers, photographers, kayakers, and history buffs. Travelers can obtain recreational permits for this land from the corporation.

907-581-1276, ounalashka.com Unalaska/Port of Dutch Harbor A journey out through the Aleutian Chain must include a stop at Unalaska/

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I built my own course outside in the front yard, and I have about 22 obstacles now that I train on.”

Nick Hanson “Eskimo Ninja”

Unalakleet resident Nick Hanson competes in the Los Angeles city finals of American Ninja Warrior.

Nick Hanson grew up a competitive athlete, playing every sport available in Unalakleet, a rural town of about 700 on Alaska’s west coast. As an adult, he coaches several local teams and is a regular competitor in the World Eskimo-Indian Olympics, where he recently won four gold medals, a silver medal, and a bronze medal. At the encouragement of others around town, Hanson applied three years ago to compete on American Ninja Warrior, a TV show that pits competitors against each other to see who can make it farthest and fastest over a complex obstacle course.

He’s competed, and improved, every season since. This year, he made it through several elimination rounds and competed in the national finals in Las Vegas. Hanson spoke with Alaska about life as a ninja. ~as told to Alexander Deedy

COURTESY TYLER GOLDEN/NBC

Tell us about how you train.

Ninety percent of my training is the World Eskimo-Indian Olympic games. I didn’t do really any obstacle course training before getting on the show my first season; I basically relied on all my Native games training. Since then, I built my own course outside in the front yard, and I have about 22 obstacles now that I train on.

That’s built entirely out of driftwood?

I would say it’s 97 percent driftwood. It’s expensive out here. Driftwood is free, so I

went down to the beach and drug some driftwood back to the house that was straight and solid.

Which one is harder, WEIO or Ninja Warrior?

Definitely World Eskimo-Indian Olympics.

WEIO put me into perfect shape for Ninja except for my grip, because there’s not really an Eskimo game that deals with grip, except for Eskimo stick bowl. I’m 170 pounds and if I was to join Eskimo stick bowl at WEIO I’d be going against

300 pound dudes that have five kids that have that dad strength; I’m going to get thrown across the room from those guys.

WEIO really taxes your entire body. Ninja Warrior, when you’re competing, it pushes you to a tired limit but you’re not nearly as sore after Ninja compared to competing at WEIO.

What do you do in Unalakleet when you’re not training?

Whatever comes to mind. Our village is literally one and a half square miles, so it’s like the same size as a city block. We kind of have to get creative and make up stuff to do for fun. We’ll go out berry picking or we’ll go hunting. A friend of mine makes videos for a hobby, so we’ll make those. I’ll go hang out with the kids, go play ditch ‘em, which is basically hide and seek throughout the entire town. We have fun doing what we can out here.

What are your goals for Ninja Warrior?

I’m going to continue to compete, and I’m going to continue to apply every year. My ultimate goal is, obviously, I want to finish.

I’m the kind of guy that once I start something I want to finish it all the way through. I have small goals along the way.

It’s going to take stepping stones to get to the top of the 80-foot rope and hopefully win half a million dollars.

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Can you tell us where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll find this view?

Alaska magazine editor Susan Sommer took this while traveling through the state.

Post your answer on Facebook for a chance to win a subscription to Alaska magazine. facebook.com/AlaskaMagazine

September Answer:

Susan Sommer took this photo while camping at the Quartz Creek Campground on Kenai Lake.

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