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As I listen to the recent news, things sound so abnormal that I can't help but feel a little confused as to what the new values are. And what did people do with their old values? That thought continued to haunt me last month as I snowmobiled south through a storm, crossing sea ice and trying not to get truly lost.
I passed through what the old-timers here call the Arctic Circle. This is where the US military built a temporary coastal airstrip during World War II. It was a cold, long journey to find caribou, my face frozen, my mind wandering under my fur hood and coming across a news article. What bothered me at the time was the question of whether Joe Biden was too old to be the next president.
The light was flat. I kept hitting rock hard snowdrifts that I couldn't see coming. A low ridge appeared several miles away. I wish I had been more aware of my surroundings as the landscape was eerie, desolate and dangerous when the wind picked up. I learned about the Iñupiaq elders I knew, the men who were fearless and skilled hunters, and the women who were amazingly generous and kind, who protected their skin and responded with kindness to the myriad demands of survival. It reminded me of us.
The elders knew every crevice on this coastline. That's because it needed to be done. Before climate change and buying everything in stores, values were simpler. There was far less willow to burn when fire was needed, and no Bic lighters, flare guns, or InReach devices to press the button for “help.” No words can melt your fingers and feet and feed your family. Only strength and ability, wisdom and experience kept you alive. The kind of knowledge learned slowly over a lifetime.
When I think about that “news” from the Lower 48, I find myself disgusted. I was surprised when, behind the mask, I shouted out loud over the roar of the wind, “Don't those people have any common sense?''
Seriously, what's going on there?
The Lower 48 is known locally as 'County Down'.
“Are you planning on moving down the state?”
“Achikan! Be careful not to get lost in the state. ”
In the old days, it was customary in the states to believe that things made sense. From there came large ships loaded with Bibles and books, gunpowder, wolf traps, canned butter, and tea bags. Today, online news about race relations, protests and homelessness, chickens in factories, lead in water, and school shootings have a different feel for those of us in the Far North. That seems like a tough place to live.
It's also bewildering for us to keep up with all the new rules people keep coming up with. How wrong it is to say or do this or that, not to mention all the actual laws. I guess that's what I was shouting into the wind, angry that so many people were publicly criticizing the president's age. It is wrong to discriminate against older people. period. And why isn't that the first rule of the woke club?
Here, we think of our elders as important connections to who we are and what was important to us. Certainly we are not focused on hair. Or how they walk, or not. Or the specificity of the speed and sound of the voice. In fact, we love their voices! We record them and cherish them in the future. Here, we are appalled every time a village elder dies. We are shaken by such huge losses. Who can replace Minnie Gray, Bob Wool, Clarence Wood, Oran Knox, or any of the many elder statesmen we have lost over the last decade? They lived in another world in the past. They disappeared from history. They were there! That kind of knowledge is invaluable, and despite common misconceptions, race has nothing to do with being a wise elder. The quiet acceptance of our elders in the blizzard of so many changes is a pure blessing, and their breadth of vision is invaluable for surviving in the midst of modern hardship and social turmoil. It is important and will continue to be important.
Since then, I stopped talking to myself out loud – because I was too busy worrying. We get so worried that we forget all about the waterfall of the modern news cycle. The snow snake began to move, and the snowstorm on the ground grew larger. And over land to the west, I caught a last glimpse of a dark band of clouds – the open ocean reflecting the darkness of the sky. It was an old warning about a new danger: winter's unfrozen seas.
Quickly, I parked in front of the glass again for the caribou. There was only a white landscape that faded away. Somewhere out here, animals were using their instincts to survive. I too had an instinct that told me it would be foolish to go it alone with these winds blowing. I knew that if I was traveling with an elder, we would just nod at each other, laugh, and keep hunting. Instead I had to turn around and go back. My footprints had already disappeared. I sped up, trying to find tracks in the snow, hoping I could find my way home.
Seth Kantner lives in northern Alaska, is a commercial fisherman, and is the author of “Ordinary Wolves” and the recently released “A Thousand Trails Home: Living With Caribou.”
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