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caribou people 角鹿和人类

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For thousands of years, Alaska's Gwich'in Indians have hunted caribou for food and clothing.
The caribou had returned. Everyone in Arctic Village, Alaska, knew of the return because hundreds of animals were roaming the hillsides. Several caribou bulls had even raced through the village.

The caribou had drifted from northern calving grounds near the Arctic Ocean. Now they were migrating through the mountains to wintering grounds almost one thousand miles farther south, just as they have been doing for thousands of years.

For the Gwich'in Indians, a people dependent on caribou, the return was a big event. It meant that stomachs would be full when it was sixty degrees below zero, when game was not moving, and when arctic nights seemed to last forever.

My wife and I first became acquainted with the Gwich'in when we arrived in Arctic Village one June to work as teachers. Jane and I had flown north from Fairbanks, Alaska, in a small bush plane to America's northern-most Indian village, a place where the summer sun does not set for almost two full weeks.
This caribou is shedding its velvet, the thin layer of skin that covers its antlers while they grow.
This caribou is shedding its velvet, the thin layer of skin that covers its antlers while they grow.

The plane settled onto a dirt runway near a cluster of thirty cabins that make up Arctic Village. Here, about one hundred Gwich'in live almost as they have for nearly ten thousand years. A few take temporary jobs outside the village. Money is used to buy what they can't grow or make within the village, such as vegetables and snowmobiles. Other than that, they remain a caribou people, depending on the animal for all of their meat.

Now, in late July, the caribou were streaming through the surrounding mountains, and everyone was excited. "The caribou are here," said several of our students over and over again. "We're going hunting and won't be back for many days. It's what we've been doing all our lives."

Parents of some of our students invited us to go hunting with them. Caroline and Kenneth Frank said they would transport our packs on a small all-terrain vehicle. Pointing to the hills, they said they'd make camp there. Now Jane and I were also excited!

Early one morning we set off into the mountains. As we hiked, we passed fields of wildflowers, and though it was only the middle of August, the flowers were already going to seed. Later, we passed the huge tracks of a grizzly bear.
Roasting caribou ribs in Arctic Village.

Roasting caribou ribs in Arctic Village.

Finally we arrived at Kenneth and Caroline's camp. From the camp, we watched over the treeless landscape as they hunted. The couple had seen a group of about thirty caribou. An hour later the couple closed in on a large bull. Kenneth was a good marksman, and the bull died quickly.

After butchering the animal right there, the Franks loaded more than two hundred pounds of meat onto their four-wheeler and returned to camp, where they began their hard work. Along with their children, who learned by helping, the Franks draped thin strips of meat on sticks that were hung over a fire in a canvas smokehouse. The fire belched smoke and kept flies from laying eggs in the meat. At the same time, the sun's heat warmed the smokehouse and dried the meat. The family would get almost one hundred pounds of dried meat from that single caribou.

In the following days the couple killed four more caribou, each time cleaning up the kill site. The Gwich'in believe that the Great Spirit created caribou and man from a common stock. So, just as they wouldn't leave behind the remains of a human who had died, they don't leave behind the remains of a caribou.

From each animal, they removed and washed out the stomach muscle. "This is one of the best parts," said Kenneth with a smile. "We cook it for elders and guests." Jane and I now know that this special part of the caribou tastes a little like fried chicken.
Jenny Sam sits inside her cabin with a pair of her beautiful moccasins.
Jenny Sam sits inside her cabin with a pair of her beautiful moccasins.

Several days later we returned from the hills to find village residents planning a cookout to celebrate their successful hunt. Almost everyone came. Before the evening was over, the village people had gathered near the home of the most successful hunter. Soon fires blazed. Over the fires, villagers browned meat. Later in the evening, Trimble Gilbert, the village minister, played his fiddle, and everyone danced through the arctic night into the dawn of a new arctic day.

As winter set in, we learned that nothing from the caribou is wasted. Winter was a time for tanning the hides and making boots and clothing. Tools were made from caribou bones.

One winter day, when the sun never rose above the horizon, Jane and I hiked a trail to the home of Jenny Sam. She was known for making beautiful caribou boots.

Jenny spoke little English, so we talked with our hands as we admired a pair of her boots. She had tanned a hide and cut and sewn together the pieces of leather. Then she had sewn beads onto the toes, and fringe onto the upper parts of the leggings. We bought the boots as a work of art and as a symbol of our year with the Gwich'in. The boots remind us of our hike along the trail to Jenny Sam's home, of the wolf howl off in the distance, and of the northern lights overhead.

But mostly those boots remind us of the Gwich'in, a proud people who hunt the caribou for their food and clothing. "It's what we've been doing all our lives," our students had said. It's what the Gwich'in have been doing for thousands of years.

By Bert Gildart



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