Gwich'in elder Caroline Kay at her camp on the Rat River.
Our family has been fortunate to have known Gwich’in people in many different places and circumstances. We’ve visited with them in remote villages such as Old Crow, Yukon and Arctic Village, Alaska. We have basked in their warm hospitality at camps “out on the land” by the Porcupine and Rat Rivers. We have traveled with them across the US on slide-show tours. We have protested with them in front of a BP shareholder’s meeting in London and lobbied Senators with them in Washington DC.
The Gwich’in are a proud, self-sufficient people. A people willing to speak out about the threats to the Porcupine Caribou Herd and their way of life – and do it in “a good way”- the way laid out by Elders in 1988 when they decided to leave their villages to speak out about protection for the Arctic Refuge.
For the Gwich’in this is more than a conservation issue. It is a matter of human rights. The calving grounds of the Porcupine Caribou Herd are a sacred place for the Gwich’in. These “caribou people” have depended on the caribou for their subsistence needs and cultural identity for more than 12, 000 years.
Unfortunately for the Gwich’in, the caribou and the other wildlife, multinational oil corporations and their political allies are waging a massive campaign to mandate drilling in the “biological heart” of the Arctic Refuge, the fragile coastal plain. 95% of Alaska’s Arctic coastal lands are already available for oil exploration. Existing oil development near Prudhoe Bay sprawls over more than 1,000 square miles and produces an average of 400 oil spills each year. Caribou biologists agree with the Gwich’in that oil development would threaten the future of the Porcupine Herd.
The following passage, from Ken’s book Under the Arctic Sun, opens a small window into the life of the Gwich’in in the remote village of Old Crow, northern Yukon . . .
Does anyone know how many cosponsors the Wilderness Bill needs in order to bypass Don Young and the House Resources Committee?” I ask. “Is it possible . . .”
Boots clump up the outside steps. The door opens and the wind blows in an old man. It isn’t a political wind. The cold air hits the low-pressure area centered over the wooden table in front of me and turns into a fog-bank of steam that swirls around the old man’s feet. He bends over to take off his boots, smiles shyly and shuffles to a chair leaning against the wall. He sits down and looks at us. He doesn’t say anything. I hear the scraping of chair legs on the wooden floor and the hoarse squawks of ravens outside.
There are no crows in Old Crow, but there are lots of ravens. The Gwich’in don’t care about the niceties of bird identification, although they are birders from way back. In Old Crow, Arctic Village and Ft. McPherson, birds fit into two broad categories: those you can eat, and those you can’t. Ravens are crows. Scoters and harlequin ducks are black duck. Long-tailed ducks (formerly old squaws) are uh-un-lak. Chickadees are little ones.
A raven talks to itself on the roof of a log cabin next door. Its croak is as solid as an ebony feather drifting to the ground. It asks a guttural question, then answers, as if fascinated by its own voice. If I listened a little harder I’m sure I could understand what it is saying. I know what the other ravens I hear in the distance are talking about. They are arguing with village dogs over bloody scraps of frozen caribou, moose or black duck.
The meeting is at a standstill. We all stare at the old man. I don’t know whether to repeat my question. Ferreting out the sordid details of Washington DC political reality suddenly seems useless. Then Gladys Netro, the chair of our meeting, stands up and walks around the table to the old man.
“Everyone,” she says, “this is Albert Charlie.”
“Hello,” says Albert, looking at the mostly pale faces sitting around six wooden tables arranged in a rectangle. Four of us represent Yukon conservation organizations; two are from foundations out of Toronto and Seattle. The rest are Gwich’in leaders who have been fighting to protect the calving grounds for longer than they care to remember.
Albert isn’t in a hurry to speak. This is an example of “Indian Time,” waiting until a thought travels from your brain to your lips before filling the air with words. White people sneer about Indian Time when natives skip work, are late for meetings or don’t jump through government hoops quickly enough. Indian Time is rampant when the salmon are running or the caribou trot over the mountains north of Old Crow. The manifestation of Indian Time that most annoys developers and bureaucrats is when Aboriginal people delay projects while they consider whether development will harm their traditional lands.
“I heard that you are meeting about the caribou,” Albert says finally. “I want to tell you some things. I worked with an oil company for four years. I watch them. I know how they work. I see how they dynamite: blasting. They say it’s good, it doesn’t hurt. But I know it hurts. And garbage. They just leave it. I know oil companies don’t care about the caribou. We’re the ones who feed our children caribou meat.”
When Albert says “we,” he isn’t only talking about the 7000 Gwich’in scattered across Alaska, the Yukon and Northwest Territories. We means his great-grandfather who hunted caribou in the spring up in Old Crow Flats and floated back down the river in a skin boat. We includes his ancestors of twelve thousand years ago who lived down the Porcupine River at Bluefish Caves. We is his great granddaughter who isn’t born yet.
“Now the oil companies talk about going up to the calving grounds! They don’t even come around to Old Crow and ask us. They’re planning to come here and make scrambled eggs out of our land, leaving with a pocketful of money. They’ll go back and get fresh fruit and vegetables. The caribou is our fresh stuff.”
Albert’s voice is soft and rocky, like the Porcupine River murmuring over a gravel bar. He’s a little old man, bent and slow, but he looks as tough as an old willow. He talks with long pauses that give time for his words to form solid images in my mind.
“Old timers tell us that hard times are coming back. I know they are coming back. And what will happen if the caribou are gone? It’s pretty scary. If they find oil they’re going to spill it. And what would the caribou think about that?”
Albert has said all he needs to say. He puts his jacket back on and heads out into the brittle March sunshine.
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(Wendy's sketech of caribou) 
