By Doug Struck, Washington Post Foreign Service
A Section; A16 , TIME ZONES Day-Long Stakeout With an Inuit Couple
LENGTH: 855 words
CUMBERLAND SOUND, Canada – The hunters meet on the icepack at 8 a.m. Noah Metuq and his wife, Alukie, ride up on the snowmobile with the ripped seat. A polar bear tore it up one day when Noah wasn’t riding. The temperature is minus 13 degrees and the wind is made of razors.
“A warm day,” Noah says with a grin. He is not joking.
The hunters roar off together on their machines, racing from the embrace of Pangnirtung Fjord near their village out onto Cumberland Sound, about 30 miles from the Arctic Circle. Each tows a sled — a qomatiq — with needed gear: tools in case the snowmobile breaks down, rifles to shoot the seals, gigs to haul them from the icy water. Lunch. Cigarettes. A sleeping bag, just in case.
Noah, 40, is a short, solid man with few words and a lifetime’s experience hunting. His wife is more voluble. Alu-kie, 33, a woman of many smiles, takes in foster children and has three of her own. She comes on the hunt because “I love it out here,” she says. The Inuit couple wear store-bought boots, but she made their other clothing from sealskins and caribou hide, with gloves made of wolf hide — “the warmest thing you can wear,” Alukie says.
As they race, the male hunters stand in the stirrups of the snowmobiles, scanning the ice. They are looking for a small ice dome with a little hole on the surface. It is a seal’s breathing hole. When the men find a patch with many holes, recently formed, they have found the seals. The hunters fan out and each stakes out a hole.
Alukie is a good shot, having picked off dozens of seals in the summer from a bobbing boat. But she has never gotten one in the winter. She takes her spot by a breathing hole, holding an old World War II-era, Yugoslav-made rifle. Broad tracks in the snow show a polar bear has been here recently. The bears use the same hunting strategy; still and quiet, they wait by a breathing hole to deliver the fatal moment.
Noah gives Alukie some advice, then races away on the snowmobile. He and a few others will run wide circles around the spread-out group of hunters, hoping to herd the seals under the ice toward the manned breathing holes.
One of the men, Noah’s cousin, fires first, and drags a ring seal from the water. Alukie waits. And waits. In the silence. Then, she hears the gentle swish of air escaping from the breathing hole, no bigger than a silver dollar. In a moment, the seal will stick its nose through the thin ice and inhale. At that moment Alukie must fire, through the ice, to strike the animal.
Noah hears the gunshot, and races back to Alukie. She is laughing, wiping her face.
“He squirted me right in the eye and I missed,” she says. Noah is amused.
The hunt resumes. Another miss. This time, Alukie is not laughing. They take a break for lunch, gathering with the other hunters on the ice to share dried caribou, tea from Thermoses, and raw seal meat freshly sliced from one of the hunter’s kill. It is still warm, a little chewy, and bland. “If you are cold, it gives you heat like another coat,” Alukie insists.
The hunters move to another area. The sun is a steel disk in the sky, cold and dim. Each breath of air tastes full, like mountain stream water. The ice has frozen in crystal shapes on the surface, tiny floral blossoms that crunch under boots. The wind leads wisps of snow in a sinewy dance.
Encircling all, the horizon hints at infinity in every direction. Spread out against the slate gray sky, lone figures of hunters stand motionless.
This time, Alukie is careful. She does not rush as the seal explores the hole. She carefully points the barrel inches from the ice, holding the rifle over the hole with one hand, trying to keep most of her body from the animal’s sight. The weapon makes a simple pop.
The water instantly turns red, proclaiming her success. She is ecstatic. Noah drives over and gives his wife a celebratory kiss. He gaffs the floating seal, and chisels out a wider hole in the ice. He pulls out a large, 40-pound male ring seal, shot cleanly behind the head.
“This is our daily bread,” Noah says. “If we didn’t have it, we wouldn’t be here.” The Inuit for 4,000 years have eaten seal, caribou, fish, and — in the summer — birds, eggs and whale. There is a general store with groceries in their village, Pangnirtung, but only the few people with cash-paying jobs can regularly afford the food. Noah and Alu-kie’s kids balk at strange meats like beef or chicken.
Animal rights activists deplore the hunt as a brutal practice, but the Inuit see such criticisms as cultural prejudice. Two teenagers composed a clever poster that quickly made the rounds of northern communities. The two are pictured hugging a baby calf. “Save the Baby Veals,” the caption reads.
Noah deftly slices the animal apart, gutting its intestines, removing the hide, saving the meat. It will be frozen by the time they get home. He ties it on the back of the sled. At about 4 p.m., Noah and Alukie start the hour-long trip back to their home, the wind angry in their faces. Tonight Alukie will make seal stew for her children.
To hear an interview with Noah Metuq, go to www.washingtonpost.com/timezones.