HOW I LEARNED TO HUNT CARIBOU 245 



a white man cannot be a good hunter, and that it is not 

 safe for him to be out alone away from the wise Eskimos. 

 Had any one put it to me in just those words I might have 

 argued against it, for my reason was unconvinced. But 

 subconsciously I had absorbed a profound mistrust of my 

 own ability to take care of myself. 



Later in September, 1908, a' party of us were on our 

 way by sledge east along the north coast of Alaska. I 

 had one white companion, Storker Storkerson, with whom 

 I was destined to be continuously associated through most 

 of the following nine years of polar work. He was a 

 sailor and full of confidence in himself in every way, 

 except that like me he had been talked into the belief that 

 he would not be able to make a living hunting and that 

 he was in danger of losing his way if he got separated 

 from his Eskimo guides. 



The Eskimos of my party were a middle-aged man, by 

 name Kunaluak, and my old friend, Uavinirk, with his 

 wife Mamayauk and their young daughter. Uavinirk 

 differed from the general run in several ways. For one 

 thing, he had a greater admiration for white men than was 

 common among his countrymen at that time. The gen- 

 eral Eskimo view was that the white men are rich and 

 fortunate, but unskilled and incompetent in the things 

 that rcaily matter. They felt about the whaling captains 

 and about travelers like me somewhat as farmers or sailors 

 might feel about grand opera singers or men who have 

 inherited riches. But Uavinirk used to maintain that the 

 white men really had considerable native ability and that 

 some of them were capable of becoming good winter trav- 

 elers and even good hunters. I had heard him argue along 

 those lines several times and now he had frequent talks 

 with Kunaluak on this subject. Kunaluak maintained 



