turn of the management of nine spe- 
cies of marine mammals important to 
coastal residents, both Eskimos and 
nonnatives. In April 1976 the federal 
government hesitantly yielded juris- 
diction only over walrus, mandating 
that the annual harvest must not ex- 
ceed 3,000 animals. If this number 
was exceeded, control of walrus hunt- 
ing would revert to the federal gov- 
ernment. 
When the state of Alaska resumed 
management of walrus in 1976 it ac- 
cepted a volatile situation. The num- 
ber of animals killed in the spring 
hunt began to rise as more and more 
walrus were taken for their ivory. Ac- 
cording to the Alaska Department of 
Fish and Game, Alaskan Eskimos took 
roughly 1,600 walrus in 1962; 2,300 
in 1974; 2,600 in 1975; and nearly 
3,000 in 1976. 
As the number of walrus harvested 
approached the federal ceiling of 
3,000, a limit was imposed and village 
quotas were set. Past dependence upon 
walrus was considered, as well as the 
availability of wage-earning jobs to 
meet the cash needs of the Eskimos. 
The villages of Gambell, Savoonga, 
and Little Diomede — historically the 
most dependent upon walrus — were 
initially accorded 450 walrus per year. 
The quota system was poorly received, 
difficult to enforce, and unpopular 
with both natives and those state rep- 
resentatives working in the villages. 
Hunting limits imposed by those who 
had ruthlessly depleted their seas of 
whales and walruses seemed ludicrous 
and high-handed to the Eskimos. 
“You don’t know what it is to be 
Eskimo,” claimed one young man. 
“Out here hunting is our way of life. 
Carving ivory is our livelihood. We 
don’t want welfare supporting us and 
we don’t want to be forced from the 
villages. 
“There are too many walrus now,” 
he continued. “The Eskimos know 
this. There is no reason for these quo- 
tas. You do not understand how we 
live.” 
A biologist who has spent much 
time with the Eskimo people and is 
liked by fhem had this to say: “People 
speak of the noble, ideal Eskimo who 
wastes nothing. Unfortunately, that 
concept is fictitious, just as is the other 
voiced extreme that would have them 
all unscrupulous renegades. The truth 
lies in the middle. They are a people 
and a culture worthy of respect, but 
they are being bludgeoned by change. 
They are reacting as any of us would. 
taking each step in response to what 
they have and what they can do. Some 
are tougher than others. They hold 
up under the pressure while others 
break.” 
The swiftness with which changes 
have come to the Eskimos has gen- 
erated problems long associated with 
the acculturation of one society into 
another. The Eskimos are not con- 
sciously turning from traditional ways. 
They are responding naturally to the 
choices offered them. The new variety 
of foods found in the stores is ap- 
pealing, snowmobiles are faster and 
easier to handle than dog teams, and 
winter clothes and hunting gear are 
more readily bought than made in the 
painstakingly traditional fashion. Yet 
these changes are eroding traditions 
that have been a source of dignity 
and pride to the Eskimos. 
In the past the Eskimos had no al- 
ternatives to facing the rigors of the 
Arctic environment. Hunting was a 
daily necessity that provided the Es- 
kimo culture with a powerful, unifying 
theme. Legends portraying hunters 
and dances depicting courageous sea 
journeys were inspiring and support- 
ive, fostering strong village ties. But 
modern technology and an ivory-based 
economy (which wastes valuable ani- 
mal protein) have introduced compe- 
Rick Furness. Alaska Photo 
\ 
The walrus hide that is being split 
may be used to build an 
umiak, or skin boat, which is 
still used on Little Diomede Island. 
tition among the hunters. Moreover, 
there are now alternatives to hunting. 
The Arctic continues to be a rugged 
home, however, and without the con- 
stant endeavor of hunting, the long 
winters can weigh heavily. Intriguing 
new life styles, conveyed vividly by 
weekly movies and taped television 
programs, impart a restlessness and 
dissatisfaction to the younger Eski- 
mos. The legends and dances are still 
there, but their influence is weaken- 
ing, yielding to that of bingo and bas- 
ketball. 
Unfortunately, some of the social 
transitions affecting the villages are 
more serious. Although most commu- 
nities have voted themselves dry, li- 
quor is easily obtained, and alcohol- 
ism, with all its associated problems, 
is a prevalent disease. Drug abuse is 
making inroads in the tiniest, most 
remote communities. Last year a 
youth died of an overdose of angel 
dust in the isolated village of Scam- 
mon Bay, north of the Kuskokwim 
River on Alaska’s coast. The suicide 
rate is overwhelmingly high, a tragic 
index of the depression plaguing the 
Eskimos, especially the younger in- 
dividuals. 
John Iyapana was the captain of 
the crew I joined. Although the hunts 
were ofen long and arduous, John en- 
livened them with stories of past hunts 
and adventures. He and the others 
in the crew pointed out rocks and land- 
marks on the Russian and American 
mainlands, giving their Eskimo names 
and indicating where it was wise to 
watch for changing weather. Late one 
afternoon we were hunting close to 
Little Diomede. We had not seen any 
walrus or seal and decided to run in 
against the island and have yo kuk 
(“coffee break”). As we lay on the 
rocks waiting for the water to boil, 
John raised his hand toward the cliffs 
above us and said, “The old people 
say this is the best place on the island 
for boot liners. Come on, I’ll show 
you how to gather the grass.” We 
climbed the hillside and filled a large 
bag with the soft, dry grass. 
“Bend this gently in a figure eight, 
without breaking it,” John explained. 
“Then lay it on the bottom of your 
mukluks [skin boots].” He smiled, 
“It’s warmer and softer than any wool 
sock.” 
The camaraderie and rapport be- 
tween myself and the Eskimos was 
only occasionally subdued by refer- 
ence to hunting walrus for their ivory. 
The hunters are somewhat defensive 
52 
