Nunamiut, Among Alaska's Inland Eskimos

Suddenly we were over another lake. "Raven Lake (Tulugaq)," Andy said laconically and laid the plane over. We were going down.

As we steered in toward the bank, I caught a glimpse of a cluster of tents up on the slope. People came running at full speed out of the mist. Before we reached land they were all by the water, a small party of skin-clad Eskimos on a beach. 

I landed, and met smiles and curious loks from hunters, women, and a pack of children of all ages. I greeted each of them separately. They were tall, strong people with the wiry agility characteristic of mountain dwellers. Open, friendly faces; gleaming white teeth. The children croweded round me without shyness and chattered away in Eskimo with a boldness I rarely saw in the half-civilized Eskimo children on the coast. They were all dressed in caribou-skin anoraks, splendidly edged with the skin of wolf and wolverine.

....

We were met by a vast number of dogs straining at their chains, barking and yelping full-throatedly. Here were the tents, a dozen in all, queer dome-shaped habitations shaped like snow huts. Smoke rose into the air from crooked chimneys. In the neighbourhood of each tent were stagings of willow sticks, where hides and large slabs of caribou meat were hanging out to dry. Several heavy sledges stood about in the heather. 

We stopped at one of the tents, and Paniaq held open the door--a large hanging bearskin. I sat on the floor, and the tent was soon crammed full. 

There was plenty of room in the tent, and it was very pleasant there, with sweet-smelling willow boughs, and caribou skins on the floor and everything in good order. Apart from these things, there were so many new impressions that I could not take in all the details. I noticed the curious construction of the tent, the many curved stakes on which the caribou skins rested, the pale eyes in a caribou head flung down by the stove, a face or two which stood out from the rest, a girl's smile. And I wondered what the Eskimos were thinking.

A man appeared in the doorway with one fist full of caribou tongues. I was told that he had just come back from hunting and that the tongues were a present for me by way of welcome.

It was clear that nothing was to be said about my affairs for the present. First we must eat. The tent was filled with a strong odour issuing from the cooking-pot on the stove. The meat was laid on a plate, and we attacked it. I felt myself at home; there was much to remind me of the years in which I lived among Indian caribou hunters in northern Canada. 

A dirty rag was passed round, and we wiped the fat from our hands. One or two of the hunters began to clean their teeth by drawing sinews through them. 

Now, I thought, it's time, and I said that I had come into the mountains to live with them through the winter, perhaps till next summer; I wanted to get an idea of the Nunamiuts' life now and in former times. 

After my words had been translated, there was silence for a few moments. Then Paniaq said genially: "This is the first time a white man has wanted to spend the winter with us. But it's all right. We Eskimos are not the sort of people to turn anyone away. You can pitch your tent here, and when the winter comes I'll lend you dogs and a sledge." 

It gave me a pleasant feeling that I was welcome.

Soon we were talking of hunting and of caribou, the beast that is always in their thoughts. 

The Brooks Mountains are a world of their own, almost untouched. One may wander far and wide through valleys and gorges, along rivers and lakes, and enjoy the fine flavour of the land's virginity. One can meet mountain sheep or bears which stand rooted to the ground at the sight of a man, because they have never seen such a thing before. Giant trout swim in the lakes, multiply, and die of old age. And in the heart of the mountains is a little band of men. 

The Nunamiuts in the Brooks Mountains are divided into two groups, the Raven people (Tulugarmiut) and the Killik people (Killermiut). The people have little knowledge of the world outside. 

Between the Nunamiuts and the outer world there is such a wide, tangled wilderness that communication has to be by plane. The main prop of their existence is, as I have said, the airman Sig Wien. Sevele times a year he or one of his men flies in with a quantity of simple things such as ammunition, tobacco, coffee, a little cotton material for the women, knives, sauce-pans, etc., and takes their wolfskins in exchange. What the Eskimos thus obtain from outside is very modest in quantity, for they are poor and transport is expensive.

There is thus a dash of civilization in the Eskimos' material culture, but in essentials their life takes the same shape as that of their ancestors. Caribou hunting is vital to them now as before; from it they obtain food, clothes, tents, sewing thread, rope, etc. Caribou meat is, generally speaking, served at all meals. They live a nomad life in the caribou's tracks. If luck is with them, and thousands of beasts stream over the country-side in the neighbourhood of the settlement, there are rejoicings and festivities among the mountain people. But it may happen that the barren country is empty, with not a living creature in sight. The last time the caribou failed, many Nunamiuts died of starvation. 

Of civilized food there is barely a trace. The Killik people, who were unlucky with their wolf hunting the year before, have practically nothing. One or two of the Raven people have some coffee, a scrap of sugar, and a little tobacco. The small quantity of bought food is just a dash of luxury to vary the caribou meat which is the universal food. 

Paniaq is the kind of man one cannot help noticing. His eyes are brown, with a humorous gleam; his mouth is wide and sensitive. The forehead is well arched, the nose high-bridged and straight. The black-browed temples project a little; the chin bone too is clearly marked, but not strikingly so. His complexion is rather dark. He is about fifty, but his hair has no tinge of grey. He is a tall, splendidly built man, broad-chested, narrow at the hips, with sinewy limbs. His height is 5 feet 9 inches. He weighs about 175 pounds. His hands are small and well shaped. He seems as well trained as a long-distance runner and has the easy walk of the mountain dwellers.

We start talking about all kinds of things, mostly of animals, nature, and the Eskimos' life is days gone by. From time to time there is a touch of humour, and he bursts into a roar of laughter. He also a very good memory. "My good memory comes from my mother," he says. "She remembered everything, and when I was little she told me no end of things about the old times."

He has an admirable mental balance, a capacity for taking reverses calmly. 

...

At last Paniaq's wife, Umialaq, sets before us some cooked and some raw meat, and we eat it. 

Umialaq is about twenty-nine--twenty years younger than her husband. She is pretty, small, and slight, but as tought as a willow. 

The youngest boy, Wiraq, crawls about the floor of willow boughs, almost naked. He is only a year old, but has already begun to suck meat. 

Paniaq's father in law Kakinnaq, aged fifty, lives nearby. Kakinnaq is an individual type, a thick-set little fellow with a black mustache, as quick as a weasel and bubbling over with life. 

Kakinnaq is the umialik (rich man) of the tribe. According to our ideas he does not own much, but the Eskimos tell one with profound respect that Kakinnaq has more dried fat than he can use himself and both wolf and wolverine skins from previous years. 

Aguk is about seventy. A more vigorous old fellow I have never seen, active from the early morning til late in the evening. He runs over the hills like a wolf. It is a sight to see him out hunting, getting over the ground in a very pronounced forward crouch of his own. And when he fires he never misses; ten of fifteen caribou in one hunt is nothing out of the ordinary for him. He has a bright face covered with laugh wrinkles. He is a thoroughly good fellow, of the type which is always eager to help others. And he helps himself where most get stuck.

Then there is Agmalik, a capable hunter of about fifty. He is tall and thin, with a rather curved nose and protruding lips, and seems generally rather different from the others. 

The most distinguised among the Killik people is Maptiraq, about seventy-five years old, a tall, upright gentleman of the old school, with a quiet manner and a warm gleam in his eye. His whole personality bears the stamp of the culture which has been created in the course of the years by a distinguised hunting people. When he was young, there were still people who hunted the caribou with bow and arrows. He has experienced a good deal that to other Eskimos is history. In spite of his age he still hunts the caribou and wolf and cuts a good figure. 

Inualujaq is another veteran; he may well be about sixty-five. He is reputed to have been one of the best runners in the mountains in his younger days. He is a quiet, pleasant man and an energetic hunter. 

The many children are like a fresh breeze blowing through this little community among the mountains. And these children are something out of the common. They are mountain children, these--with deep, wide chests and powerful limbs and aglow with vitality. At three years old they dash up the hillsides like goats, at seven they can run for a long time without getting tired. They are like animals in their sensitive alertness and swift reactions. And they are sharp. 

It is something of a marvel to find an Eskimo community in Alaska so sound and vital as this one. This is due in the first place to the people having had so little contact with civilization. While the coast Eskimos have felt the full blast of modern culture--brandy, civilized food, disease, and a view of life based on dollars--the Nunamiuts have, on the whole, escaped it. They have their mountain world to themselves. 

Venereal diseases do not exist, and I know of only one case of tuberculosis. It is also worth mentioning that there is no alcohol. Their greatest danger is the aircraft, which can introduce sicknesses which the Eskimos have little power to resist. Last year, after a plane had landed at the camp for a short time, the whole population was struck down by severe influenza. Three children and one adult died, and others only just pulled through.

There is something so good-humoured and cordial about these people that one cannot help liking them. They have an infectious humour which makes life brighter, a broad humanity with few reservations. Yet it is easy enough to put one's finger on things that jar. And there are dark spaces in their souls. Suddenly, and at times when one least expects it, some utterly primitive feeling will flash out, savage and incomprehensible. Sometimes the situation becomes such that it is better for a white man to exercise patience than to prove himself right. 

But one can say unreservedly that they are easy to live with. It is a solace to be with people who are absolutely themselves, who make no effort to assert themselves, who make it their object in life not to elbow forward, but to get some brightness out of the days as they pass. 

Transcribed by Travis Statham - from the physical book. Some passages/sentences are ommitted for sake of space and importance. 

We are sixty-five human beings who have to eat our fill every day, and nearly two hundred dogs. Whether we shall depends on hunting. I brought a quantity of provisions with me, but obviously I, the only white man, cannot sit brooding over my possessions. Some went to the children, some to other people, and in an incredibly short time it was all gone. It was a relief in a way, for now we are all in the same boat.

Everything depends on the caribou. The caribou is always in our thoughts. When we come together they are the main subject of our conversation, and if we are doing one thing or another with outside the tent, we cannot help searching the valleys and hills with our eyes. 

From Raven Lake two long lines of cairns have been set up, one running up the hillside, the other along the valley. The cairns are made of turf, and are about forty yards apart, and serve to lead the caribou down to the lake.

Peace prevails in the settlement. An old woman is sitting in front of the tents peering out with eagles eyes across the flat valley. She has been sitting like this for several hours, almost motionless. Suddenly she jumps up crying, "Tuttu! Tuttu!" (Caribou! Caribou!) And the children immediately take up the same cry.

The camp is transformed. People tumble out of their tents and stand staring, while the hunters drop whatever they have in their hands, seize their guns, and dash off at full speed across the valley. 

There they are, a herd of about fifty caribou. Their grey-brown fur blends almost perfectly with the moss and marsh grass. They are going northeast at a good pace. The animals move forward lightly and gracefully over boulders and tussocks. The leader is a cow, then come several bulls with mightly antlers, and after them the rest. 

Here and there out in the flat valley and up the slopes toward the mountains I catch a glimpse of the Eskimo hunters. They are still running at full speed in different directions. Then they throw themselves to the ground and wait.

Suddenly the caribou herd stops as at a word of command; the animals stand dead still and gaze. The long row of cairns across their path rises out of the landscape as dark threatening objects. The beasts give a frightened start and run nervously now in one direction, now in another. Shots ring out, caribou fall. The herd is seized with panic and dashes off like the wind in the direction from which it came. More shots. Again the animals approach the caribou fence, but swing off sharply and hurry along it; not a single animal dares to pass between the cairns. At last the herd finds its way right out into the valley and continues northward at a high speed. 

It is not uncommon for herds to come so close to the camp; now and then the beasts start to swim across Raven Lake and are an easy prey. But what we shoot in the neighbourhood of the camp is quite insufficient. Sometimes we have to go a long way into the wide pass or in among the mountains. 

The Eskimos are masterly hunters. They train from boyhood and are still young when they bring down their first beast. To their own experience is added all the knowledge accumulated by generations: a comprehensive instinct for animal psychology. There are a multitude of things which are so accustomed to observe and work upon that they know what ought to be done without reasoning further. The hunters know how the caribou will react in given conditions, which route it will choose in accordance with the nature of the ground, where it will graze, and much else. Thus, they are able to place themselves favourably that they often get to close quarters with the herds.

As I wandered into this endless mountain world, I often stumbled upon old signs of caribou hunting--traces of vanished times. Along the slopes of the valley where the caribou have their tracks, I quite often came upon rows of little stone cairns. These were to lead the caribou to the spot where the marksman lay in wait with bow and arrows. At some places the hunters had built themselves stone screens, sometimes in a square like a small house without a roof.

On one beach a mass of caribou bones, half overgrown, lay strewn around. Here the beasts must have been driven into the water and then slaughtered from kayaks, being stabbed with a spear behind the last rib, close to the spine. The Eskimos have many stories of this kind of hunting, which was formely of great importance. Sometimes hundreds of animals were killed, and were usually divided equally between the families which took part in the drive.

The daughter of the house, the widow Paniulaq, had carried on with her work all the time without taking very much notice of what was going on. Then her four-year-old son woke up, threw the hides on one side, and sat up, with caribou hairs among his own dark locks. He suddenly became aware of his mother and caught hold of her. She bared her breast, and the sturdy boy began sucking, while the flow of words continued undisturbed.

I am writing at the beginning of October. Now the women are going for trips up the hillsides in small parties and enjoying themselves picking berries and gossiping. They find a fair number of cranberries and whortleberries, but no great quantities. Cloudberries are scarce in the Anaktuvak Pass; there are said to be more farther north, on the tundra.

The berries are stored raw, sometimes in a washed-out caribou's stomach, and mixed with melted fat or lard. This dish is called asiun and is considered a special delicacy.

They also dig up some roots. The most sought after are maso, qunguliq (mountain sorrel), and airaq. What is collected is consumed before winter sets in. No new green food is to be had till May; then roots and the fresh shoots and inner bark of the willow are eaten. Thus, for about seven months the Nunamiuts live on an exclusively meat diet, and for the rest of the year their vegetable nourishment is very scanty.

The caribou is dealt with traditionally. Every single part of the animal is eaten except the bones and hooves. The coarse meat, which in civilization is used for joints and steaks, is the least popular. In autumn and spring it is used to a certain extent for dried meat; otherwise it is given to the dogs. The heart, liver, kidneys, stomach and its contents, small intestines with contents (if they are fat), the fat round the bowels, marrow fat from the back, the meat which is near the legs, etc., are eatn. Both adults and children are very fond of the large white tendons on the caribou's legbones; they maintain that food of this kind gives one good digestion. The head is regarded as a special delicacy; the meat, the fat behind the eyes, nerves, muzzle, palate, etc., are eaten. Finally, there are the spring delicacies--the soft, newly grown horns and the large yellowish-white grubs on the inside of the hide(those of the gadfly) and in the nostrils. The grubs are eaten alive.

The meat is often cooked, but to a large extent it is also eaten raw. The children often sit on a freshly killed caribou, cut off pieces of meat, and make a good meal. It is also common practice to serve a dish of large bones to which the innermost raw meat adheres. Dried meat and fat are always eaten raw. 

The Nunamiuts' cuisine also offers several choice delicacies. First and foremost is akutaq. To prepare this dish, fat and marrow are melted in a cooking-pot, which must not get t oo warm, meat cut fine is dropped in on the top, and then the woman uses her fist and arm as a ladle to stir it about. The result is strong and tastes very good. Akutuq has since ancient times been used on journeys as an easily made and nourishing food and is fairly often mentioned in the old legends. 

Then there is qaqisalik, caribou's brains stirred up with melted fat. A favourite dish is nirupkaq, a caribou's stomach with its contents which is left in the animal for a night and then has melted fat added to it. It has a sweetish taste which reminds one of apples. Finally, there is knuckle fat. The knuckles are crushed with a stone hammer to which a willow handle has been lashed. Then the mass is boiled til the fat flies up. The Eskimos attach great importance to the boiling's not being too hard; delicate taste. Sometimes it is mixed with blood, and then becomes a special dish called urjutilik. 

The Nunamiuts like chewing boiled resin and a kind of white clay which is found in certain rivers. Salt is hardly used at all. If an Eskimo family has acquired a little, it is used very occasionally, with roast meat. The small amount of sugar, flour, etc., which is flown in in autumn is of little significance and has, generally speaking, disappeared before the winter comes. Some Eskimos do not like sugar.

For a while coffee or tea is drunk, but these are quickly finished. Then the Eskimos fall back on their old drink, the gravy of the cooked meat.

The Nunamiuts thrive on this almost exclusively meat diet; scurvy or other diseases due to shortages of vitamins do not exist. They are, in fact, thoroughly healthy and full of vitality, so long as sicknesses are not imported by aircraft. They live to be quite old, and it is remarkable how young and active men and women remain at a considerable age. Hunters of fifty have hardly a trace of grey hair, and no one is bald. All have shining white teeth with not a single cavity. The mothers nurse their children for two or three years.

It is an interesting question whether cancer occurs among the Nunamiuts or among primitive peoples at all. On this point I dare not as a layman express an opinion, but I heard little of stomach troubles. During my stay among the Apache Indians in Arizona (1936) a doctor in the reservation told me that cancer had not been observed among the people. According to a Danish doctor, Dr. Aage Gilberg (Eskimo Doctor, George Allen and Unwin, London, 1948), cancer is never sene among the Thule Eskimos in northwestern Greenland. The matter deserves more detailed investigation; it may possibbly give certain results of assistance to cancer research.

The Indian caribou hunters I once lived with in Arctic Canada had a similar meat diet and good health. As for myself, my fare was the same as the Indians' and the Eskimos'--practically speaking, I lived only on meat for nearly five years. I felt well and in good spirits, provided I got enough fat. My digestion was good and my teeth in an excellent state. After my stay with the Nunamiuts I had not a single hole in my teeth and no tartar.

No doubt the hunters of the Ice Age, in Norway and elsewhere, lived in a similar way many thousand years ago. We are probably in the presence of what is most ancient among the traditions of primitive peoples. Taught by experience, they have arrived at a manner of living which, despite its onesideness, fully satisifies the body's requirements. The principle is to transfer almost everything that is found in the caribou to the human organism. 

It is interesting to note that the stomach and liver of animals are regular features in the diet of primitive peoples, whereas modern science has only quite recently established that these contain elements of special value to human beings. The remedy for the previously deadly pernicious anemia is obtained from them. The contents of the caribou's stomach and the newly grown horns merit a closer examination by modern methods. It is a question, for example, whether the cellulose of the moss decomposed in the caribou's stomach and thereby becomes available to the human organism. With regard to the horns, it is of interest that certain deer's horns from northeastern Manchuria have from time immemorial been a regular article of commerce in China, where they have been used as a cure for impaired virility.

Typed up by Travis Statham from physical book. This is the best quote in the entire book. 

Note: Helge Ingstad lived to be 101 (1899-2001).

The Eskimos usually have two meals a day, one in the morning and one when the man comes home from hunting in the afternoon or evening. When we sit down on the willow-bough floor and the dish of steaming caribou meat is set before us, the procedure is scarely that of a smart dinner party in our own world, but is civilized after a fashion. The common idea that primitive peoples fling themselves upon their food and gulp it down like wolves is wrong. Certainly the hands are used, and it is permissible to pick about in the in the dish to find a tidbit, but eating is controlled and follows definite rules. Eating has its own technique; there is an art in tearing the flesh away from the bones in the most effective manner. Sometimes the eaters dig their teeth into one end of a piece of meat while holding onto the other, and then cut off piece after piece close to the mouth. At other times the knife is used while the bone is held in the hand. Every scrap of meat, sinews, and fat is cut off and eaten. Finally, they attack the raw bones and cleave them with a few blows of a stone or axe, so skilfully that the marrow is disclosed undamaged. When the meal is over a heap of bare bones is left.

When the time for the evening meal approaches, a regular gang of children gets busy. The question is: In which tent is the best meat being cooked? There is a great difference between lean and fat caribou meat, not to speak of fat mutton, which stands in a class by itself. First the children fly from one tent to another, apparently on an errand of some sort, but with the definite intention of funding out where supper should be taken. When that question is settled they vanish into the open air, to plunge into the chosen tent with incredible punctuality ten seconds after the dish of meat has been placed upon the willow-bough floor. They usually remain standing just inside the door, staring fixedly at the food. At length someone beckons to them to come and sit down in front, and they lose no time in doing so. 

It is the established custom that all who are in the tent when the food is served shall take part in the meal. Thus there is unlimited hospitality.

It is October.

An important event is now imminent. Very soon the southward autumn migration of the caribou from the tundra to the mountains will begin. Great herds will go through the Anaktuvuk Pass during a comparatively short time. The Eskimos will then have to shoot sufficient caribou bulls, which until the mating season are very fat, to ensure our main fat requirements for the winter. Later the beasts become skinny, and without sufficient fat, people on a meat diet throughout a long, cold winter are in an awkward position. 

.....

But something is. wrong. Day after day we range far over the countryside in every direction but see nothing but one or two small herds of lean bulls. A few animals are brought down, and we keep going more or less, but meals are scanty for both men and dogs.

The shortage of fat is now becoming serious. The only form of fat we have is the marrow in the bones; it is eaten raw and is a dish more delicious in times like these than words can describe. But as a caribou has only four legs and few beasts are shot, not much of this delicacy comes the way of each individual. No, a diet of tough caribou meat with practically no fat becomes dismal after a time. It is a diet which gives one the same empty feeling under the breastbone as when one has nothing to eat at all. We can eat almost unlimited quantities without feeling satisified. One's condition suffers accordingly; one feels the cold more: I have to make an effort to do things which otherwise would have been easy. 

"It's rather like eating moss," Paniaq says with a smile as we attack the tough meat. And when we are out hunting together and look out from the heights over a wide area and do not see a living creature on the snow, only cold and nakedness as far as the eye can reach, he sometimes says in his dry manner: "A hungry land."

It is becoming common to borrow meat from one another. Here the Eskimos' sense of duty toward their nearest relations is clearly shown. When the hunter returns to the settlement with game, his wife immediately cuts off a few good portions of meat and gives them to her parents and parents-in-law. This diminishes the uncertainty which attaches to a single hunter's bag. In a way the community functions in hard times like a kind of mutual benevelent society.

Our situation would be more difficult if we had not a quantity of reserve provisions running about high up in the steepest mountains--the wild sheep. They are the bright spots in our existence. Leaving the lean caribou meat for the fat, tender mutton is like changing from bread and water in prison to the choicest dish at the Cafe de Paris. The sheep keep fat longer than the caribou, from the beginning of July to April. 

Now and again we go out hunting sheep. But the beasts are rather scattered and in small herds, so even if we bring down some, they do not go far among sixty-five people(and 200 dogs). 

....

But there was a report ahead, and I saw a ram in flight far away. There sat Paniaq, smoking his pipe beside a big ram.

We rolled and pulled the animal down to the foot of the mountain; as usual we ate the glands between the hooves and the dainty neck fat on the spot. 

The musk ox, that queer shaggy creature of prehistoric appearance, is not found in Alaska.

Some musk-ox horns have been found on the tundra north of the Brooks Mountains, and the Nunamiuts, among other things, have come upon several. A very old Eskimo at Point Barrow told me that there were no musk ox in his time nor in his father's, but that there were in his grandfather's. 

Against this background what the Nunamiuts have to tell is of interest. Paniaq says that in the past the people lived mainly on musk oxen. He also tells an old story which confirms this. He adds: "The musk oxen disappeared eastward because they were hunted so much. Old people say that when this animal has been hunted one way it continues to go in that direction."

Thus it seems that the musk ox was exterminated in Alaska about a hundred years ago. When the Eskimos came upon a herd, it was doomed. The musk ox is helpless against men; it often stands still and lets itself be slaughtered. Thus it is quite reasonable to suppose that in northern Alaska the species was wiped out in quite early times. 

At another place I found the remains of a kangiraq, i.e. a large enclosure into which caribou are driven. These were usually set up on a height near a river and might be a hundred yards or more in diameter, consisting of a number of tall willow rods driven into the earth or snow. Along the inside of this enclosure snares are made of animals' skins were placed at suitable intervals and fastened to a stone or stick. There were usually several enclosures, one inside another; the maximum number was four, and then the contrivance was called a sisamailik. There were snares along each line totalling several hundreds.

The caribou found their way to the gate by following two lines of cairns which began several miles out in the open country, and which led across the river up the slope to the enclosure. Close to it there might be two snow walls. Thus a "street" was formed outside which the animals did not venture; far from the enclosure it was broad, and then gradually became narrower. 

A herd of caribou had to be driven into this "street" often from a long way off; there are stories of drives which took several days. The drivers worked together, running continually. This was child's play to them, thoroughly trained as they were.

When the caribou had at last been driven up the slope towards the enclosure, people ran up from both sides, clapping their hands, hooting, and yelling. The beasts rushed in panic throught he opening and into the inner enclosure. A number went straight into the snares; others broke through the willows into the other enclosures and were snared there. Some of the hunters sent a rain of arrows at the beasts trying to escape, while others were busy with their flint spears. There was sometimes a large bag, which was divided equally among the families participating.

The Nunamiuts used this method for capture especially in the months of February and March, for that was usually the most difficult time with caribou and it was light enough for a long drive.

Trapping in enclosures and hunting from the kayak were of special value to the Eskimos; they could thus obtain large quantities of meat at one stroke and provide for the future. Hunting with bows and arrows was also important, but to a lesser degree.