I was fortunate to be in Utqiagvik, Alaska on assignment a few years ago photographing the then brand new Samuel Simmonds Memorial Hospital. Utqiagvik lies 330 miles north of the arctic circle, 1300 miles shy of the north pole. It is among the oldest permanent settlements in the United States.

Over the course of photographing the hospital I found out the biannual whale hunt was to take place in a few days. My connections through the hospital allowed me to meet some of the local residents and to secure an “invitation” to attend. Not knowing what to expect, I grabbed my cameras and prepared as best I could.

I would ask you to prepare as best you can as well before viewing these images. They are graphic in nature and may challenge your perspective. The privilege of bearing witness is not to be taken lightly. Events outside one’s own understanding demand patience, humility, and a willingness to expand one’s own conscience outside what is safe and familiar.

Last season, the hunt was poor. Wind- driven sea ice hugged the shore and largely prevented crews from getting their boats into the water. Only two whales were caught. One of them, a 44 ft “stink whale”, was lost for six days and only recovered when it floated to the surface. It was rancid, though some of it was salvageable.

I arrive at Search and Rescue only a few hours after the first boats went out on the first whale hunt of the season. Other crews are listening to the radios and waiting. No one is saying much.

This year, they don’t have to wait long for good news.

A crowd assembles on the beach to watch the returning vessels approach. The lead boat pulls something submerged and heavy.

The pilot of the small craft maneuvers the mammal, a now deceased Bowhead Whale, close enough to shore, then cuts its engines. From his perch on top of the now slowly rocking vessel, a figure in black looks on.

During the winter months, the work of harvesting whales is done out on the ice by hand, utilizing ropes, hooks and pulleys. It is a ritual, a celebration— thousands of years old— that follows a methodical step by step choreography.

The climate is warming. Today there is no sea ice, and this allows for the use of heavy machinery on land.

Two Volvo Wheel Loaders are employed to move the heavy whale from the beach to the corrugated tarmac. The weight of the mature bowhead exceeds their lifting capacity and the tractor carrying the bulk of the weight has its rear wheels lifted into the air, swinging slowly back and forth as the two move in tandem forward. The village follows behind, on foot and in trucks, in what seems like a funeral march.

There is a group of scientists here. The whale hunt offers a unique opportunity to study Bowhead Whales up close. By measuring amino acids found in the eye, the age of this whale will be determined. Bowheads can live up to 200 years. An elder whale could have shared a birthday with Abraham Lincoln.

The whale is on its back, Baleen hair shimmering in the steady winds rolling off the Chukchi Sea. Cloud cover changes in shades of blue and gray. There is the imprint of a human hand. It looks like a hieroglyphic.

Children climb and play on the inert form of the whale. Happy parents take photographs.

Two sisters want to know who the man with the camera is, and why so many pictures. I introduce myself. No I don’t work for Greenpeace. They are relieved and very friendly. Why am I talking all these photographs? I don’t have a reason. I tell them “thank you” instead. Apparently a photographer was here the year prior and used the images in an anti whaling campaign with Greenpeace. According to the sisters, they are being unfairly depicted.

Because of their concerns, I haven’t shown these images to anyone. I don’t want to feel like I’ve taken anything from these generous people.

I think about my relationship to the food I eat. Neatly and aesthetically sealed and packaged, available for purchase at my local supermarket. No trauma is evident, only a completely processed end result. Only convenience, mass consumption, and profit are important.

To kill a whale, a small explosive charge is attached to a harpoon. The detonation kills the whale instantly.

The hunters return, and the work begins. One long horizontal cut down the length of the animal, as well as vertical cuts about 18” apart through the outer layer of blubber. The pieces are sheared off and then pulled away by young men. There is the sound of tearing flesh punctuated by heavy thuds as each piece hits the ground.

Taking a whale apart is a lengthy process. Eunice tells me they hope to catch many whales today. It is messy work done with practiced efficiency.

Evident throughout the day is the orchestrated collaboration: A community working together for common good. Everyone has a task. Everyone participates.

Contemporary whaling is subject to intense debate. There is commercial whaling, and there is subsistence whaling. There are bans in place on commercial whaling which aren’t always followed.

A subsistence economy is a non-monetary economy which relies on natural resources to provide for basic needs, through hunting, gathering, and subsistence agriculture. "Subsistence" means supporting oneself at a minimum level; in a subsistence economy, economic surplus is minimal and only used to trade for basic goods.

The following day, I visit with Eunice. We sit on the floor. She puts a piece of cardboard down, and begins to cut the whale meat into smaller pieces for storage.

While we were talking, her granddaughter has tracked oily foot and handprints all over the house from the whale oil on her socks and pajamas.

Taking a slow breath, Eunice looks at her granddaughter in purple, then goes to the cabinet to retrieve cleaning supplies. After yesterday’s exhausting labor of harvesting whales, there is now a house to be cleaned. She inaudibly says something under her breath in a tone any parent could understand.

The experience stands apart from the rest of my photographic career. It was a privilege and an honor to be included in the events of this day. Thank you to everyone I met that was kind, generous, and helpful in allowing me to take their photographs.