In the heart of winter, when the world outside lay blanketed in snow, Papa would stand by the north-facing window of his home, his gaze fixed on the vast, open sky and the slumbering garden of his neighbor. "Alapaa," he would murmur, the word a gentle exhalation in the Inupiaq tongue, meaning "it likes to be cold." He was speaking of Sila, the weather, personifying it as a living entity with its own preferences and moods. This profound connection to the natural world was not merely an observation; it was a fundamental understanding woven into the fabric of his ancestral culture.

On frigid January afternoons, as family gathered for supper and the coastal storms raged outside, rattling the very foundations of their home and piling snowdrifts ever higher, Papa would offer another Inupiaq phrase to Gram, his wife, and their assembled children and siblings. "Piqsiqtuq," he would say, a string of sounds that, though familiar and comforting, held a deeper meaning that eluded the younger generation. "Piqsiq" translates to "stormy," while the suffix "tuq" signifies "it or they," and the syllable "qtuq" imbues the statement with a sense of agency – "it likes to be." Thus, the phrase conveyed a profound acknowledgment: "It likes to be stormy."

The spoken Inupiaq language, rich with this animistic worldview, was not readily passed down. Papa and Gram, having endured severe physical and psychological punishment in residential schools for speaking their ancestral language as children, actively shielded their children from similar pain and shame. Consequently, while their children understood Inupiaq, they were unable to speak it fluently, and the author, growing up with braids and bobbles, lacked the foundational knowledge that the weather, Sila, was a sentient being, a powerful force that governed their lives. Sila, in this Indigenous understanding, was the ultimate authority.

Papa embodied this deep-seated wisdom. His connection to the weather was so profound that he served as a traditional forecaster for his community in Unalakleet, a place his ancestors called Uñalaqłiit. It is likely he inherited this skill from his father, who learned from his father, and so on, through generations who called this land their home long before settlers renamed it. Papa would stand on the shore, his eyes scanning the ocean, the currents, the shifting clouds, and the subtle movements of the water and air. From these observations, Sila would dictate the rhythm of their lives. If a strong wind was coming, the hunt for ugruk, a type of seal, would be postponed. If Sila signaled rain, the crucial task of fishing for humpback salmon would wait until a sustained period of clear skies allowed for proper drying and preservation. Sila’s pronouncements guided their every activity, a practice that continues to shape the lives of those in the region.

Fred W. Paniptchuk, affectionately known as "Papa," was a man of quiet strength and keen observation. Slender and sinewy, with a full head of gray hair and distinctive browline glasses, he moved with a deliberate purpose, comfortable in silence, never one to complain, and always possessing a forward-looking gaze. His attire often consisted of practical, scratchy wool plaid shirts, and he carried the scent of earth and fresh air, a testament to his life lived in close communion with nature. His face, deeply etched with wrinkles that spoke of a life lived outdoors and filled with experience, framed observant eyes. He sported a neat crew cut, his large ears prominent, and when he spoke, his words carried an undeniable weight, commanding the attention of all who listened.

Family suppers at Papa and Gram’s home were a cherished tradition, often a boisterous affair with aunts, uncles, and a multitude of cousins filling the small house. When the kitchen table overflowed, Papa or the author’s father would retrieve sturdy, white five-gallon buckets from the back porch, providing makeshift seating for the younger ones. For the author as a child, these buckets were a source of discomfort; her legs were too short to reach the floor, and the raised rims of the lids pressed uncomfortably into her thighs. Yet, even in these moments of childhood annoyance, the passive absorption of adult conversations laid a foundation for the values and mindset that would shape her later life.

On those blustery winter days, Gram would stand by the oven, stirring a pot of hearty caribou soup, its rich aroma mingling with the yeasty scent of baking bread that filled their cozy home, softening the sounds of the storm outside. The warmth of the oven and the collective presence of their bodies created a comforting sanctuary. Some of the younger cousins would retreat to the back bedroom, a space designated for grandchildren who lived with them, seeking refuge from the sometimes dull adult discourse and the general stuffiness of the crowded room.

This time of year, coastal communities across Western and Northern Alaska brace themselves for the annual onslaught of fall storms. The author recalls experiencing significant storms during her childhood, but nothing comparable to the intensified weather patterns of recent years. She remembers a major flood in the 1960s that dislodged her paternal grandfather’s house from its foundation, relocating it to its current position where her uncle and aunt now reside. In a moment of characteristic humor, Papa had even jovially inquired of the neighbor whose property it landed near, "Can I be your neighbor?"

Last fall, Typhoon Halong, which originated in the central Pacific Ocean southeast of Japan, took an unusual northward trajectory, impacting Alaska’s entire western coastline. The resulting floods devastated 45 communities, leading to the complete relocation of residents from Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, transforming them into climate refugees. In response, the governor declared a state disaster emergency, and the president approved a federal disaster declaration, underscoring the severity of the event.

These catastrophic flood events, once considered rare occurrences happening perhaps once a century, have become an annual threat. Alaska’s leading climatologist, Rick Thoman, attributes this alarming increase in storm frequency and intensity to a confluence of factors driven by a warming planet. He explains that the warming oceans, coupled with the melting of glaciers and ice sheets, create a "double whammy" accelerating sea-level rise. Furthermore, the extended ice-free season along the coast exacerbates coastal erosion, while warmer ocean waters can fuel more intense storms, likely contributing to the ferocity of the Halong flooding. Thoman also points to the thawing permafrost in low-lying coastal areas, which can lead to land subsidence, amplifying flooding risks even in areas that might have previously experienced only minor inundation.

As communities now prepare for whatever Sila may unleash this fall, the author finds herself contemplating Papa’s potential reaction. She wonders what he would say about the prolonged periods of rain that now hinder the traditional method of drying fish on racks, forcing them to be dried indoors in spare rooms, garages, or hallways, relying on fans. She ponders his thoughts on the receding coastline, the very beach where he and Gram once camped during fishing season, now being consumed by the ocean. Standing on the shore, gazing west towards the horizon, she questions whether he could still discern the subtle messages within the natural signals to predict the weather as he once did. She reflects on the nature of the conversations that would fill their kitchen table today and, most profoundly, what Sila itself would reveal to him in this altered landscape.