In the heart of winter, 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, his voice carrying the weight of generations, the Inupiaq word translating to "it likes to be cold," a profound acknowledgment of Sila, the weather, as a living, sentient entity. During my childhood, on those raw January days when family gathered for supper and the coastal storms raged, shaking the very foundations of our homes, and snow berms grew into imposing mountains throughout the town, Papa would utter another phrase to my Gram, mother, aunts, and uncles: "Piqsiyuktuq."

This Inupiaq expression, "Piqsiq" meaning "stormy," is further nuanced by the suffix "yuk," signifying "likes to," and "tuq," denoting "it or they." While the melodic string of sounds felt intimately familiar and comforting, the full depth of its meaning – "it likes to be stormy" – eluded me as a child. This linguistic disconnect stemmed from a painful history. Papa and Gram, having endured severe physical and psychological punishment for speaking their native Inupiaq in schoolrooms during their own childhoods, harbored a deep-seated desire to shield my mother and her siblings from similar injustices. Consequently, while they understood the language, they were discouraged from speaking it, a decision that, while born of protection, created a chasm in intergenerational knowledge. I grew up entirely unacquainted with Inupiaq, unaware that our language was intrinsically woven with the Indigenous understanding that the weather, Sila, was not merely a passive force but a living presence, an entity with its own will, the ultimate authority.

Papa, however, possessed this innate understanding. His connection to the weather was so profound that he served as a traditional forecaster. I imagine he inherited this gift from his father, who in turn learned from his father, and so on, through the ancestral lineages who called Uqalaqtiq, now known to settlers as Unalakleet, their homeland. His forecasting prowess was evident as he stood by the beach, observing the ocean’s currents, the subtle shifts in the clouds, and the intricate dance of color and movement in the water. From these observations, Sila dictated the rhythm of their lives, shaping their days and weeks ahead. If the winds were predicted to blow, hunting the ugruk, a type of seal, became impossible. If Sila indicated rain, fishing for humpback salmon would be postponed until a sustained period of clear skies allowed for the crucial days of hanging and drying. Sila, in essence, was the arbiter of their activities, a role that continues to resonate.

Papa himself was a man of quiet strength and keen observation, slender and sinewy, with a full head of silver hair and browline glasses that framed his thoughtful eyes. He moved with an understated purpose, comfortable in silence, never prone to complaint, and possessed a remarkable ability to always look ahead. His attire often consisted of scratchy wool plaid button-up shirts, and he had a penchant for chewing snuff, carrying with him an earthy aroma, a scent of fresh air and no-nonsense pragmatism. His face was a testament to a life lived fully, etched with the deepest wrinkles I had ever seen, complemented by a neat crewcut and large, prominent ears. He was the kind of man whose pronouncements commanded attention; when Papa spoke, people listened.

Our family suppers were frequently held at Papa and Gram’s home, a gathering of aunts, uncles, and cousins, often so numerous that the available chairs were insufficient. In such instances, Papa or my father would retrieve a collection of white five-gallon buckets from the back porch, providing makeshift seating around the kitchen table. As a child with legs too short to reach the floor, the raised rims of these buckets dug uncomfortably into my thighs, a minor discomfort that belied the profound wisdom exchanged in those moments. While I sought refuge from the perceived tedium of adult conversation in the back bedroom, a space designated for grandchildren, I was unknowingly absorbing the conversations that would ultimately shape my values and mindset.

On those frigid, storm-lashed winter days, Gram would stand at the oven, stirring a pot of fragrant caribou soup, its aroma mingling with the yeasty scent of baking bread that permeated their small home, softening the atmosphere. The warmth emanating from the oven, combined with the collective presence of our bodies, filled the room. The anticipation of fresh bread, slathered with Crisco, was a comforting certainty.

This time of year, communities across coastal Western and Northern Alaska are keenly aware of the approaching fall storms, preparing for their inevitable arrival. My childhood memories of fall storms, however, pale in comparison to the intensified weather patterns we witness today. I recall stories of a significant flood in the 1960s, an event so powerful that my father’s father’s house was swept from its foundation, miraculously landing in its current location, now occupied by my uncle and aunt. In a testament to the resilience and humor of the time, Papa, upon seeing the house in its new position, jovially inquired of the neighbor across the road, "Can I be your neighbor?"

Last fall, however, the ferocity of Typhoon Halong, which originated in the central Pacific Ocean southeast of Japan, delivered a devastating blow. The storm tracked north, impacting Alaska’s entire western coastline, inundating and damaging 45 communities. The catastrophic flooding forced 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 swiftly approved a federal disaster declaration, underscoring the severity of the crisis.

These types of extreme flooding events, once considered rare occurrences, happening perhaps once a century, have become an annual threat. I spoke with Rick Thoman, Alaska’s leading climatologist, who explained the alarming confluence of factors driving this increased storm frequency and intensity. He highlighted the warming oceans, the accelerating melt of glaciers and ice sheets, and the resulting sea-level rise as a "double whammy." Thoman further explained that coastal erosion is exacerbated by a longer ice-free season on the sea, and warmer ocean temperatures contribute to more intense storms, a likely factor in the devastating impact of Halong. The thawing of permafrost, in some areas only a few feet above sea level, coupled with the subsequent sinking and settling of the land, creates a precarious situation where minor inundations can escalate into catastrophic flooding.

As we brace ourselves for whatever Sila may bring this fall, I often find myself contemplating what Papa would observe today, standing by his window. I wonder what he would make of the prolonged periods of rain that now prevent the traditional drying of fish on racks, forcing us to resort to using indoor spaces like empty bedrooms, garages, or hallways, supplemented by fans. I ponder his thoughts on the encroaching ocean, steadily consuming the coastline where he and Gram once camped during fishing season. Standing on that familiar sandy beach, gazing westward towards the horizon, I question whether he could still discern the subtle messages within the environmental signals, enabling him to predict the weather with the same accuracy as he once did. I wonder about the nature of the conversations that would unfold around the kitchen table, and most profoundly, I wonder what Sila would tell him now.