During the harsh Alaskan winters, Papa, a revered elder from Ualaqaq, would stand by his north-facing window, his gaze fixed on the vast, open sky and the slumbering landscape of his neighbor’s garden. "Alapaa," he would murmur, his voice a low rumble, the Inupiaq word translating to "it likes to be cold," a profound observation about Sila, the weather itself. In those childhood January days, as our family gathered for supper and the house vibrated with the fury of coastal storms, the snow berms outside growing ever higher throughout the season, Papa would offer another familiar phrase to my grandmother, mother, aunts, and uncles: "Piqsiuqtuq."

The Inupiaq word "piqsiq" signifies "stormy," while the syllable "uq" conveys the meaning "likes to," and "tuq" indicates "it or they." This string of sounds, though seemingly foreign, resonated with a deep, comfortable familiarity, yet I, as a child, did not grasp its full implication: "It likes to be stormy." This linguistic disconnect stemmed from a painful history. Papa and my grandmother, having endured severe physical and psychological punishment for speaking Inupiaq in the mandated boarding schools of their youth, deliberately chose not to teach the language to my mother and her siblings. They feared their children would suffer the same deep, unjust shame and pain they carried. Consequently, while my mother and her siblings understood Inupiaq, they could not speak it, and I, growing up with braids and bobbles, lacked the fundamental knowledge that our language is intrinsically woven with the Indigenous understanding of Sila—the weather—as a living entity, a powerful force that commands respect and dictates the rhythms of life.

Papa, however, was born with this profound understanding. His innate connection to the weather was so profound that he served as a traditional forecaster for our community. I envision him learning these intricate signals from his father, who, in turn, inherited this wisdom from his own father and the generations of Inupiaq ancestors who called Ualaqaq—a name later altered by settlers to Unalakleet—their ancestral homeland. Papa’s forecasting prowess was not derived from meteorological instruments but from an intimate observation of the natural world. He would stand on the beach, his eyes scanning the ocean’s currents, the shifting cloud formations, and the subtle interplay of color and movement across the horizon. It was Sila, he believed, that ultimately decided the course of our days and weeks. If the wind was predicted to rise, hunting ugruk, a type of seal, became an impossibility. If Sila signaled rain, fishing for humpback salmon would be postponed until a sustained period of clear skies allowed for the crucial days of hanging and drying the catch. Sila, in essence, informed our every activity, a guiding principle that continues to shape our lives.

Papa himself was a man of quiet strength, slender and sinewy, with a full head of silver hair and a pair of browline glasses that framed his observant eyes. He moved with an unhurried purpose, comfortable in the enveloping silence, never prone to complaint, and possessing an almost prescient ability to look ahead. His attire typically consisted of scratchy wool plaid button-up shirts, and he carried the distinct scent of earth, fresh air, and an unwavering no-nonsense demeanor. His face was a testament to a life lived fully, etched with the deepest wrinkles I had ever seen. He sported a neat crewcut, his large ears prominent and expressive, and he possessed that rare quality of commanding attention when he spoke, ensuring that people listened.

Our family suppers were often held at Papa and Gram’s modest home, a gathering of aunts, uncles, and a multitude of cousins. The sheer number of us frequently exceeded the available seating, prompting Papa or my father to bring an assortment of white five-gallon buckets from the back porch to serve as impromptu chairs around the kitchen table. As a child with legs too short to reach the floor, the raised rims of those buckets proved uncomfortable, digging into my thighs. Yet, within the warmth of that small home, on those cold and stormy winter days, Gram would stand by the oven, stirring a pot of fragrant caribou soup. The yeasty aroma of freshly baking bread would fill the air, softening the conversations around the table, a comforting prelude to the soon-to-be-devoured bread slathered generously with Crisco. The combined heat from the oven and the presence of all our bodies warmed the room. Some of us younger cousins, seeking refuge from the adult discussions and the room’s increasing stuffiness, would retreat to the back bedroom, a space traditionally reserved for grandchildren who lived with them, to engage in our own games. Unbeknownst to me then, the casual conversations I overheard, even while engrossed in play, were subtly shaping my values and worldview.

This time of year, coastal communities across Western and Northern Alaska begin to anticipate and prepare for the inevitable fall storms. While my childhood was marked by such storms, the intensity and frequency pale in comparison to what we witness today. I recall stories of a significant flood in the 1960s, an event so profound that my father’s house, my grandfather’s house, floated off its foundation and, remarkably, landed in the very spot where it still stands today, now inhabited by my uncle and aunt. Papa, ever the pragmatist with a touch of humor, reportedly asked the bewildered neighbor across the road, "Can I be your neighbor?"

Just last fall, Typhoon Halong, which originated in the central Pacific Ocean southeast of Japan, embarked on a northward journey that culminated in a devastating impact on Alaska’s entire western coastline. The typhoon triggered widespread flooding, damaging 45 communities and forcing the complete relocation of residents from Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, effectively transforming them into climate refugees. In the wake of this catastrophe, the governor declared a state disaster emergency, and the president swiftly approved a federal disaster declaration, underscoring the severity of the situation.

These types of severe flooding events, once considered rare occurrences—perhaps happening once a century—have become an annual threat. I recently spoke with Rick Thoman, Alaska’s leading climatologist, who provided crucial insights into the escalating frequency of these storms. He explained that the warming of our oceans, coupled with the melting of glaciers and ice sheets, is creating a "double whammy" that drives sea-level rise. Furthermore, he noted that coastal erosion is exacerbated by a progressively longer ice-free season on the seas. Warmer ocean waters, he elaborated, can also intensify the power of storms, a likely contributing factor to the ferocity of Typhoon Halong’s flooding. Thoman also highlighted the alarming thawing of permafrost in areas mere feet above sea level, a phenomenon that causes land to sink and settle, leading to catastrophic flooding where it might otherwise have been minor.

As we brace ourselves for whatever Sila may unleash upon us this fall, I find myself frequently contemplating Papa’s perspective. What would he say today, standing at his familiar window, observing the altered reality of our climate? I wonder what his thoughts would be when rain persists for days on end, rendering our traditional methods of drying fish on outdoor racks impossible. We now resort to drying our catch indoors, in empty bedrooms, garages, or hallways, relying on fans to accelerate the process. I ponder what he would articulate about the encroaching ocean, actively eroding the very coastline where he and Gram once camped during the fishing season. Standing on that sandy beach, gazing westward toward the horizon, would he still be able to decipher the subtle messages within the natural signals, predicting the weather with the same uncanny accuracy as he once did? What kind of conversations would I overhear, sitting at that kitchen table, surrounded by family, as Sila speaks its truths? I wonder, most profoundly, what Sila would tell him now.