In the heart of winter, Papa would stand at the north-facing window of his home, his gaze fixed on the expanse of the open sky and the quiet slumber of his neighbor’s garden. "Alapaa," he would murmur, the Inupiaq words carrying the weight of deep understanding, meaning "it likes to be cold," referring to Sila, the embodiment of weather itself. During those crisp January days of my childhood, as our family gathered for supper and the house vibrated with the force of coastal storms, the snow berms throughout our town accumulating steadily, Papa would offer a similar sentiment to my Gram, mother, aunts, and uncles. "Piqsiqtuq," he’d say, a phrase that, though familiar and comforting, I didn’t fully comprehend until later.

The Inupiaq word "piqsiq" translates to "stormy," while the suffix "-qtuq" signifies "it or they." Thus, "piqsiqtuq" meant "it likes to be stormy." This linguistic nuance revealed a profound Indigenous worldview: the weather, Sila, was not merely a passive environmental phenomenon but a living entity, an active participant in our lives, and ultimately, the ultimate authority. My grandparents, Papa and Gram, had endured the profound trauma of being physically and psychologically punished in school for speaking their ancestral Inupiaq tongue. This painful experience led them to shield their children from the language, fearing they too would suffer the deep, unjust shame and pain they carried. Consequently, my mother and her siblings understood Inupiaq but were discouraged from speaking it, and I, growing up without its cadence, lacked the foundational knowledge that our language was imbued with this understanding of Sila’s living presence and dominion.

Papa, born with this innate connection to the natural world, possessed an extraordinary ability to read the weather. He was, in essence, a traditional forecaster, a skill likely passed down through generations from his father and the ancestors who called Uŋalaqłiit, now known to settlers as Unalakleet, their ancestral homeland. Standing on the shores of the Bering Sea, he would observe the ocean’s currents, the shifting cloud formations, and the subtle color and movement of the water, allowing Sila to dictate the rhythm of our days and the plans for the week ahead. If the winds signaled an approaching storm, the hunt for ugruq (bearded seal) would be postponed. If Sila indicated rain, fishing for humpback salmon would be deferred until a sustained period of clear skies allowed for the crucial days of hanging and drying the catch. Sila, through Papa’s keen interpretation, guided our activities, a practice that continues to shape life in the region.

Papa himself was a man of quiet strength and purpose, slight and sinewy with a full head of silver hair and distinctive browline glasses. He moved with an air of deliberate intention, found comfort in silence, never complained, and always seemed to possess a forward-looking perspective. His attire typically consisted of scratchy wool plaid button-up shirts, and he carried the scent of the earth and fresh air, a no-nonsense aroma that matched his character. His face was a testament to a life lived outdoors, etched with the deepest wrinkles, complemented by a neat crewcut and large, prominent ears. He was the kind of man whose words commanded attention, a natural leader whose pronouncements were always heeded.

Our family suppers were often held at Papa and Gram’s home, a vibrant gathering of aunts, uncles, and cousins that frequently outgrew the available seating. On such occasions, Papa or my father would retrieve a stack of white five-gallon buckets from the back porch, their sturdy plastic serving as impromptu chairs around the kitchen table. As a child with legs too short to reach the floor, the raised rims of these buckets pressed uncomfortably into my thighs, a minor annoyance in the grand scheme of the warmth and connection that filled the room. The aroma of Gram’s freshly baked bread, yeasty and inviting, would mingle with the savory scent of caribou soup simmering in the oven, a comforting prelude to a hearty meal. The collective warmth of our bodies and the activity of the kitchen heated the small home, creating a cozy sanctuary against the harsh winter elements outside. Some of us younger cousins, seeking refuge from the often-earnest adult conversations and the room’s increasing warmth, would retreat to the back bedroom, a space designated for grandchildren who lived with them, to engage in our own world of play. Unbeknownst to me then, the seemingly mundane conversations I passively overheard during those childhood interludes were subtly shaping my values and worldview, instilling lessons that continue to resonate.

This time of year, communities across coastal Western and Northern Alaska are invariably turning their thoughts to the approaching fall storms and the preparations they necessitate. My childhood memories are punctuated by recollections of significant fall storms, yet they pale in comparison to the intensity and frequency of the weather events we witness today. I recall hearing stories of a major flood in the 1960s, a powerful event that saw my paternal grandfather’s house detach from its foundation and drift to its current location, where my uncle and aunt now reside. In a testament to the resilience and humor of the time, Papa, upon seeing his house settled, jovially called out to a neighbor, "Can I be your neighbor?"

Last fall, Typhoon Halong, which originated in the central Pacific Ocean southeast of Japan, took an unexpected northward path, ultimately impacting Alaska’s entire western coastline. The storm’s fury resulted in widespread flooding and damage to 45 communities, tragically forcing the complete relocation of residents from Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, transforming them into climate refugees. In the wake of this devastation, the governor declared a state disaster emergency, and the president swiftly approved a federal disaster declaration, underscoring the severity of the situation.

These catastrophic flood events, once considered rare occurrences, happening perhaps once a century, have now become an annual threat. I spoke with Rick Thoman, Alaska’s leading climatologist, about the escalating frequency of these storms. He explained that the confluence of warming oceans, melting glaciers and ice sheets, and the resulting sea-level rise creates a "double whammy" effect. Coastal erosion is exacerbated by increasingly longer ice-free seasons, while warmer ocean waters can intensify storm systems, a factor likely contributing to the ferocity of Typhoon Halong’s flooding. Furthermore, Thoman noted that permafrost is thawing at alarming rates, with some areas just a few feet above sea level, leading to land subsidence that can amplify flooding even in areas that might have previously experienced only minor inundation.

As we collectively brace for whatever Sila may unleash upon us this fall, I find myself contemplating what Papa would observe and articulate today, standing at his familiar window. I wonder how he would interpret prolonged periods of rain that hinder the traditional drying of fish on racks, forcing us to adapt by drying our catch indoors, in spare bedrooms, garages, or hallways, relying on fans. I ponder his thoughts on the relentless erosion of the coastline, the very shores where he and Gram once camped during fishing season. Standing on the beach, gazing towards the western horizon, I question whether he could still discern the weather’s messages within the subtle signals and predict its course with the same accuracy as in years past. I often wonder what kind of conversations would unfold around the kitchen table, and most importantly, what Sila would communicate to him now.