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 word for “it likes to be cold,” referring to Sila, the weather itself. These pronouncements were more than mere observations; they were a profound connection to the natural world, a testament to a deep, ancestral understanding of the forces that governed life in their Arctic homeland.

On frigid January days of my childhood, as our family gathered for supper and the house vibrated with the intensity of coastal storms, with snow berms steadily growing throughout the town, Papa would offer another familiar phrase to my Gram, my mother, aunts, and uncles: “Piqsiuqtuq.” In Inupiaq, “piqsiq” signifies “stormy,” while the suffix “uqtuq” denotes “it or they.” The string of sounds, though deeply familiar and comforting, held a meaning I only began to grasp years later: “It likes to be stormy.” This simple phrase encapsulated a worldview where the weather was not an impersonal phenomenon but a sentient entity, a powerful force with its own inclinations and intentions.

The transmission of the Inupiaq language had been tragically interrupted. Papa and Gram, having endured severe physical and psychological punishment for speaking their native tongue in school, actively discouraged my mother and her siblings from speaking it. They sought to shield their children from the profound and unjust shame and pain that had been inflicted upon them. Consequently, while my mother and her siblings understood Inupiaq, they were unable to speak it fluently, and I, growing up with braids and bobbles, was entirely unfamiliar with its sounds and its rich cultural inheritance. I lacked the fundamental understanding that our language was deeply interwoven with an Indigenous perspective that viewed the weather, Sila, as a living entity, a powerful presence with whom we coexisted, and crucially, a force that held ultimate authority.

Papa, however, was born with this intrinsic understanding. His connection to the weather was so profound that he served as a traditional forecaster, a role passed down through generations. He likely learned to read the subtle signs of the sky and sea from his father, who in turn learned from his father, and so on, tracing an unbroken lineage of knowledge stretching back to the ancestors who called Uqalaq’iq, now known by settlers as Unalakleet, their homeland. His forecasting was an art, a holistic interpretation of the natural world. Standing on the beach, he would observe the ocean’s currents, the shifting clouds, the colors and movements of the water and air, allowing Sila to dictate the rhythm of their days and weeks. If the wind’s demeanor suggested an approaching storm, hunting expeditions for ugruk, a type of seal, would be postponed. If Sila indicated rain, the crucial task of fishing for humpback salmon would be delayed until a sustained period of clear skies allowed for the necessary days of hanging and drying the catch. Sila, through Papa’s interpretation, was the ultimate arbiter of their activities, guiding their every move.

Papa himself was a man of quiet strength and purpose. He was slight, slender, and sinewy, with a full head of gray hair and a distinguished air enhanced by his browline glasses. His movements were deliberate, he was comfortable with silence, and he possessed an unwavering resilience, never complaining and always looking ahead. His attire often consisted of scratchy wool plaid button-up shirts, and he was a user of snuff, carrying with him an aroma that spoke of earth, fresh air, and an unyielding pragmatism. His face, deeply lined with the wisdom of years, framed eyes that held a keen understanding of the world around him. He sported a neat crewcut, and his large ears seemed to amplify the gravity of his presence; when Papa spoke, people listened.

Our family suppers were frequently held at Papa and Gram’s modest home, drawing together aunts, uncles, and a multitude of cousins. Often, the sheer number of attendees exceeded the available seating, prompting Papa or my father to bring out a collection of white five-gallon buckets from the back porch, providing makeshift seats around the kitchen table. As a child, I dreaded sitting on those buckets; my legs were too short to reach the floor, and the raised rims of the lids pressed uncomfortably into my thighs. Yet, even these seemingly mundane details contributed to the rich tapestry of memory and learning.

On those cold and tempestuous winter days, Gram would stand by the oven, stirring a pot of savory caribou soup, its rich aroma mingling with the yeasty scent of baking bread that filled their small home. This comforting fragrance softened the conversations, a promise of the simple pleasure of fresh bread slathered with Crisco soon to come. The combined warmth of the oven and the presence of our bodies heated the room, creating a cozy sanctuary against the elements. Some of us younger cousins, seeking refuge from the perceived dullness of adult conversation and the room’s growing stuffiness, would retreat to the back bedroom, a space designated for grandchildren who lived with them. Unbeknownst to me then, the passive eavesdropping on those adult conversations, even as I schemed for ways to amuse myself, was subtly shaping my values and my perspective on life.

This time of year, communities across coastal Western and Northern Alaska are turning their thoughts to the approaching fall storms, preparing for the challenges they invariably bring. My childhood was marked by these seasonal storms, but they were unlike the increasingly severe weather events we witness today. I recall hearing stories of a major flood in the 1960s, an event so impactful that my father’s house, my grandfather’s house, was lifted from its foundation by the surging waters and deposited in its current location, now occupied by my uncle and auntie. Even in the face of such dramatic upheaval, Papa’s spirit remained undaunted; he reportedly asked the neighbor across the road with good humor, “Can I be your neighbor?”

Last fall, Typhoon Halong, which originated in the central Pacific Ocean southeast of Japan, took an unexpected path, traveling north and making landfall along Alaska’s entire western coastline. The devastating impact resulted in flooding and damage to 45 communities, forcing the complete relocation of residents from Kipnuk and Kwigillingok, effectively transforming them into climate refugees. In the wake of this disaster, the governor declared a state of disaster emergency, and the president swiftly approved a federal disaster declaration, underscoring the severity of the situation.

These types of severe coastal flooding events, once considered rare occurrences, happening perhaps once a century, are now a stark reality, threatening communities annually. I spoke with Rick Thoman, Alaska’s leading climatologist, who provided critical insights into the escalating frequency and intensity of these storms. He explained that the warming oceans, coupled with the melting of glaciers and ice sheets, are creating a “double whammy” that significantly drives sea-level rise. Furthermore, he noted that coastal erosion is exacerbated by a lengthening sea-ice-free season, allowing for more prolonged periods of storm impact. Warmer oceans, he added, can also increase the intensity of storms, a factor likely contributing to the ferocity of the Halong flooding. Thoman also highlighted the critical issue of thawing permafrost, which in some low-lying coastal areas now occurs only a few feet above sea level, causing land to sink and settle, leading to catastrophic flooding where previously it might have been minor.

As we brace ourselves for whatever Sila may bring this fall, I often find myself wondering what Papa would say if he were here today, gazing out of his familiar window. I ponder his thoughts on the prolonged periods of rain that now prevent us from drying our fish on the racks as we once did, forcing us to dry them indoors in empty bedrooms, garages, or hallways, relying on fans. I wonder what he would make of the relentless ocean encroaching upon the coastline where he and Gram once camped during fishing season. Standing on that sandy beach, looking west towards the horizon, I question whether he could still discern the messages in the natural signals, still predict the weather with the same uncanny accuracy he possessed. I wonder what kind of conversations I would overhear at the kitchen table now, and most importantly, what Sila would tell him.