Life in Old Crow a mix of old ways, modern frills

Page 27

On January 13, 1992, I got off a large, orange DC-3 aircraft and set foot in Old Crow, Yukon Territory. Friends thought I was nuts wanting to spend my vacation in a place where normal food consists of dried Caribou meat and bannock instead of icy drinks and coconuts, but I had another purpose in mind.

With populations in more temperate regions undecided in how the economy and environment should be run, I thought it could be interesting to delve into the basic beliefs and culture of a people who, for the most part, still depend on the land for sustenance.

More and more, I'm beginning to believe the answer dominate societies are searching for will arrive from very unexpected places.

Nearly 30 miles to the south lies Dawson City. Eighty kilometres straight west is the Alaskan border. And if you're adventurous (or crazy) enough to venture that far on your own, the Arctic coastline 100 miles to the north will greet you with open arms.

Old Crow. Yukon Territory. The nearest one can get to paradise in this part of the country.

If there is one thing that never changes up north, it is the hospitality. In three-and-a-half weeks, I was treated to scores of meals consisting of dried caribou meat, salmon, mountain sheep, whitefish, caribou head and, of course, tea and bannock. Genuine smiles and happy faces were everywhere I cared to walk. It was a good time.

Unfortunately, I arrived there with expectations. They got left behind quickly enough. A few surprises were in store.

For one thing, no one lived in plywood shacks as I had always thought, but in nicely built log homes and "kit" houses. Also, though it surely wasn't necessarily the case for everybody, most of the people I came in contact with spoke perfect English. Some Elders could only speak in their own tongue. Heavy influence from early missionaries in the 1800s no doubt.

In that sense, Old Crow isn't what it used to be. Still, some things have not changed.

For instance, The Gwich-in rely heavily on wild meats (as they always have). Undoubtedly, the caribou are the very essence of this proud nation and it becomes clear

to any outsider that they are willing to pay virtually any price to safeguard what falls under their cultural jurisdiction; the porcupine herd. Good thing too, because foreigners are viewing the calving grounds in the Alaskan Arctic National Wildlife Refuge on the Alaskan side with the dollar signs in their eyes. Why? Oil and gas underneath. Approximately six months worth. If development does eventually go through, I say two things could go up in smoke:

spent fuel......and a beautiful culture.

Randy Tetlichi is a good friend of my father's, and through his generosity, allowed me to stay with him and his family. Just from getting to know the man, it was easy to see why in many ways he is considered the spiritual leader of the community and why he was chosen as drug and alcohol counsellor for the town. Compared to what there is to know in nature, he said in a hushed tone of voice, I know nothing. Nothing at all.

Perhaps Randy, but that tiny fraction of knowledge you shared has helped solve a lot of burning questions I held in my head for some time!

For a remote community harboring only about 400 people, 90 per cent of that being Native, Old Crow was surprisingly modern. Instead of dog-teams and sleds racing down the streets, snowmobiles were the main source of transportation. There were trucks too, mostly service vehicles that arrived via Hercules planes.

With no roads around for hundreds of miles, shipping freight from Whitehorse costs an arm and a leg. Super Mario on the Nintendo system, the latest video movies, laser compact disc players, microwaves and VCRs--what an eye opener!

One would think that amidst all this "southern comfort", traditional values and teachings from Elders would take second place. Not so.

Though making a living from it is much harder than it used to be, trapping is still a well practised cultural activity there. The kids regularlygot to accompany kind uncles and older cousins on the traplines, sometime for day trips as part of their schooling.

I tell you, I learned a lot from that place!

Old Crows Flats, a low-level geographic area consisting of hundreds of small lakes and interconnecting marshlands 50 miles northeast of town, is home to the world's richest concentration of muskrats and some of the best waterfowl breeding grounds in North America. The hunts elders used to enjoy in the "old" days haven't changed much. Even today, one hundred "rats" a day is still considered an average catch. Incredible.

On a down-to-earth, concrete level, being there was good simply because the type of conversation that went on between people contained little of the ambiguities of the big city. No discussions on the rise and fall of stocks, no concerns about fashion, money or frilly food, just basic living.

I had trouble adjusting the first week. Aside from the fact that daylight generally lasted only four hours and my sleeping patterns were really thrown off, the pace was a little too slow and settled for my tastes. Gradually however, as worries about collecting sufficient writing material dissipated and I began enjoying visiting and just having a good time, Old Crow began feeling like home.

Actually, a lot like home.

When Feb. 8 rolled around and I had to catch the plane south, a gnawing feeling inside that said I'd be coming back to visit someday told me to look behind.

A Gwich-in man named Randall Tetlichi, not even 40 years old, half-stood on his snowmobile, straight faced and looking directly at me. During that silent moment, there was no doubt in my mind that we both knew.

This wasn't goodbye.