Return of the Sea Otter

by Todd McLeish

  The legislation is contentious throughout the region, though most residents would agree that its intent is admirable—to protect whales, dolphins, seals, polar bears, and other marine mammals, including sea otters, from being killed or harassed in US waters. One way it does this is by prohibiting the possession or importation of marine mammals or any parts of them. That means not only is it illegal to acquire a living or dead marine mammal, it is also illegal to possess a seal skull, walrus tusk, polar bear pelt, or any other body part without a permit. And permits are very hard to come by.

  Coastal Alaska Natives are exempt from the legislation, however, thanks to former Alaska senator Ted Stevens, who advocated for the exemption in an effort to recognize the traditional use of marine mammals by Native Alaskans. It allows them to hunt and kill as many sea otters as they wish at any time of year, as long as the animal is used for subsistence consumption or to create authentic Native clothing or handicrafts. And the exemption applies even to Natives who don’t live anywhere near the range of the sea otter. Natives from Barrow, 1,100 miles away, for instance, can travel to the Aleutians or to Southeast Alaska to hunt sea otters if they wish. Stevens justified the exemption so as not to “wipe out the Eskimo culture and several important Native handicraft activities in the process.”

  The makers of traditional handicrafts are allowed to sell their products to anyone they wish as well, which is why—despite the prohibition on owning marine mammal parts—it isn’t illegal to purchase seal skin gloves, sea otter–fur hats, or other garments or jewelry made from marine mammal fur, teeth, or bone. But the exemption comes with a complicated set of rules that can be interpreted in many ways, which has annoyed a large number of Natives seeking to maintain their tribal traditions. And it has even landed a few in jail. Their anger spilled over in 2014 at a public meeting to discuss the implications of the growing sea otter population and the rules imposed by the legislation.

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  IN A RAMSHACKLE community hall in Klawock, where a group of sea otter biologists, a couple fishermen, and a large number of Tlingit and Haida Natives from throughout Southeastern Alaska gathered, tensions rose quickly. The meeting’s agenda—which was planned largely by Nickerson and the Organized Village of Kasaan, a tribal government a few miles away—was designed as an opportunity for otter experts to share what they had learned about otters in the region in an effort to respond to concerns that the abundant animals were wiping out the commercial and traditional harvesting of marine invertebrates. I watched as speakers from the US Fish and Wildlife Service, University of Alaska, and other agencies made brief presentations, followed by a panel discussion of scientists from California and British Columbia, who were invited to share their experience managing sea otter reintroductions and range expansions in their areas. But things didn’t quite proceed as planned.

  The meeting got testy when representatives of the Fish and Wildlife Service—the agency most of the Natives view as the bad guy in the battle over sea otters and shellfish—tried to report how many otters were believed to live in the area. Questions and comments from the assemblage began almost immediately, and for almost ninety minutes a microphone was passed among the audience members. Few had questions, and those who did were not expecting answers. Most wanted to tell their personal stories of how their favorite shellfishing site had been rapidly depleted by otters, or how federal otter regulations were interfering with their traditional practices, or how they felt excluded from the process of establishing the regulations, or how a neighbor was entrapped by law enforcement and arrested for breaking the rules. Several comments expressed displeasure with the entire rulemaking process, including some that were directed at the tribes’ inability to figure out what to do next. And a few people made broad comments about oppression and a desire to pursue their traditional ways without government interference. One speaker declared the Marine Mammal Protection Act “broken,” while another announced that it was “time to amend” the legislation. Still another said that the legislation meant that “sea otters have more rights than we do, the sovereign indigenous people.”

  The intensity and passion of the speakers caught me somewhat off guard, though I had been warned that it wasn’t going to be an easy meeting to attend. It opened my eyes to perspectives I had read about—Native American oppression, chief among them—but which I had wrongfully assumed were mostly a thing of the past. So I sat quietly and tried to put myself in their shoes to better understand their concerns.

  All of those who commented appeared heartfelt and sincere. And I was impressed with their ability to laugh and chat with the targets of their hostility, despite their displeasure with the situation, during breaks in the daylong proceedings. They appeared to know that the government representatives in the room weren’t responsible for the rules, so they had no personal animosity toward them. But that did not make them any less angry.

  One of the primary targets of the speakers was the Marine Mammal Protection Act’s rules determining which Native Alaskans are allowed to hunt sea otters. Since the animals were absent from the region prior to the last few decades, older members of the tribes did not grow up hunting otters. But it didn’t take them long to learn after sea otters moved back into the area. Mike Jackson, for instance, who has hunted seals for most of his life, began hunting sea otters in the 1980s, and now he is teaching his grandson to hunt. He is one of about fifteen otter hunters in Kake. In some of the larger communities, however, some Natives who want to hunt sea otters are prohibited from doing so. That’s because only those whose ancestry is at least one-quarter Native Alaskan can participate in the hunt. And as more and more Natives marry non-Natives, it means that it is increasingly difficult for tribal traditions—like sea otter hunting—to be passed on to the next generation. It means it is illegal for many fathers to take their sons hunting.

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  PETER WILLIAMS isn’t facing that obstacle. His father was a full-blooded Yupik, and although Williams was raised by his non-Native mother in Tlingit territory and struggled at times with his identity, he eventually developed a close connection to his Native roots. Even at a young age, he found peace in participating in subsistence activities like fishing and sharing his catch with the community. Later he worked a trapline and learned to hunt seals with a friend, but it wasn’t a practice that came easy to him.

  “It was a long journey for me to be able to hunt,” said Williams, who is well known in the area as a hunter and known far beyond Alaska for the fashions he makes from sea otter pelts. “I would talk to people who hunted, and I’d go out and experiment, but I always felt really bad. I had a hard time taking an animal’s life.”

  By studying his ancestors’ hunting rituals, however, Williams saw how sea otter hunting could be a spiritual journey of self-discovery, one he said is “the most Alaska Native thing I can do.” That journey begins days before he actually picks up his rifle, as he monitors the weather and tides, pays attention to his mental and physical state, and packs his gear in preparation for the hunt. “One of the things I really like about hunting is that everything is a ritual, everything is to be appreciated,” he said.

  At home in Sitka on the night before a hunt, as he finalizes his preparations, Williams announces his intentions, telling the animals what he plans to do and why. In the morning, he performs a spiritual smudging ritual using a plant called Labrador tea; he describes the ritual as somewhat like the Catholic Church’s use of incense, waving smoke from the smoldering leaves over his body and rifle, cleansing himself while praying for his own safety and praying that his kills are quick. He finds this ritual helps him tap into his intuition, allowing him to be more successful at finding animals to hunt.

  Usually hunting alone, Williams cruises around in his boat looking for a group of sea otters, avoiding females with pups and preferring subadult males, which he claims are easier to hunt. When he finds his prey, he stops at the nearest islet and, from a standing position, rests his .223 rifle on a
life jacket placed on the rocks, and waits for the animals to come within range.

  “In my head, I ask for its life and squeeze the trigger,” he said.

  Williams hunts year-round, since the quality of a sea otter’s fur doesn’t fluctuate seasonally, but he tends to hunt less during the short winter days when the weather is windy. Some days he is successful and some days he isn’t. On his best day, he killed eleven sea otters, and in his most successful year he harvested seventy-eight. But he said he takes only what he needs, which he thinks is a concept that non-Native hunters targeting deer and geese, facing hunting seasons and bag limits, find hard to understand.

  When he does hunt and is successful, he collects the animal’s floating carcass and performs one last ritual, one based on a traditional Yupik seal-hunting practice that he read about. He offers the sea otter its last drink of water. Williams said the ritual originates from the belief that, since seals spend their entire life in salt water, they must be very thirsty. And if hunters give the animal its last drink of water, the seal will give its life to them and its spirit will return.

  Williams offers sea otters their last drink of water from the same water bottle he drinks from himself. “For me, it’s the moment of saying thanks and recognizing that water is an important key to life,” he said. “I take that moment and share something that’s precious to me and precious to all life, including this animal that just gave itself for me. It’s a moment to say thank-you and to make peace.”

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  THE OTHER IMPORTANT rule Native Alaskans must follow to legally hunt sea otters is that they must affix a Fish and Wildlife Service tag to the animal’s skull and hide within thirty days to help track the carcasses that are legally harvested. Commercial tanners are not allowed to process a hide without a tag. Tanning is an expensive process, costing more than $100 per pelt, and with the added cost of shipping the pelts to distant tanneries and paying for the cost of ammunition and boat fuel, sea otter hunting is an expensive activity. It’s one reason why few Alaska Natives hunt otters. And it’s why many Natives supported legislation proposed by Alaska state senator Bert Stedman that would have paid a $100 bounty for every sea otter killed.

  “At $1.50 per bullet, you have to be a pretty good hunter to stay a hunter,” said Mike Jackson. “I would have really liked that bounty, because it would have afforded a lot of local people to go hunt sea otter. It would be nice if we had some kind of incentive for people who are almost able to go hunting but can’t afford to buy gas and bullets. That’s who would benefit most from a bounty.”

  The concept of a bounty, however, is unappealing to most people, who view it as a crude wildlife-management tactic better left in the past. It also appeared to some people that it was an illegal predator-control strategy devised to reduce sea otter numbers to accommodate the demands of commercial fishermen and a way of going behind the backs of the government biologists who are charged with assessing and managing the sea otter population for the benefit of all.

  At the public meeting I attended, while several attendees shared unhappiness with the rules and regulations for sea otter hunting, the issue the assemblage spoke about most vehemently involved the definition and interpretation of the simple phrase “significantly altered.” It’s a key phrase in the Marine Mammal Protection Act for those seeking to turn a tanned sea otter pelt into a traditional product that can be sold to non-Natives. That’s because Native Alaskans are not allowed to sell sea otter pelts to non-Natives without significantly altering them into traditional handicrafts or other products like hats, gloves, teddy bears, and quilted blankets. The Marine Mammal Protection Act exemption was intended to allow Native Alaskans to continue their traditional practices, which included making ceremonial garb and other items from sea otter pelts. According to a Fish and Wildlife Service pamphlet, a pelt is considered significantly altered when it is no longer recognizable as a whole sea otter hide and it is substantially changed by weaving, carving, stitching, sewing, lacing, beading, drawing, painting, or being made into another material.

  It took three long days of meetings with Native hunters and artisans throughout coastal Alaska to come up with that definition. But it hasn’t appeased hunters who want to sell unaltered pelts or those who make handicrafts and think the rules allow non-Native wildlife managers to judge the quality of their artistry.

  “It’s telling us what we can and can’t do with our indigenous commerce,” said Nickerson, noting that the rules require handicraft techniques in use before 1972 when the legislation passed. “It’s basically telling us that we can’t adapt our commerce; we have to hold on to our ancestral methods.” It was only recently that Native artisans were allowed to use zippers, for instance, because they weren’t considered traditional.

  Jackson and many others who make high-end handicrafts, like clothing, hats, and purses, don’t object to the significantly altered rule. He said that it takes a great deal of work to make a pelt into something that has “value and uniqueness” and will sell in his shop. But others raised their voices at the meeting and facetiously wondered how many stitches or beads are enough to significantly alter a pelt.

  Later, Peter Williams told me that the language is problematic to him as well. “If I shoot an animal in the head and take its skin off its body, does it get any more significantly altered than that?” he asked. He recognizes the need for the rules, but “as someone who is a cultural bearer, I get hesitant and skeptical when someone is trying to define what culture and art is, especially someone outside of the culture….I think it’s problematic when an agency that’s outside of my culture tells me what is or isn’t my culture and what art is and isn’t, especially when culture and art evolve by their very nature.”

  * * *

  THE HANDICRAFTS THAT Williams makes have no problem passing the significantly altered test. He considers himself a fashion designer and vests, skirts, hats, and other garments made under his label Shaman Furs were featured in a runway show at Fashion Week Brooklyn in 2016. He has also been an artist in residence at the Santa Fe Art Institute, lectured at Yale University, and demonstrated skin sewing techniques at various venues.

  He said the process of designing and making his handicrafts “just feels right and important to me….It furthers my connection with the animal, which I think is at the core. It’s about connection and intimacy and having this relationship with the animal. The more I’m connected with the animal, the more I work and create and celebrate with it, the more I get to know it and myself and my culture.”

  When he receives an otter pelt from the tannery, he sprays it with water, stretches it, and staples it on a board to get rid of wrinkles and to give him as much material to work with as possible. He then draws his pattern on the hide, cuts it out with a razor blade, and uses a leather needle and upholstery thread to sew the fur by hand. He said that hand sewing feels cathartic and meditative, and it reflects the traditional methods his ancestors used.

  Williams learned to sew otter fur by reading books, experimenting on his own, and asking furriers and Native artisans about their techniques. That’s also how he learned to design fashions, and his designs continue to reflect the lessons he learned from his mentors. He has been pleased to find that many elements he learned about the design and construction of garments, many of which were based on Italian designs, are reflected in traditional Native-made garments as well. “I pick up things from everywhere, and somehow it leaps back to my ancestry in some weird way,” he said.

  Given the expense of hunting, tanning, and constructing his fashions, Williams’s designs aren’t cheap. So his customers are primarily people with considerable disposable income, especially those with a strong connection with sea otters, most often those who had a powerful experience seeing them in the wild. But that customer base is somewhat narrow, so he’s finding it a challenge to make a living. After five years of working at it full time, he’s still in the red. But the visibility and recognition he is finall
y receiving at fashion shows, on the internet, and at other events make him feel hopeful that his career is about to take off. Unfortunately, the increased interest of other Native Alaskans in making handicrafts is driving prices down. He has never before seen so many otter-fur handicrafts at craft fairs in Alaska. So Williams is focusing his attention on the higher-end fashion scene on the East Coast.

  “Having my own business is pretty hard, and trying to share and talk about something that’s new and unheard of and has controversy around it is pretty challenging,” he said. “But it’s something that’s just so important to me, and I view it as very important to my culture and to many other people. To me it has broader implications.”

  Among those implications is what Williams feels is a disconnect between people and nature that is driving the controversies over sea otters. He believes that disconnect is what led to the initial overharvesting of sea otters two hundred years ago, which led to a further disconnect when otters were absent from the coastal environment for so many years.

  American culture is very much disconnected right now from the environment and from our traditional ways of living for all of us,” he said. “We’re poisoning the earth because of that and exploiting it and each other because of that. When I talk about my work with sea otters, I’m really talking about culture and respect and spirituality and taking life and appreciating life.”