Snowbound

So far, so good.

THERMOMETER READINGS MEAN LITTLE TO SAVOONGANS, because in this treeless island village, wind is a constant irritant; on that first day, we were informed, it was "30." That meant minus-5, adjusted by wind chill to minus-30. In Savoonga, in winter, the "minus" is a given.

There is no real way to prepare, physically or mentally, for 30 below. You can dress as warmly as you think appropriate, with long johns and woolen socks and layers of fleece and a sturdy parka and a ski cap, and then you step out into it and you realize that, in the words of Richard Dreyfuss in "Jaws," you need a bigger boat. When we'd first landed, Michael and I left the plane for two minutes to photograph the unloading of cargo, then we scurried back aboard. With barely a word to each other, but exchanging slightly stupefied glances, we slipped on full-face balaclavas and thick gloves and eye goggles and a second layer of hat.

And soon we were actually walking in it, heading out to explore the village. Thirty below is opportunistic. If you leave a slit between chin and Adam's apple, 30 below works its way in and moves down and around in a darting shiver, like the icy hands of a pickpocket. To take photographs, Michael had to remove his goggles, freezing his eyebrows, as he put it, "in a permanent state of astonishment." Your first lesson, then, is to expose nothing.

Savoonga is home to about 700 people. The inexpensive frame houses have no numbers, the few streets have no names. In the winter, the town rests on five feet or more of packed snow, and the only transportation is by snowmobiles, which roar about day and night.

Trudging through town, we found a grocery store, a K-12 school, a small City Hall, a small Christian chapel, a medical clinic, a firehouse and finally a post office, at which we briefly stopped. Outside it, scratched into a wooden wall, was a welter of remarkably sedate graffiti. Even though this was obviously the handiwork of the young --pop lyrics and so forth--there was barely any profanity. Most writing was a simple assertion of self, followed by the same plaint, repeated in almost identical words, flat, mild and disturbing. Here's one: "I was being bored here. 11/13/04. 7:41 a.m."

Also: "I miss Nicholas."

Also: "I miss Ernie."

Also: "I miss Don."

When we returned to our lodge, we had company. Visitors to Savoonga are an event, or, more specifically, an opportunity. A woman named Bessie, toting a baby, offered to sell us a whale tooth. A man had a small carving of a seal made out of walrus tusk. Would-be vendors arrived and departed serially, a minute or two apart. Polite and self-effacing, each person nodded placidly when we declined, then shuffled off; there was no hard sell, no hard-luck story, just resignation.

One visitor had no wares at all. We thought for a moment that he was looking for a handout, but it turned out he just wanted to talk. He appeared to be about 65, a small, leather-skinned man with a stooped bearing, weary eyes and an apologetic manner. His deeply fissured face bore a Fu Manchu mustache that framed a toothless mouth. The voice belied it all--it was soft, cultured, almost professorial.

He told us his name, which was Dean Kulowiyi, and his age, which was 42. If he saw our surprise, he didn't show it.