Snowbound

Born here but educated on the mainland, Dean said he lives in Savoonga because he is stuck here without the means to leave. "I'm a poor man," he said. Partially disabled from a construction accident, he said he survives mostly by hunting and fishing for his food. The Savoongans call this "subsistence living," which in this village is not a lament but a matter of pride, at least to the elders. Still, Dean said, the old way of life is buckling under ferocious assault from modernity. Teens are questioning the ways of their forebears, he said, losing respect for their authority, staying mostly idle, and taking to drink and drugs.

Even the ancient Savoongan art of ivory carving, Dean said, is slowly being lost. He himself learned it at age 7, beside the bench of his grandfather. He seemed proud of this, so we told him we would love to take a look at any carvings he had. But he had none to show--not on his person, not in his home, nowhere on the island. Ivory carving is painstaking work, he said: A single, substantial piece can take months or even years. He must sell everything immediately to survive, he said. Life can be hand to mouth in Savoonga.

Dean brightened: We could see some of his work, he said, if we ventured to Washington, D.C., in the Lower 48, and found a place called the Smithsonian Institution. Had we heard of it?

DEAN KULOWIYI, IT WOULD TURN OUT, is one of the world's elite ivory artists. His pieces have sold for thousands, and some have been marketed at Smithsonian gift shops. He inspires imitators, such as our next visitor, a handsome young man named Jason Iya.

Jason arrived as Dean was leaving. "We're cousins on our mother's side, and maybe a little on our father's," Jason said, and both laughed. There are only about 20 Eskimo surnames in Savoonga, as we would discover, and it is hard to find two island natives who are not in some way related.

Jason, 22, is one of a few young, skilled carvers on the island. He showed us a foot-tall, long-necked cormorant he had made, lovely and delicate, sweeping up from a stone base. He was selling it for $200; we'd seen far less skillfully rendered pieces in the Anchorage airport for four times the amount. In fact, Jason said, he'd been living near Anchorage, carving and selling his work until a half year earlier, when he had to come home to help his family.

Help them with what? I asked.

Jason fiddled with his cormorant. He had a downy mustache and sad eyes, and he sat in an eloquent slouch.

"My brother died," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Everyone on Savoonga named Iya got together to make his casket and cross."

"How did he die?"