The advent of the white man to engage in beach, or floe, whaling was a momentous event for the natives of northern Alaska and was the beginning of the end of their age-old methods. The first attempts made at Point Barrow in 1884 were without result, but two years later, under the Pacific Steam Whaling Company, a successful footing was gained and the Eskimos began to adopt the white man’s guns, bombs, and other gear.
The changes introduced by the white man were profound and the Eskimo of today has almost completely adopted his methods and materials; even the native boat—the only practical one for floe whaling—has been modified; the ancient superstitions are gone and the Eskimos have acquired a taste for the luxuries of civilization. Trading stations have been established at various points along the Arctic coast. Point Barrow boasts of an extensive native village besides several white residents, and further to the eastward the whalers often wintered at Herschel Island, increasing the profits of the voyage by trade in furs.
But bowhead whaling is almost a thing of the past. The present low price of baleen for either white man or Eskimo, and the closed season on fur have sealed the fate of the Arctic whaler.
The hunt for right whales still goes on but has been robbed of much of its picturesqueness, for the shore whalers soon learned that the animals could be shot with the harpoon-gun from their little steamers. But since the baleen has fallen in price they are not of very much greater value than the large fin whales; in Japan a humpback is really more appreciated because its flesh is much better for eating than that of any other species.
Right whales are often taken on the coast of Long Island, N. Y., and even now, at Amagansett, a whale-boat is kept in readiness to be launched whenever a spout is seen. In February, 1907, a crew under the leadership of Captain Josh Edwards killed a large right whale, the skeleton and baleen of which were secured for the Museum at an expense of $3,200.
“We had to stand in freezing water while cutting away at the huge mass of flesh which encased the bones.”
Captain Josh, as he was known to all the country near and far, was a genial old man, radiating good nature—a typical whaler of the old school. Although seventy-six years had whitened his hair, when the cry of “Ah! Blow-o-o-o!” had sounded through the village, he forgot his age and was in the first boat to leave the beach on the five-mile chase. And it was his arm, still strong under the weight of years, which sent the keen-edged lance at the first thrust straight into the lungs of the whale.
Mr. James L. Clark, formerly of the Museum, and myself, as soon as word of the whale was received, hastened to Amagansett, where we had two weeks of the hardest sort of work to secure the skeleton.
The carcass was beached just at the edge of low tide, where surf was continually breaking over it, and we had to stand in freezing water while cutting away at the huge mass of flesh which encased the bones.