The Wake of the Unseen Object: Travels through Alaska's Native Landscapes

by Tom Kizzia

"In the course of a two-year odyssey . . . Kizzia visited numerous native settlements, interviewed leaders and followers, and wrote the feature articles that make up this charming, informative book. . . . Kizzia writes a clear, unobtrusive prose that crystallizes in memorable images."-Washington Post "A boatful of native Alaskans slapping downriver through the chop on their way to the biggest softball game of the season. A hunter singing the old songs for hunting luck, as he snowmobiles onto the ice with his rifle. Such contrasts-Eskimo and outsider, ancient and modern-run through Tom Kizzia's chronicle of travels in the Alaska bush in search of 'ancestral landscapes.'"-Smithsonian Tom Kizzia is a journalist at the Anchorage Daily News.

Genres: Nonfiction

278 pages, Paperback

First published November 1, 1990

About the author

Tom Kizzia traveled widely in rural Alaska as a reporter for the Anchorage Daily News. He has written for The New Yorker and The Washington Post and been featured on CNN. Tom is a former Knight Journalism Fellow at Stanford University and a graduate of Hampshire College. His stories about the Pilgrim Family won a President's Award from McClatchy Newspapers. His first book, The Wake of the Unseen Object, was named one of the best all-time non-fiction books about Alaska by the state historical society. He lives in Homer, Alaska.

Reviews

[Brianna Bowman · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm a big fan of Tom Kizzia - my husband and I read Pilgrim's Wilderness last year, and listened to parts of the audiobook again when we took my mom and dad out to McCarthy. I was curious to read another one of his works, and especially one with such a compelling title and also recognized by the local historical society as an important book documenting Alaskan history.
The book is interesting in the context of 2021. Originally published in 1991, it documents the author's assignment by the local newspaper to write about "Alaskan life off the road system", which apparently is a euphemism for "write about Native Alaskans". Nevermind that such an expensive assignment for a local, full-time reporter seems quaint now, it's hard to shake the very large, very *white* elephant in the room: Kizzia has been assigned, as a white man, to report on Native Alaskan life.
What he does recount is interesting, intriguing, and fascinating, there's no doubt about that (speaking as a white person not familiar with remote Alaskan living). But in an age where we are learning more about the lens through which we see the world, and how the dominant narratives are defined by those in power, the book feels of a different time. I can't imagine a book like this being published today. I don't think I am at liberty to say whether anything Kizzia writes is outright insulting or racist - it's not as simple, or precise, or acute as that. It's things like Kizzia showing up in a village, barely having contacted anyone prior to arriving, wandering around observing people (i.e. Native Alaskans) going about their day, and him wondering why nobody wants to talk to him. At the very least, if I were his editor, I would say this was a poorly planned excursion and a waste of resources. At most, it's outright disrespectful to show up in a very remote, isolated community and just *expect* people to open up to you, when your physical presence, nevermind the manner in which you showed up, are painful reminders of the violence and oppression your ancestors and people have been subject to. At times, the longest conversations Kizzia has with people are with other white people, particularly white men, that have escaped to the Alaska bush, and are presenting their view of Native Alaskan life to Kizzia, though Kizzia never emphasizes that this is not the same as learning directly from a Native Alaskan. He seems to highlight these conversations because he can't catch a break getting a community member to speak with him - which again, seems to be an insidious sign of the times.
This isn't to say that he has no direct interactions with Native Alaskans, and that he has positive relationships with some as well. The experiences that Kizzia has are truly special and amazing - people sharing with him their traditions and way of life. The book appropriately ends with an incredible experience of Kizzia being present on a boat while the two men he is with successfully hunt a beluga. Kizzia is clearly uncomfortable with it (as many people would), which is where I have another qualm:
Kizzia's writing style is very to the point, poetic in its apparent objectivity. Even the title, "The Wake of the Unseen Object", which feels almost mythological, even like something that could be rooted in theoretical physics, is an English translation of a Yupik phrase that has a very literal explanation: it is the wake on the surface of the water created by salmon swimming just underneath. This Hemingway-esque writing style, combined with his presentation as a reporter, creates an illusion of objectivity. Without stating it outright, the reader is left with the sense that Kizzia is 'just reporting the facts'. But, we are a little wiser, a little more mature in 2021 than we were 30 years ago, and I find myself clamoring for some sort of acknowledgment from Kizzia that this is *his* perspective, for him to give some context as to what his opinions were of Native Alaskan communities and remote living in Alaska prior to being put on this assignment, acknowledging where he may be falling short in understanding these people's lives and how just spending a few days with them can never truly capture what it means to be a Native Alaskan living in the Alaskan bush. I wish there was some acknowledgment that he may not be the right person for this job.
I think that what Kizzia has written is still a vibrant snapshot of remote Alaskan living. A foreword or afterword about the context of the book I believe could address these issues. And with that I'll acknowledge that I, a white lady, am not the person to provide the only critique of this work. I am curious to hear what members of Native Alaskan communities think of this book, and whether or not I am way off base.

[Greyson · Rating 3 out of 5]

Collected articles turned into book-form, Kizzia toured the bush for a few years on assignment. Speaking with some Natives and many whites/settlers, he develops character and community sketches for the largely white/urban ADN subscriber-base. The stories are interesting, mostly as a look into the prevailing mindset at the time (80s/90s) with respect to urban-bush issues. I like to think the larger state population has more respect for Native voices in the present day, as the updated intro alludes to, but this was never Kizzia's story to tell.

[P.J.S. Martin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Such a find! I ate up this book and expect I’ll be going back to reread it again. Kizzia tells good stories. While he is a presence in each page of this book, he does not take center stage. He sets Alaska and her peoples at the heart. He explores complex communities and environments and does not try to reduce them to a simple analysis. Great read. I learned a lot about my adopted state.

[Yvonne Leutwyler · Rating 5 out of 5]

Excellent writing! This book gives an insight to life in bush Alaska. It was written originally as a series of newspaper articles in the 1980ies, but contains a wealth of timeless information. Kizzia is a reporter/writer who does his homework and writes in a non-biased, open-minded manner.

[Sally · Rating 4 out of 5]

While a few details for my own community were slightly off, I enjoyed the thoughtfulness and good writing.

[Linnea Jane · Rating 4 out of 5]

A window into bush Alaska in the 80's and a picture of many of the struggles that continue today.

[Forest · Rating 4 out of 5]

[EDIT: I have since realized that the newest edition of the book contains an intro written by Kizzia in 2020. I just read it, and I think that with it he does a decent job addressing the concerns I expressed below. Still, the critiques below are, I think, important to keep in mind regardless when you start the book.]

A beautiful book. For all its flaws, one of my best reads of the past few years. Possibly the best nonfiction that I have ever read. With that said, let’s start with the bad first.

I agree a lot with the critical reviews other people have posted in which they discuss the many flaws of the book: How keenly it feels like it was written in a different era by a white outsider, how many aspects of the narration often feel held back by this, how it really feels like the book should be updated with a foreword or other acknowledgement of some kind discussing the context at the time of writing and how both society’s and Kizzia’s views/understandings have evolved in the decades since, and so on. [EDIT: as mentioned in the first line of my review, the newest edition does have a short intro addressing some of these things.] Watch out in particular for some terms that are now often considered slurs (not just for Alaska Natives: lots of instances of L*pp used for Sami, etc). It is also hard not to notice that he describes many of the women more in terms of their appearances (particularly when he is struck by someone beautiful etc.), and this too feels dated.

I think it’s important to understand all these flaws in advance of reading the book, for a number of reasons. First, so that one can more properly contextualize the text and identify its problems while reading (as opposed to going into it uncritically), which I think is especially important for those who, like me, grew up as (non-Native) “city kids” in Alaska, for whom this book might serve as their first major window into what life is like out in the bush. And second, I think it’s also important to go in with properly-calibrated expectations so that one doesn’t quit and give up on reading the book through to the end just because it looks at the start like it will *only* be significant as an exhibit of its own flaws. Actually, I think there is plenty worth reading here, and that the book remains both a phenomenal read and incredible achievement on Kizzia’s part.

One positive thing that I feel like I, as an outsider, was able to start to wrestle with via the text was recognizing and unpacking whatever the 2020’s equivalent of the myth of the noble savage is. To explain more: I think that, especially with the entry into the mainstream of accessible works that can serve as a bridge to indigenous narratives/perspectibes (e.g. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s excellent _Braiding Sweetgrass_), there has been an associated rise in probably-well-intentioned non-indigenous people instrumentalizing the idea of “indigeneity” as a tool for their own political goals, often without realizing this is what they are doing. I think a classic example of this is in the tendency of non-indigenous, urban, liberal Americans to perform a set of fairly-uniform ideological conjugations whenever we see the label “indigenous.” Broadly, I think we tend to expect Indigenous people to be opposed to extractive industries, in favor of conservation efforts and the application of federal protective designations to lands and the animals that inhabit them, in favor of a return to indigenous political sovereignty, and in favor of a return to a pre-western system of culture, beliefs, and practices. Therefore, in the minds of many who would think of themselves as allies, promoting these causes is a moral necessity.

In reality, indigenous people are, fundamentally, people—not just props in the broader American political wars—and an *extremely* diverse group of people at that. Indeed, in my mind, in North America, indigeneity is actually somewhat of an artificial label, in that its primary content is not any set of concrete shared values but rather the state of having a particular historical and/or ongoing relationship with settler colonialism. True, at a macroscopic level, this history can lead to some common standpoints. Indigenous people who rely on fishing for subsistence and income will tend to resent large international fishing crews illegally taking catch in a way that threatens the health of local runs that they and their ancestors have lived on and managed since time began. In that sense their interests align with those of certain environmentalists. But this does not mean such indigenous people will be opposed to all commercial fishing; indeed, commercial fishing is essential for many of the communities Kizzia visits, because modern-day subsistence fishers use metal skiffs with gas-powered outboards, and the money for those things has to come from somewhere. And in such communities there can be a surprising amount of resentment for e.g. the folks at Fish and Game, who fly in for just a few hours at a time to dictate seemingly-arbitrary edicts restricting various kinds of fishing. This is all in the name of protecting stocks for generations into the future, which most would agree is a noble goal—but to some of the indigenous communities Kizzia visits, maybe it just feels like another of the white man’s impositions. After all, the salmon thrived for centuries while indigenous people worked the rivers the way they always had. The current problems with the salmon stocks aren’t the indigenous peoples’ faults. So why should they have to adjust their behaviors to address it? Why is Fish and Game flying out to police them, rather than the people who are *really* responsible?

The book contains many other such interesting examples. A walrus sanctuary that offends the sensibilities of some of the older indigenous folks who find it in poor taste to have a place where people go just to take pictures of animals, rather than recognizing them as givers of life and hunting them. A surprisingly intense antipathy towards catch-and-release sport fishermen (who are ostensibly interacting with the rivers in low-impact ways that won’t affect subsistence in the area) because they’re just “toying” with the fish rather than keeping them to eat and honor (again) as vital sustenance. And so on.

In the end, for all its flaws, I think that especially if you read between the lines and adjust for some of the narrative biases, the book very eloquently shows that Indigenous people have their own economic and political interests, as well as their own rich linguistic and cultural traditions, all of which exist in various degrees of alignment/fusion/tension with “western” equivalents.

We see a village where many Yup’ik parents want their children instructed in English in school, on the one hand because of the opportunities it provides, but on the other, for at least one father, because he doesn’t think it’s appropriate to talk about technical or “western” things in Yup’ik. By contrast, he asserts that whenever they’re out on the water fishing, everything should be in Yup’ik. To him, both languages are vital.

We see many villages where Russian orthodoxy—what many outsiders might think of as a “western imposition”—has been so thoroughly melded into traditional culture that elders would be aghast at the suggestion that it represents an “outside influence.” We see this (and the values it brings) cause tension with some of the younger generations, who just want to hold a high school dance where they can turn the lights down low and play rock music over the speakers, much to the disapproval of the orthodox elders.

The book finishes on a remarkable high note. The final chapter is beautifully written. Without revealing too much, I’ll just say that in it, I think we see Kizzia finally feel like he’s found what it is he set out looking for. In a fish camp, working like a dog alongside some folks from Scammon bay (though it’s clear Kizzia has it much easier than them), it seems all of the complex questions of the interface between modernity and tradition, subsistence and capitalism, etc. melt away from Kizzia’s view, and what he’s left seeing feels so timeless, so immortal, and so true, that it honestly reads like fiction. It’s hard not to feel like one is looking back in time, down millennia of unbroken generations of families working these same rivers, eating the same foods, sweating in the same silence, cursing the same bugs, and wearing the same smiles as they watch the children who are too young to work playing along the shores, picking up centuries-old tools of distant ancestors exposed by the erosion of the bluffs, and disappearing beyond sight, the only evidence of their continued presence being the sound of their laughter—carried by the wind over the tundra and under the midnight sun—at the happenings in one of their made-up games.

Incredible stuff. Moving, poignant, and beautiful. A possible critique is that in this final section Kizzia seems to present himself maybe too much as having become an "insider" by the end. I mean, the fact remains that he lived there for only a week or two—hardly a long time. But it seems clear that, at the least, the members of the village seem to have grown some kind of affection towards him, and that they accepted him with respect once it became clear he was willing to put in hard work to fish and relish eating the foods of camp.

What an incredible story. What an incredible book. Purely on the basis of narrative and all, I think it is a well-earned 4.25/5, rounded down to a 4/5. Considering that it is *non*-fiction, in which the author can't move characters and plot points around as pawns in an overarching goal, it is hard for me to say much could have been improved, other than the flaws I described in my critique. Were it not for these, I would have no problem giving the book a 5/5.

Such great work.

[Liza · Rating 4 out of 5]

I had given this 3 stars but I keep talking about it so it obviously made an impact on me, so I just changed it to 4 stars.