Honoring Tradition Through the Art of Drying Meat
The spring sun, a warm and generous blessing, painted golden light across my back. In my hand, the familiar curve of the ulu felt like an extension of my own history, a tool whispered through generations. This work, this rhythmic push and pull of blade against caribou meat, is deeply grounding—a quiet conversation with those who came before me. Each slice, thin and deliberate, isn’t merely cutting; it’s a coaxing, preparing each piece for its transformative journey to dry in the sun and wind.
I thought of the long winter, how it stretched like an endless canvas of white. But moments like this, with the scent of fresh meat and the promise of sustenance, felt like the true beginning of the year’s vibrant palette. My hands moved with purpose, but my mind was clear, filled with the profound satisfaction of contributing. I knew this meat would feed my family, sustaining us just as it has sustained our people for countless springs. It’s hard work, yes, but it is also a profound connection—an intricate dance with the land, an unbroken thread of tradition, and an embrace of the endless, beautiful cycle of life.
