Under the warm spring sun, the ulu becomes an extension of the hand, gracefully preparing caribou meat for drying. This isn't just work; it's a living tradition, connecting us to the land and the wisdom of generations past.
The Art of Drying Caribou Meat
The spring sun, warm and generous on my back, felt like a blessing. I gripped the ulu, its familiar curve fitting perfectly in my hand, a tool passed down through generations. There’s something deeply grounding about this work, about the rhythmic push and pull of the blade against the caribou meat. Each slice, thin and deliberate, felt less like a chore and more like a quiet conversation with those who came before me.
You learn to read the muscle, to feel the grain. It’s not just cutting; it’s coaxing, preparing each piece for its journey to dry in the sun and wind. I thought about the winter, how long it felt, and how moments like this, with the scent of fresh meat and the promise of sustenance, felt like the true beginning of the year. My hands were busy, but my mind was clear, filled with a quiet satisfaction that comes from contributing, from knowing this meat will feed my family, sustaining us just as it has sustained our people for countless springs. It’s hard work, sure, but it’s also a profound connection – to the land, to tradition, and to the endless cycle of life.
