After the mail drop the remainder of the flight to Kaktovik is anticlimactic. It is mid-September, autumn in the far north. The sky is thick with overcast which by now is spitting snow on this remote village of 200 Inuit. The locals are hunkering down for another long winter which is how they spend about 75% percent of their lives.

Each September an enduring ritual is played out on this half frozen stage. Traditional whaling crews go out in open boats on a hunt that is sacred to their culture. They will attempt to fill subsistence quotas established by the U.S. or Canadian governments. For the village of Kaktovik the quota is three bowhead (also known as "right") whales. The meat and blubber give the people protein and fat they need to survive another Arctic winter. And the hunt strengthens ties to the past and bonds within the Inuit community.

The hunt does something else. It has given rise to a fledgling tourist industry on this godforsaken island. After the whales are butchered the carcasses are dozed onto a lonely spit of land known affectionately as the boneyard. Nearly a hundred polar bears are attracted to the area to scavenge this bonanza. And in turn about a hundred visitors assemble for the season, to view the bears and to soak up the minus five star luxury of the Waldo Arms, Kaktovik's only hotel. Not exactly Disney, but it's a beginning.