Dear readers,
Allow me to share Anchorage’s latest obsession. A phenomenon The New York Times deemed a worthy cultural moment by proclaiming: “A 47-Foot-Long Whale Carcass Captivates an Alaskan City.”
Two weeks ago, during an unusually high tide, a dead fin whale washed up on the mudflats west of town. It happened Saturday night and by Sunday, the telephone game began. You have to see it. Bring the kids! Tragic but also beautiful.
That Monday, after hearing another person rhapsodize its magnificence, I decided to go. The mudflats are accessible only by non-motorized trails. It was freezing out, so I parked at the closest entrance for a half-mile walk.
The neighborhood streets were lined with cars and it was eerie to see so many people. Not the usual dog walkers and cyclists but instead, a stream of faces marching in both directions. Their frenetic energy made me want to hide.
I kept walking and soon saw the whale from a distance. Or, rather, I saw a mass of people swarming a large object, like ants breaking down food for their nest.
I stood on the trail as people picked their way across the frozen mudflats. The line resembled a pilgrimage but, to what? All I could perceive was a crowd ogling death.
It didn’t feel right to be there, so I turned back.
Yet the whale haunted me as I second-guessed my decision. After all, I had begun the pilgrimage. It wasn’t like I lacked interest.
Have you seen the whale? I cautiously asked others. When they answered no I sighed in relief. I mean, same. It’s kind of weird to make a spectacle of death, right?
I sought justifications and a moral high ground to explain what felt more like anxiety. An aversion to collective experience, to following a crowd in search of meaning without knowing if I trusted the source.
What were we seeking, by wanting to visit this whale?
Scientists identified it as a juvenile female fin whale whose death was undetermined. In other words, a baby, at most three years old. She didn’t seem to have been hit by a boat, but they said it wasn’t common to see fin whales this far up the inlet either.
Meanwhile, the public fascination continued. People posed inside the whale’s mouth. Families took holiday card photos. Kids jumped atop the frozen body, stomped in a pool of blood, and slid down its tail.
The cold spell kept the animal intact. It was predicted to wash away in the next big tide, a month after it arrived. Until then, it would remain.
My parents visited for Thanksgiving. I still hadn’t seen the whale. When the Times article hit, my mom sent it to me and we decided we might as well go.
The Friday after Thanksgiving was particularly frigid, but sunny. We bundled up, stuck hand warmers in our mittens, and drove back to the street where I’d first parked. It had been nearly two weeks since the whale appeared.
We saw way fewer people than last time. The snow crunched beneath us and the sun reflected off the ice as we made our way down the trail. When we got to the viewpoint, the carcass was visible. A few people stood around it but not nearly the same crowd as before. We walked on. The mudflats were easier to navigate than I expected and soon, we were there.
The whale’s body had been well-preserved but there were signs of distention. It was uncomfortable to see a creature designed for buoyancy trapped against the frozen mud.
Scientists had taken more of its flesh than I had noticed in photos. The tail was severed, which someone suggested might be for a vertebrae sample. Blubber had been removed from its flanks and its baleen was mostly gone.
This was the third whale carcass I’ve seen, and the only one whose stench was bearable. A benefit of the cold.
We stood and observed it, but did not touch. I watched with mild revulsion as two children climbed atop and slid down its ribbed stomach. Another person stepped on its tail.
It’s like an art piece, my dad said. I agreed, though noted it wasn’t treated that way. After what felt like enough time, we walked back to the car. We decided it had been a good visit. We also decided that, despite our promise, we would not send photos to my three-year-old niece. It wasn’t that kind of animal encounter.
Later on we visited the Anchorage museum. We wandered through halls of glacier paintings, bear sculptures, and indigenous artifacts. Here, no one climbed on the artwork. Instead, it was viewed with reverence and at a remove.
I’m glad we saw the whale. It washed up less than two miles from my house and in that way feels like part of the world I inhabit. It’s natural to be curious and to want this rare glimpse of a magnificent creature.
But viewing its dead body isn’t the way I’d like us to interact. The equivalent of keeping a lover in a cage to satisfy the urge to have them, only to realize that’s not how it works.
The best part of the visit was sharing the experience with the right people. Making a collective decision to see something that caused us to wonder, discuss, and reflect. A memory we’ll cherish despite the mixed feelings it invoked.
When I first attempted to see the whale, I was turned off by what seemed like a collective fad. It was unappealing to be in a crowd of pilgrims yet without the desire to pray. Adrift and caught in the wrong stream.
It’s said that whales experience grief similar to our own. Somewhere out there, a mother seeks her child. I hope that when the tide comes, her body will return where it belongs.
Yet I’m grateful for her appearance. The glimpse of a creature we’d never otherwise see. We still don’t know what killed her. The least we can do is respect her where she lies, hopefully for not too much longer, and thank her for visiting this frozen earth.
Ahhhhhhhhh Julia why is your writing so beautiful, even when it’s about giant/gentle/dead creatures and disgusting humans. Thank you for sharing your experience. And the photos are just magnificent.
This was the article I needed about this spectacle