Conversations

Jeannine Stronach for WaterBridge Review: Do you consider yourself an environmentalist? 

Charles Wohlforth: I am first a journalist. My experience lies in traditional American journalism, with its ethos of disinterest and nonpartisanship. That perspective feeds into my personality and philosophy as a writer, as well. I believe a writer of nonfiction carries a heavy obligation to be truthful, in the sense of conveying as closely as possible what the world really is like. I wrote The Whale and the Supercomputer so the experience of reading would be as close as possible to the experience of living—that is, details accumulate and the reader has a sense of reaching his or her own conclusions about what they mean. In terms of my personality, I’m not a joiner and I like to formulate my own ideas, so that also keeps me out of “ism” camps.

On the other hand, I don’t think literature can exist outside of a political context. Clearly, I had to reach conclusions in the process of researching the book, and I had to choose details that would, I hope subtly, lead to the truth as I perceive it. There is truth in the world, certainly in the natural world, and the consequences of dealing with or obfuscating that truth are significant and unavoidable. In that sense, my book does serve a political purpose, albeit a journalistic one.

For me to deny being an environmentalist would be absurd. Increasingly, I have devoted my life to raising my family in the natural environment of the Alaska. Increasingly, I find our species’ impacts on that natural environment unacceptable.

WBR: The Whale and the Supercomputer is about global warming, as the subtitle suggests, but it is also very much about the way the Iñupiat people of Alaska and the scientific community relate to one another and work together. Did you have that theme in mind when you first set out to write the book, or did it evolve gradually out of your experiences writing it?

CW: The book grew from its subject. Growing up and living in Anchorage, I experienced how the weather has changed over my lifetime. That experience set the original question of the book: why was it happening? I thought the answer would be purely scientific, but in the course of more than 100 interviews as I was developing a publishing proposal and outline, I realized that the most perceptive Arctic scientists were studying what Alaska Natives perceived about the changes that were happening. Science about the Arctic system, it turned out, was surprisingly primitive and short-term. Native knowledge was complex, holistic, and long-term. Moreover, the Iñupiat were putting their lives on the line to subsist in a radically changing environment. It didn’t take long to realize this was a far more compelling story than simply following scientists around as they did their measurements.

WBR: Your book is full of colorful characters and you paint an intimate portrait of the people you write about. How did you earn the trust of the Iñupiat community and the scientists that you observed and interviewed for the book?

CW: The book is the product of the immense generosity of the people about whom I wrote. Gaining their trust was the most important and difficult step. The Iñupiat have been mischaracterized in the media so frequently—indeed, Eskimos seem to be that last socially acceptable target of racist caricature—that they are extremely shy of talking to reporters and have even set up formal systems to prevent unscreened journalists from obtaining access to their whaling camps. As a life-long Alaskan, active in local affairs, as are my parents, I had a natural advantage over someone from outside.

I also took the effort of writing a long feature article about whaling and indigenous knowledge for the alternative Anchorage Press, which allowed me to demonstrate my journalistic ethics to my prospective sources, including my willingness to let sources read and comment on the text before publication. Finally, I cultivated a relationship with a crucial gatekeeper, Richard Glenn, who is a leader in both the Iñupiat and scientific cultures in Arctic Alaska. Without Richard’s help, the book would not exist.

The scientific sources were easier to access. The challenge was to bring myself up to a level of technical literacy so I could ask the right questions and understand the answers. A few initial helpers assisted me by telling me what books to read, including John Walsh of the University of Alaska Fairbanks Institute for Arctic Research. The key to joining scientists on field research was to take care of myself: I handled my own travel, brought my own equipment, and tried to pull my own weight in the field.

WBR: You present Alaska as a highly unique place, not only with its own special physical differences, but also with its own cultural differences. What are some of the ways in which Alaskan culture differs from the Lower 48s'? 

CW: Alaska is a diverse place, with urban problems of gang violence and air pollution in Anchorage and rural problems of fish and game allocation and loss of indigenous languages in the bush. But there is a white Alaskan culture, or at least a set of cultural norms shaped by a collective self-image. The key features of this self-image are self-reliance, individualism, outspoken libertarian politics (on the left and right), privacy, and a willingness to help others on a one-on-one basis. These are essentially pioneer frontier values, arising both in the response of individuals to the environment and because the people who choose to go to Alaska tend to have an individualistic streak.

The values of Alaska Native people in many ways are the reverse of pioneer values. Native cultures are communitarian. Determining family links starts any new relationship. Humility before others and before nature are key. Highlighting individual accomplishments is rude, putting yourself above others almost unforgivable. Cooperation and avoidance of conflict are critical elements of personal interaction. Privacy is far less important than acceptance of others, blame is not important. These qualities are perfectly suited to creating a cohesive group that can succeed in a harsh environment.

WBR: In addition to the recognition it got from the Kiriyama Prize judges, the book received the Los Angeles Times Book Award for science writing. What drew you to write about a scientific subject?  Are there other science writers you admire or try to emulate?

CW: My interest in science comes from basic curiosity. I’ve always wanted to know why things are how they are: how machines work, why a rock looks as it does, where energy comes from. Over time, I’ve come to see these as the basic questions—the spiritual questions, if that’s the word you choose—that are most valuable in explaining the world and giving it meaning. Scientists have made the most important cultural advances of the last two centuries: name a more important cultural figure than Charles Darwin. I think it’s odd that people see any division between science and culture.

Tracy Kidder’s The Soul of a New Machine had a great impact on me when I read it more than 20 years ago in a history of science class, because of the vividness of the storytelling, which I hadn’t realized was possible on a scientific topic.

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