High noon and
only a peep of twilight dimly lit the frozen Bering Sea. I
curled up in my parka like a big furball, crouched over my
fishing hole, dropped a hook and line into the dark, frigid
waters and waited for supper to surface. Not even the great
North wind stirred on those thousand miles of ice and snow.
Yet, through the icy fog I saw the silhoutte of Anucktoovic,
the great shaman, as he reeled in fish after fish.
"Cheechaco," he often called me, white woman who
fishes for souls. I shuffled toward the shadowy figure and
hesitantly said, "Ah-nuck- too-vick teach me to fish in
these deep, cold waters."
After a long silence and without
looking up he spoke, "AH GO HING A OOELL ELLA" I
was stunned. He spoke words that I had never heard. Sounds I
had never known, imagined or uttered. Was this a dialect of
Inuit known only to great shamans, I wondered? I knew that
learning how to fish from an Eskimo shaman held an eternal
truth, a deeper spiritual meaning than just bringing in the
catch. I thought that he must be saying some magical chant to
connect me to the Guardian Spirit of the fish. But I didn't
understand. I didn't know the protocol for making requests of
shamans and I was afraid of losing this opportunity.
"Great fisherman, wise one, if you would speak to me in
English, it would make my heart glad." Anucktoovic
grunted, spit into his mitten, 
"Pppttthhhaaa..." and then slyly
murmered, "you gotta keep your worms warm."
