Some Makahs oppose whale hunt by Lynda V. Mapes, Seattle Times staff reporter Copyright (c) 1998 The Seattle Times Company NEAH BAY , Clallam County - This yew harpoon, hand-carved more than a century ago, is at home in Charles "Pug" Claplanhoo's weathered hand. Claplanhoo knows the courage behind every one of the 131 tacks that stud the family heirloom, each one marking a whale killed for the Makah by one of his ancestors. But despite his link to a heritage of whaling, the hunt planned by his tribe this fall - the first in 70 years - will happen without Claplanhoo's blessing. On the eve of this disputed hunt, now planned to begin Sunday, some among this seafaring tribe murmur a chorus of quiet dissent. They say there is no need to return to old hunting traditions to be fully Makah. They say the elders weren't consulted. They say the hunt is a distraction from more important work. They say, in voices both angry and sad, that the tribe has little to gain and much to lose by going back to sea - this time with an elephant gun and a harpoon. Their dissent is not active; tribal members all say they support their legal treaty right to hunt. Their dissent is not loud; this remote reservation town can be both a sanctuary and a prison for its 2,000 residents. Those who speak out are criticized for disloyalty to their leaders, for airing the tribe's laundry to the outside world. But, when asked, some, like Claplanhoo, say they cannot bless this hunt. Claplanhoo is not opposed to whaling. Indeed, he holds dear the family heirlooms - the yew harpoon, the cedar-bark basket that holds the seal-gut harpoon line, the long pointed stick used to stab into the whale's blowhole. But he thinks the energy is misplaced. "Let's move on, take care of the tribe," he said. "If they fought like they are fighting for this whale for our fishing rights, maybe there would be more jobs." His cousin, "Sonny" Wilbur Claplanhoo, doubts the whaling crew is skilled enough to hunt safely; his family's harpoon was last used to kill a whale in 1910. He says he wouldn't want his son on the whaling canoe. Alberta Thompson has stood alone among tribal members in her vocal and visible opposition to the hunt. A 1997 boat trip among the whales in the Baja, paid for by animal-rights activists, convinced her whaling is wrong. "They are such wonderful, gentle giants, so intelligent, and they have such a spirit of trust," said Thompson, 74. "I've paid dearly for standing up, but if I had it to do over again, I would." In recent weeks, she lost her tribal job of 15 years and discovered her dog dead in a field. "You could never prove that's why these things happened," Thompson said of her steadfast opposition. "But I believe it." Her dismissal letter from the tribal council says she was fired for using office time and telephones to call whaling opponents. And her sincerity has been questioned by whaling supporters, who scoff at a $10,000 award for bravery offered her by Paul Mitchell Systems, a hair-care corporation, and a paid job as "ambassador to the whales" offered her by the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society. Thompson rejected the job on the advice of her attorney. It is a testament to how things work on the reservation that Thompson's public stance has actually hurt her cause; some tribal members who have misgivings about the hunt have grown more quiet to distance themselves from her, and from trouble. Constitutional rights of free speech and freedom of assembly don't carry the same weight on the reservation, where tribal law rules. The tribal police are authorized to throw anyone off the reservation deemed an enemy of the tribe. Supporters of the hunt have stepped into that silence with their own message: The discomfort of individuals must not overshadow the value of the hunt for the whole tribe. The commitment to honor history has been a unifying force, they say, drawing together long-feuding factions of the tribal community. "It's really pulled everyone together," says whaler Wayne Johnson. "I had enemies here before I was even born because of disagreements in the past." Kids toting "Kill the Whales" signs are greeted with smiles. Some hunt protesters are booted out of town, left to camp down the road, across the reservation border. Boats operated by protesters are not allowed to moor at the tribal marina. Tribal leaders speak with pride of the support they say the hunt enjoys in Indian Country. Tribes from throughout Washington and coastal Canada will travel to Neah Bay tomorrow for a pre-hunt celebration of feasting and traditional dances. The gathering is expected to be a joyous show of solidarity for the Makah, who are standing up to worldwide opposition to claim their treaty rights and reclaim their whaling heritage. The hunt has been sanctioned by some tribal elders; Helma Ward, mother of the vice chairman of the tribal whaling commission, has lent important and prestigious endorsement. But other tribal elders, like Margaret Irving, 83, and her two sisters, Isabell Ides, 98, and Ruth Claplanhoo, 96, have withdrawn from the tribe's public conversation over a return to whaling. Time changes things, Irving said. No living Makah has ever whaled, and she worries someone will be killed in the hunt. "I don't go for it myself. But I keep out of it," she said. "They are doing what they want to do. All I can do is pray for them." She said she has been gratified that some of the younger members of the tribe have questioned the hunt. And she was hurt that, despite her standing as a tribal elder, she was not consulted. "To me, they didn't get any knowledge from the elders, and that's what's made me very unhappy," she said. "They can't get enough fish for the potlatches, but they are only after the whale. It makes me sad." Her eldest sister, Isabell Ides, is the oldest living Makah. Ides and their middle sister, Ruth Claplanhoo, live in adjacent houses on the reservation and are the last two fluent speakers of the tribal language. Their grandmother, Susie Napoleon, had seven brothers, all of them whalers. Ruth Claplanhoo said her grandmother was drafted to paddle a whaling canoe when the crew was a person short. So they know the value of tribal culture. But the sisters say whaling is not how they wish to preserve their heritage. "It stirred up a can of worms," Ruth Claplanhoo said. "It brought up the white people's true feeling toward us. Now they are giving us all this trouble about the whale." She reserves her strongest criticism for the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, which she says is threatening the tribe's whaling canoe with its two big ships parked outside the breakwater of the tribal marina. The international attention and outrage focused on the whale hunt will only grow worse if there is a confrontation at sea, she said. "I'm afraid someone is going to get hurt," Claplanhoo said. "We have lost enough. We lost our land. We lost our language. We've lost most of our songs." Ides remembers her father butchering a great Grey on the beach, and the taste of whale meat in her hungry mouth. But she wants no part of this hunt. "I don't care about the whale," Ides said. "We went without the whale all this time. . . . Nobody even knows how to prepare (the meat)." Sidney Bowechop, 58, a retired logger, worries that the whale will be wasted, drawing even more criticism. "These people around here aren't going to eat it," he said. "If McDonald's fixes it or Burger King makes a whale burger, they will eat it. But they don't have the foggiest idea how to eat what the old people used to eat." Many here believe that gaining approval to hunt whales was an important test of treaty rights. But many, like Jesse Hax-Sta Ides, don't think the tribe has to actually kill a whale to demonstrate that right. "As long as the sun comes up and sets in the West and the grass is still green, that's how good that treaty is," said Ides, 58. "Our elders taught us not to give any of that up. "But they don't have to prove it by killing a whale. . . . In these new modern computer times, it's wrong. I think the guys doing it are trying to make an identity within." Vivian "Kibby" Lawrence, a former tribal chairman, also is content to see her family's whaling traditions reside in the past. Tribal identity needs no boost from a harpoon, she said. "I don't understand all the hoopla that's going on. We have always been simply Makah," said Lawrence, whose great-grandfather, James Claplanhoo, was one of the tribe's great whaling chiefs. "We have never lost our culture. Whaling won't make a difference in my life." At a recent family birthday party, Lawrence and her sister, Linda Moss, sang old tribal songs in Makah. They know so many, they say they can sing for hours without ever repeating a single one. As Moss took up a drum, the living room furniture was shoved aside to clear the floor for the children, who stepped and giggled their way through ancient family dances on the wall-to-wall carpeting. The dances, passed on from generation to generation, depict the antics of sea serpents, snipes, whales and horses. An ancient tribal chief's hat made from cedar bark was brought out of a back bedroom, and Wilbur Claplanhoo clapped it on his head. Lawrence's grandson Michael, 16, put on a ceremonial shawl and cedar wolf mask, then spun and high-stepped as his relatives sang and drummed, and the Seattle Seahawks played on TV in the background. The wolf mask barely cleared the fan hanging from the low living-room ceiling. The family doesn't need whaling to tell them they are Makah, Lawrence said. "We know who we are and what we are," Lawrence said. "I don't need a whale killed to be any more Makah than I have been my entire life."