As the airplane glides over the tundra, I stare through its tiny portal in awe at a shimmering landscape of ice. It’s not only the countless hundreds of frozen ponds and the narrow creeks winding through them like icy streets; even the soil appears to be draped in ice. This enchanting vision, the North Slope of Alaska, is unlike anything else I’ve seen, and I wonder briefly if it is another planet we are descending toward.
When the landing gear connects to the tarmac, I’m jolted back to reality: I’ve arrived in Utqiaġvik, the northernmost settlement and heart of Arctic tourism in the United States. For two weeks (and another four the next spring), I will wander around Utqiaġvik to ‘poke my head indoors and bother people’ as one interviewee memorably comments. Though spoken in jest, bothering people is the precise opposite of my intent.
View of the tundra in the spring while flying into Utqiaġvik, Alaska. (2022) Credit: Author
Though primarily here to investigate global climate change impacts on Arctic tourism and perceptions of moral responsibility, I also seek to practice feminist methods of “gentleness” linked with “the three elements of embodiment, slowness, and reciprocity within mundane settings and interactions” (Pottinger, 2020, p. 2).
To further consider this approach, let us turn to a short vignette from my time in Utqiaġvik this past spring:
Social scientists typically research inside offices, homes, libraries, and archives. When asked by the physical science team I’m collaborating with to snap some photos of their worksite on the tundra, it sounds like a fun reason for a hike. A large snowdrift sits between the parking lot and the boardwalk beyond.
Research site outside of Utqiaġvik, Alaska. The snowdrift where Dan became trapped is just beyond the sign. (2023) Credit: Author
This seemingly benign barrier halts my progress before it begins when my leg abruptly craters through the snow, trapped in the muck beneath. This scenario is not in the qualitative methods handbook.
Dan’s boot firmly caught in the snow and muck beneath. (2023) Credit: Author
Several frantic minutes of digging and strange yoga contortions follow. I try very hard to stay calm, but I have never been physically stuck before. At last, my leg pops free to rise above the snow, minus one boot. Desperate attempts to dig it out follow, all in vain, as I only become wetter and colder, especially the one foot with nothing between it and the snow but a thin crew sock. I give up, run-hopping back across the snowdrift and down a hundred-meter stretch of dirt road to the truck.
From this new vantage, I spot someone descending the boardwalk toward my boot! Hurriedly driving back, the lone figure is already examining the poorly dug hole containing the abandoned footwear. I shout for help, and they kindly oblige. After a tense minute, a young man in his twenties approaches carrying one very muddy boot. Intense embarrassment washes over me, having suddenly turned into a gallant-in-distress. We chat briefly as I awkwardly pull the soaked boot back over frozen toes, learning that he’s a scientist doing fieldwork (without incident). Somehow, I think to ask for an interview, we exchanged emails. Driving back to the lodging, a wave of anxiety hits me far greater than when actually trapped.
We meet again three days later at the tiny java hut in central Utqiaġvik. I dread the impending (imagined) awkwardness. The boot hero arrives on an ATV like a strangely mounted knight. We exchange far calmer reintroductions while waiting in line. By North Slope standards, it’s not that cold out for mid-June, but chilly enough that I invite him to sit inside the truck while sipping coffees and chatting. We learn a lot about each other over half an hour. I offered to throw away his cup so he wouldn’t need to take it on the ATV. We part ways under far better circumstances.
Amid a gaggle of birders several days later, I meet his colleague who, upon realizing the connection, proclaims, “You’re the boot guy!” We share genuine laughter.
While the beginning of this vignette proceeds at rapid speed, there are core elements that illustrate a gentle approach. The violent breaking of the snowdrift resulted in the later calm, reflective exchange. We shared not only questions, ideas, perceptions, and stories but also experiences not soon forgotten.
As noted by Pottinger (2020), gentleness may also be exploitative, as with my quickness in obtaining an interview, to whom under such circumstances might object? My brief time attempting physical fieldwork in the tundra was marked by failure in one sense (I never returned for the photographs) and success in another (collecting a ‘data point’). In a more personal form of success, the encounter left a sense of humility “that can reshape the self and potentially change the way a researcher works” (Saville, 2021, p. 101). I want to grow better at practicing gentleness. And what is gentler than laughter, especially laughing at oneself?
Horton (2020) observes how academia could surely benefit from a more open culture willing to appreciate a full range of experiences, including embarrassment, awkwardness, and failure. I can only hope to have contributed to gentle theory with these reflections in some small fashion.
— Daniel Grafton
Author’s Bio
Daniel Grafton is currently a PhD student in the joint doctoral program between San Diego State University and the University of California, Santa Barbara. You may find him on LinkedIn at Daniel Grafton or email him at dgrafton6130@sdsu.edu
