Imagine waking up one morning to discover a massive 40-ton whale carcass washed up on your local beach. It's a scenario that raises a lot of questions and challenges. But here's the fascinating part: the death of a whale is not just an end, but a beginning of a whole new ecosystem. It's a natural phenomenon known as a "whale fall", where the whale's body sinks to the ocean depths, sparking an explosion of life that can sustain an entire deep-sea community for decades.
Whales face numerous threats that can lead to their untimely deaths. From getting lost during migration and ending up stranded, to falling victim to starvation or predators like orcas, or even becoming entangled in fishing gear as bycatch, their lives are filled with dangers. And with the ever-increasing global ship traffic, ship strikes have become a major concern, with an estimated 20,000 whales fatally hit each year. It's a grim reality that often goes unnoticed.
But sometimes, these majestic creatures wash ashore, creating a unique dilemma for the communities they land in. It's a situation that can turn into a problem, a spectacle, or a question that no one knows how to answer. This was the case in Alaska last winter, when a young fin whale beached itself near downtown Anchorage, freezing onto the tidal flats.
The aftermath of this event revealed just how complex and entangled our relationship with dead whales has become. It's a dilemma that Anchorage, and many other coastal communities, face: what do you do with a massive whale carcass on your city beach?
On a cold November day in 2024, the whale washed ashore, presenting a challenge for NOAA biologists and Alaska Veterinary Pathology Services, who struggled to perform a necropsy on the two-year-old whale due to the freezing temperatures.
Scientists and volunteers, dressed in heavy-duty gear, worked to create windows into the whale's interior, carefully removing chunks of frozen flesh and blubber. While the cause of death remained a mystery, at least for this particular whale, the scientists found no signs of illness, malnutrition, or ship strike trauma.
NOAA has a flowchart, a decision-making matrix, to guide officials in dealing with dead whales. It considers factors like the risk of the whale's putrefying flesh disintegrating during transportation and the buildup of cellular decomposition gas inside the body. In other words, it's a delicate balance to avoid a potential "whale-bomb" situation.
The options for dealing with a dead whale are varied. From incineration to burial, sinking the carcass offshore, or transferring it to a landfill, each method has its challenges and considerations. One infamous incident in Florence, Oregon, in 1970, involved blowing up a beached whale with 1,000 pounds of dynamite, resulting in a "blubber snowstorm" that reporter Larry Bacon would never forget.
The fin whale's presence in Anchorage was particularly strange, as it's a dedicated deep-sea dweller, yet it had traveled so far inland. No one could explain how it had died or what had carried it so far from the open ocean. As the winter progressed, the whale became a local attraction, marked on Google Maps as "The Whale", its snow-covered form blending with the urban landscape.
As spring arrived and the sea ice began to thaw, so did the whale, creating an aroma issue for nearby residents whose homes were just steps away from the carcass. It was a problem that needed a solution.
Enter James Grogan, a former air force test pilot turned museum director. With a self-proclaimed conservative mindset, Grogan had served 23 years in the military and was now the director, curator, painter, grant writer, and cleaner of the nearly defunct Museum of Alaska Transportation and Industry. He saw an opportunity in the stranded whale: a chance to reconstruct its skeleton for display and continue its educational value.
Grogan, undeterred by the Marine Mammal Protection Act that prohibits anyone but scientists and Native Alaskans from disturbing dead whales, sought permission from the Native corporations and began gathering government permits. He consulted with museum curators and scientists across the country, gathering support and letters from the Department of Interior and the Alaska department of fish and game.
With permission granted, Grogan recruited volunteers, including university students in hazmat suits and high school students, to move the blubber to a location where the tide could wash it away. It was a challenging process, and Grogan realized the magnitude of the task, comparing it to harvesting a moose, which he initially thought would be a simpler endeavor.
Working alongside scientists and academics, Grogan found himself in a unique position, surrounded by people with worldviews vastly different from his own. He described himself as a "flat Earther" in this context, highlighting the contrast between his conservative beliefs and the scientific ideologies of those around him.
Grogan's perspective on anatomy and fossil records challenged the commonly held theory of evolution. He questioned why the largest mammal in the world, which feeds on tiny krill and plankton, would evolve in such a way. It was a viewpoint that clashed with the evolutionary explanations offered by the biologists working on the whale.
Before taking over the museum, Grogan had taught middle school for five years, and his anti-Darwinist beliefs were firmly rooted. He believed that no one living today could prove the age of ancient things, and he questioned the widely accepted theory of evolution.
Out on the mudflats, the team worked swiftly, salvaging the whale's bones and transporting them to waiting trucks. But the spine remained frozen to the mud, and they had to leave it behind. A month later, Grogan and his volunteers returned with a Hägglunds all-terrain rig, braving the soft and dangerous mud that had trapped Grogan's foot during the previous attempt.
Despite the challenges, another big tide brought what remained of the fin whale back to the shore, giving Grogan and his team a second chance. With the help of a crane and chainsaws, they managed to retrieve the vertebrae and secure them to the beach.
Once the bones were on their way to Wasilla, all that was left of the fin whale was a slick of blubber and residue floating off the shore. Grogan's museum now houses the fin's tail, slowly decomposing and covered in black flies.
The remaining bones are buried under mounds of manure and hay, where microbes are slowly eating away the flesh. Grogan is learning from curators who have done this before, but the process of maceration, either in the earth or in stinky maceration tanks, is a mystery in terms of timing and funding.
Grogan sees the fin whale skeleton as a representation of Alaska's history, from its early days as a whaling state to its current status as an oil-producing region. He believes that the maritime industry should consider the consequences of its actions, especially when it comes to offshore oil extraction and its impact on marine life.
Working with the fin whale has solidified Grogan's beliefs. He sees the complexity and beauty of the whale as evidence of a Creator, a being that designed this unique creature. It has transformed him from a "let the world burn" type of person to a conservative save-the-whales advocate.
Grogan's journey with the fin whale is a testament to the power of curiosity and the impact of personal experiences. It's a story that highlights the importance of questioning, learning, and finding common ground, even when our worldviews differ.
