A Right Held Hostage
Story by Ava Meadows // Photos by Debbie Preston
July 7, 2025
On a cold morning in May 1999, a cedar canoe slipped across the waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. In it sat seven members of the Makah Tribe. They were preparing to do something their ancestors had done for centuries—a tradition no one in their community had done in over 70 years, hunt a gray whale.
But it wasn’t just a hunt.
In 1855, the Makah signed the Treaty of Neah Bay, ceding vast amounts of their homeland in exchange for one thing they refused to give up: the right to whale.
“Their ability to practice their treaty has been infringed upon by settler colonization,” Michael Shepard, an anthropology professor at Western Washington University, said. “Their capacity for sovereignty is quite theoretical.”
Micah McCarty is a prominent Makah leader as he is the direct descendant of Hishka, who was once a Chief whaler. He was originally slated to join the crew of the 1999 whale hunt, but instead took on a public-facing role, serving as the Tribe's voice to the media.
“The United States of America cannot be a legitimate leader of the free world when they lack integrity with the original landholders of what became America,” McCarty said.
Archaeological evidence from Ozette, an ancient Makah village, confirms the depth of this relationship. Whaling tools, remains and ceremonial items dating back at least 1,500 years have been unearthed, attesting to a cultural practice far older than the United States itself.
Still, federal conservation policies imposed new restrictions on the tribe’s treaty-protected whaling rights, overlooking the tribe’s role as whale stewards.
In 1928, the Makah voluntarily halted their whale hunts as Eastern North Pacific gray whale populations fell below a few thousand. Genetic research places pre-whaling numbers between 76,000 and 118,000, though historical records do not support these numbers. In response to commercial overharvesting, the Makah chose to let the population replenish itself.
They didn’t stop due to federal or state policy, they stopped because their teachings told them to.
“We’re taught that from a young age, you’ve got to respect the ocean,” Deon Cooke, a member of the Makah Tribe, said. “If you respect the ocean, it’ll respect you back.”
For 70 years, they watched as other nations killed hundreds of whales annually for scientific and commercial purposes. Between 1966 and 1969, the U.S. and U.S.S.R. together averaged 221 gray whale kills each year. Factory ships alone took 48 whales annually in the Bering Sea from 1933 to 1946.
The Makah took none.
Cooke has never witnessed a whale harvest. As a staff member at the Makah Cultural and Research Center Museum, he’s spent years explaining the practice to people who refuse to understand it.
“It’s different from just going out and slaughtering a lot of whales,” Cooke said.
The 1999 hunt was set in motion by a major turning point 5 years earlier. After decades of recovery, the gray whale was removed from the endangered species list. The Makah saw it as a signal to finally reclaim a sacred practice.
What followed, however, was not a revival but a battle. This was a 25-year legal ordeal that tested the true meaning of treaty rights.
The Makah are the only native nation in the U.S. with a treaty that specifically protects the right to whale. Despite that unique legal status, they were still forced to apply for a whaling permit under the Marine Mammal Protection Act.
“The federal government did not have the authority to grant us rights that we already own,” McCarty said.
While federal agencies have followed procedures outlined under environmental laws like the Marine Mammal Protection Act. The need for a waiver at all reflects an unresolved tension between those statutes and Article VI of the U.S. Constitution, which establishes treaties as “the supreme Law of the Land.”
For the Makah, the waiver process has been a decades-long test of whether the federal government will honor its own foundational commitments.
What followed was a maze of court cases and public hearings, driven in part by animal rights groups whose campaigns often relied on racist and threatening rhetoric.
“The trust responsibility of the United States government to do the right thing was held hostage by a lot of money from these special interest groups,” McCarty said.
Groups like Sea Shepherd ran national smear campaigns after the 1999 hunt. They blocked roads into Neah Bay, tailed Makah canoes, and harassed tribal members. Death threats were common. One letter to The Seattle Times editor asked: “Where may I apply for a license to kill Indians?”
Repeated requests for comment from Sea Shepherd went unanswered.
To McCarty, the backlash revealed something far deeper than disagreement over policy.
“It’s a supremacist attitude of arrogance that they think they know better about how to protect the world,” McCarty said.
This isn’t just about saving whales—it’s about whose knowledge counts, and whose ways of life are allowed to survive.
“We have so much to learn from people who have lived in a place since time immemorial,” Shepard said.
National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Fisheries, the same agency charged with evaluating the Makah’s whale hunting waiver, stated in its 2023 Environmental Impact Statement that the Eastern North Pacific gray whale population has remained stable since the mid-1990s.
The Makah’s permitted harvest—just two to three whales per year—represents only 0.01% of the total population. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration scientists have stated the stock could withstand between 600 and 800 annual removals without ecological risk.
Yet despite decades of scientific evidence showing minimal impact, opposition persists. “Scientists are abusing their credentials for emotional support research,” McCarty said.
The prolonged loss of Makah whaling has caused documented harm to Makah cultural and physical well-being.
On June 13, 2024, after nearly three decades of legal obstruction, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration granted the Makah a 10-year waiver to resume their treaty-protected hunts.
The Makah must still undergo a separate permitting process for each individual hunt, even after securing the broader Marine Mammal Protection Act waiver. On March 18, 2024, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Fisheries received the Tribe’s first permit application, triggering yet another 47-day public comment period. Once the comment window closes, a final agency review will follow. Until the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration approves this permit, the hunt remains on hold.
Securing an Eastern North Pacific gray whale wouldn’t just be a legal victory, but a restoration of ceremony, of sustenance, and of sovereignty.
It’s a question Cooke has likely carried for years. When asked if the hunt will happen, he pauses. “I can’t say for sure yet,” Cooke said.