I am gliding on ice, inhaling the crisp April air of Greenland’s high Arctic, accompanied by the rhythmic whooshing of sled dogs. I kneel on the back of a sled, making photographs of Inughuit hunter Qumangaapik “Quma” Qvist and his dog team.

I’m on the quintessential National Geographic assignment, dogsledding across roughly 30 miles of sea ice in search of the unicorn of the sea: the narwhal.

Week after week, we’ve been coming out on the sea ice of Inglefield Fjord, seeking a path to where ice meets water. After five weeks, when we finally come up on a small area of open water, Quma tests the ice with a heavy pole. It’s mushy, but underneath the softness lies dependable ice—our lives depend on that ice holding together.

I decide I’ll go first into the frigid water with one of the kayaks we’ve lashed to the sleds. Quma and another hunter, Ilannguaq Qaerngaq, give each other an uneasy glance, but they launch me anyway and watch nervously as I fumble around with my camera for a few moments. Then my kayak takes off like a shot. It rockets over the glassy water, coming to a stop only after I execute an expert turn with my paddle. Across the water, I can see the hunters’ mouths turn upward. For years prior to becoming a photographer, I built and paddled traditional kayaks. They knew that, but now they’re seeing proof.

The Inughuit launch their own kayaks, and we start searching for narwhals, spending the afternoon looking for signs of them around the water’s edge. But it’s a lost cause. The thin, rotting ice still extends way out of the fjord into the sea, preventing the narwhals from surfacing for a breath. They can’t get into this area to fish for halibut or to give birth.

By mid-June, I can’t stay any longer. The thin ice remains in place, and the narwhals stay locked out of their calving grounds, two months later than usual. As my plane gains altitude over the sea ice for the long return south, I look down and see dog teams mushing around the village, a seemingly timeless sight in this climate of unyielding change.

North Greenland, home to the Indigenous Inughuit, is one of the few places on Earth where the most reliable form of transportation during much of the year is a dogsled. It might seem odd to most people. After all, dogsledding takes time, which means long exposure to bitter cold. Dogs need to be fed and cared for. Mushers also need to be trained and in good fitness.

Nevertheless, the community of Qaanaaq has remained, quite deliberately, a place where dogsledding is a common way to get around. Sleds are slow, quiet, and demand constant observation of the sea ice and its wildlife. Unlike snowmobiles, they don’t break down. And when you get into an emergency survival situation (commonplace here), it’s good to remember: You can’t eat a snowmobile.

As a photographer of Nanai (East Asian Indigenous) and Chinese descent, raised by my immigrant parents in the United States, I know how difficult it is to understand the perspectives of different cultures. But I believe it’s essential. My mission is to try to understand how the thousands of wildly varied Native cultures around the world manage to be so good at land stewardship, while this modern globalized culture has basically dropped the ball.

The stakes for the environment we live in are high, and we all know it. The issues, from climate change to habitat destruction, seem dire. Yet my friends know me as an optimist. That’s because I see the solutions are already out there, and are in practice at this very moment.

Eighty percent of the world’s existing land biodiversity is on territories managed by Indigenous peoples, who make up just 5 percent of the global population. Nearly all of that territory encompasses people making a living with wildlife.

This is where my hope lives. Native communities are incredibly good at stewarding their lands, and it’s not because they are any more enlightened than anyone else. Indigenous peoples recognize human tendencies toward selfishness and greed. They have evolved all kinds of social structures, which one might even call technologies, to combat our destructive impulses.

Indigenous peoples are not somehow magical—but they are exceptionally diverse. All those thousands of cultures represent individual experiments in how humans manage themselves and their surroundings, and when trying to solve thorny problems, possibilities are needed. Indigenous cultures also have had millennia to refine their solutions to problems, providing not only a variety of models but mostly good models. It’s hard to survive if you degrade the land that gives you life.

In past centuries, Indigenous peoples have stewarded their lands independently. Today the threats their territories face are orders of magnitude greater. Mining, oil extraction, and development are rapidly eating away pristine homelands from the Amazon to the Arctic. It’s my hope that powerful stories can help the industrialized world learn from Indigenous models, as well as support Native communities working toward solutions.

Though I’m often engaged with heady thoughts like these, I remember that spring afternoon as we mushed across the ice and my mind was at peace. Our Greenlandic team paused to hunt a seal, feed the dogs with the blubber, and stew the ribs for dinner. On that day, we covered 30 miles on seal fuel. That, my friends, is a recipe not only for a great assignment but also for good living.

We’d sit at the water’s edge, on the seawall in front of Gena’s family home, and listen. Soon we’d hear them: gusts of breath when the manatees came up for air before sinking back below the surface of the spring-fed Florida bay. I began calling them “the sounds of the ancients,” as these docile marine mammals’ lineage leads back to grass-eating land mammals from about 50 million years ago. Yet in the places that manatees inhabit today, many populations are seriously threatened.

Writer-photographer Gena Steffens and I were paired at a National Geographic mentorship program in 2019 and had discussed working on a project together. I had moved to South Florida only a few years before, and Gena was living in Colombia.

Gena had spent many childhood days in Crystal River, Florida—known as the Manatee Capital of the World—at the home that was originally her great-grandmother’s, on land facing the waters of a manatee refuge. During the pandemic, she decided to stay at that house for a few weeks, and on a visit, we began discussing ideas.

In 2021, declining water quality wiped out many of the Atlantic Florida seagrasses that manatees eat, and more than a thousand perished in what was a particularly deadly year for the mammals. The same year, National Geographic approved our proposal to do a story on manatees, their essential relationship to the fragile Florida ecosystem, and where they’re at risk or thriving.

We made Crystal River our research base. Early in the morning when I’d walk out, I’d be met by bursts of air from the surrounding water. The sounds of the ancients again.

Gena’s roots in Crystal River revealed a lifelong fascination with manatees, and I quickly gained inspiration by spending time in their environment. One headline that drew me in: “Nobody Knows How to Wean Manatees Off Coal Plants,” on a Bloomberg Businessweek report about manatees flocking to the hot-water runoff from coal- and oil-fired power plants, as natural hot springs habitats grew scarce because of coastal development.

As we did research—on relevant science, environment, history—we came across the work of scientist and National Geographic Explorer Jason Gulley, who had been investigating issues surrounding manatees. After discussions with photo editor Kaya Berne, Jason was added to the team. He would take underwater and aerial photographs, to reveal manatees’ otherworldly habitat.

Meanwhile, back on land, Gena and I would immerse ourselves in the culture of what’s become an almost mythical being—on one hand threatened, on the other, larger than life.

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igzagging across Florida and ranging up and down its coastlines, we found a complex web of human encounters with, and feelings about, manatees. Crowds of fans describe them fondly as gentle, huggable, lovable, sweet. Marine conservationists dedicated to the manatee’s welfare warn that it’s a “canary in a coal mine”—an animal that’s in great danger itself and is also a bellwether of the danger in its surroundings.

Thanks in part to manatees’ popularity, today Florida’s effort to conserve them has broad support: from zoos, aquariums, museums, the U.S. Geological Survey, power companies, universities, and more.

The feature story on which we collaborated is to appear in the January 2023 issue of National Geographic. The visual storytelling will include Jason’s laborious underwater imagery as well as my photography from land, which ranged from documentary to more whimsical, vacation-style images that may jog our collective memory of Florida leisure.

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t the end of the journey, Gena and I found ourselves again sitting on the seawall, considering the manatees’ story and where it might lead us.

For me, manatees have become a guide showing me a new, primordial layer of this place where I live. Throughout our work on their story, they acted as mirrors—to those who cross their path, to the places where they live, and to our relationship with the environment that sustains us all.

Below the surface, they’re a small and unusual group of herbivorous mammals playing an essential role in our ecosystem; above the surface, charismatic icons with the ability to delight, to enchant, and to reflect the best part of humanity.

They are the ancients, holding memories from long ago.

I grew up in Central Java. My first job was working as a travel guide for visitors, then for student interns from Europe. That’s when I started using a camera, and then I knew I wanted to be a photojournalist.

I began to freelance, but I wanted more training. In 2015 I got to go to Bali for the Foundry Photojournalism Workshop, where professional photographers teach students like me at low cost. And that’s the start.

In the workshop class taught by [National Geographic contributing photographer] Maggie Steber, it’s like I was a baby, or blind, or starting from zero. But I tried to learn and to hear every single word that Maggie said. At the end, there was a festival and awards for the best students in each class. Maggie called my name: “Aji!” I never expected something like that: “What?” And then I was crying on the stage.

A few months after that, a press photo agency asked me to be a freelancer. Then one client gave me an assignment, and then others. And in 2017 I started photographing the sea rise and flooding in Demak Regency on the northern coast of Central Java, in hamlets and villages not far from my home.

Some 17,000 named islands make up Indonesia. On my home island of Java, coastal areas are threatened by deforestation, sinking land from groundwater extraction, and rising seas caused by climate change. A few years ago, the worst flooding in Demak Regency used to be from March until August, when tidewaters entered homes for six to nine hours a day. But in the last two years, it seems flooding has been unpredictable and has happened in other months. The ocean has engulfed thousands of acres. Once it was farmland; gradually, it changed into fish ponds and mangrove forests; now it’s submerged by rising seas.

When I went to take photos, the villagers told me, “So many media are coming here, and there is no change.” After that, I’ve tried to make this project more serious. Sometimes I go without my camera, just to talk to people. They are so angry, after many years of nothing being done to help them.

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n the past, people here were farmers. Then they became fishermen. The flooding has changed their culture, their livelihoods. As I take pictures, they tell me how it was. “In this area, everything is green, Aji,” one villager says. “Everywhere it’s coconut trees.” They still remember in their hearts.

A man working on a road with a hoe told me, “You know, Aji, when I was young, this hoe was meant for farming.” But now he tries to use it to fix the road because of the rising sea level. And it can’t fix the real problem, because the water keeps undoing whatever he does.

The young men now, the children, they are moving to the city, leaving this story behind. And some of the elders have had a chance to leave, but they don’t want it. They say, “I will adapt to these conditions, whatever it takes. If I have to be buried, I will be buried here, on the land of my ancestors.”

The flooding of the cemetery of Timbulsloko village made it hard for the living to visit the graves of their ancestors or bury their dead. Over the years, I have visited there many times. In September 2021, I photographed the raising of the cemetery, which was often underwater. Villagers removed the gravestones and, using earthmoving machinery from the government, added five feet of soil. They put each marker back in place and added a new fence.

This could save the cemetery for two more years, some villagers told me. But eight months later, it already was washing away.

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ometimes people say, “OK, this is climate change,” and maybe their home is far away, so they think it’s not a problem.

In Central Java, my home is about nine miles from the coastline. And now the water’s intrusion from the coastline is about four and a half miles. It’s halfway to my home.

These villagers are my neighbors. I feel they are my sisters and my brothers; we are the same—same life, same faith, same story. So people have to understand: If this is happening anywhere, it’s a big, big problem to everyone.

When I’m in my home, I always remember the people I have met while documenting this crisis of rising seas. I’ll be taking a shower and think what the villagers have to do to get water—this year, their freshwater is going salty. I’ll think, When they’re asleep, there’s water; when they eat, they’re in water.

And even if their cemetery has been raised up, when they die, they will be buried below sea level, and the holes that they dig will have seawater inside.

But life must go on. And my job is telling their stories.

We’ve been traveling around Durban, and you, my friend, have been roaming the streets and finding people to photograph. How hard is it for you to approach strangers and ask to shoot their portraits?

It used to be very challenging for me to approach complete strangers, but so much of my success or failure depends on approach. I learned this early on. I’m naturally introverted, but my confidence has definitely blossomed over time. Roaming is an exhilarating process—it is what feeds all of my work.

What do you say to these people?

Usually I’ll greet someone and pay them a compliment. Then I’ll introduce myself and explain exactly what I’m doing, and it’s either a yes or a no. I’ve learned to never take the rejections personally.

How do you even begin trying to capture the essence of a stranger in a photograph?

Great question. Capturing someone’s true essence is the most difficult thing about portrait photography, and I fail most times. Before I start making pictures, I’m usually studying a person’s body language, paying attention to gestures, expressions, etc., so I know what can work in a given situation. My approach is to always gauge a person’s energy and try to match it. It’s important to be fluid, though, and I’ll know everything is jelling when there is no need to give much direction.

Which image from this bunch most moved you?

There are a few, but one that really touched me is the image I made of a couple in their early 20s, smiling and sitting close together outside a Durban shopping center. They were definitely excited about being photo-graphed. What I like most about their portrait is that I didn’t initially put too much of myself into it and just allowed their joy to bubble to the surface. Later in the session I can see now that I was giving way too much direction. It was in edit when I realized that allowing them that space to just be made for the best pictures.

What about South Africa and its people inspires you?

South Africa, Mandela, and the struggle for liberation have always held a mystical place in my psyche. Plus, since the dismantling of apartheid is relatively recent, I felt that it would be interesting to travel here and engage with communities that are not so far removed from that trauma. So far I’ve been inspired by how alive people’s eyes are, and I love how important having a sense of style is to everyday people!

You feel a personal connection to the country, then?

Absolutely. I do feel a personal connection to the country and the continent. Coming from the other side of the world, I am an outsider; still, I believe that we are of one and the same family, and I approach everyone respectfully. The warmth I felt in Durban was so refreshing, even though I struggled to retain most of the Zulu language, and that tongue click especially! But somehow, the faces, mannerisms, the swagger all felt familiar to me.

Tell me something interesting that happened off camera during your roaming. I know you always have stories!

One day in Overport, a predominantly Indian neighborhood, an elderly Indian woman walked up to me and in a very courteous way asked me to photograph her. Then an African woman who she didn’t like passed by, and she started cursing at her, calling her Blackie. Then she turned to me as if everything was OK. I was more than a little disturbed. The way apartheid segregated communities of color is still present and devastating.

Were you changed in any way as a result of this project?

I think I’m somehow changed by everything and everyone I photograph. It all adds to life’s tapestry, no?

I hear you! Where do you want to go with this project? What’s your big vision?

I’ll definitely be returning to Durban. I like the idea of merging beach portraits with portraits of people in more urban areas. I’d love to turn this work into a book and a citywide public exhibition in Durban. Then a traveling exhibition. I’ve also spoken to officials here about selecting a few photographers who are passionate about Indigenous storytelling, workshopping with them and having their work exhibited as well.

Excellent, man. I love this work and wish you much success.

Thank you.

This interview was edited for length and clarity.

So I’m in a park in Cleveland, where I happen to be visiting a friend, and I’m just … looking for human touch. Pure. Simple.

And here is this young couple lying in a hammock, facing each other, legs intertwined. You can see them touching, but also you can feel it, her response to it, the quiet in her dreamy eyes.

I have to get up the courage, always, doesn’t matter how long I’ve been doing this: Hi. My name’s Lynn, I’m about to start a project about touch for National Geographic; I saw you here, I thought maybe you’d have something to share about that.

Do you mind if I take a photograph?

Because I’m going to have to move into their personal space, if they say no, I understand. But so often in my work I’m looking for emotional truth, trying to make something invisible visible.

I want to move in closer—they say yes, so now I know it’s all right—and then I just stop thinking.

I move around, I’m body and an eye, an appetite, a sensory gathering device. I want that moment. I want that beautiful light. I want the person on the other side of the camera to be respected, and understood.

A lot of it is patience. You know that old sound in the movies, where they’re trying to tune a shortwave radio, and you hear the buzzing warble of the dial as it searches? In my psyche I’m doing that, trying to get all my fibers on the one right wavelength.

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project like this—writing about the science of human touch, for the magazine’s June 2022 issue—it’s a partnership. Me the photographer, Cynthia Gorney the writer, parallel paths.

As I began my own research, I was talking about the story to everybody—I mean everybody, strangers in the grocery store. I wanted to know what people cared about.

And as I read the scientific articles, I realized I was most interested in the intimacy of touch, the deep need for human connection.

When the photo editor learned of an unusual refuge in Arizona, for example, a farm where people with emotional or sensory challenges find comfort in gentle contact with rescued animals, I thought: Touch. Healing. Yes.

Photojournalism is all about looking outward, explaining to others. But we can’t sustain this life if it’s not at some level about us. I think that’s where the powerful work happens, acknowledging that you’re also doing it for yourself.

At some point in my career, I saw how much my work pulls me close to people with complicated and difficult lives. I’m five feet tall and use a small, quiet camera, a Leica with no motor drive, so to some extent I’m able to minimize my physical presence. When I was a young photographer, I used to say, “Pretend I’m not here,” but one day I heard myself and how absurd that was, so what I’ve come to say is, “Is it OK that I’m here?” I keep checking in. I want them to articulate the response.

And now I was driving to Arizona with my own broken heart. My mother had just passed away. I got to the farm, saw a few animals, dust, harsh sunlight. I was going to need a way to sink in. To comprehend. The wonderful woman who runs the farm is a trauma survivor—incest and addiction—and it was listening to her story that showed me where to be. Where to wait. What to gather.

A child with sensory issues stood at the entrance to one of the paddocks, warily regarding a standing cow. She was there to feel the cow’s warmth but to be safe had to wait until it lay down.

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ccasionally a storytelling moment comes at you all at once: The wired-up baby in one photo was part of a study on touch receptors in human skin, and when he beamed at the researcher, that was a moment; it just happened. But more of the time you’re finding your way in, practicing patience. Neither that cow nor the girl cared about our timetable. We stood around.

Finally the cow lay down, the little girl spread out the blanket she was carrying, and she sat. She’d done this before, I could see. The cow laid its head on her lap. The girl put one palm against its snout and rested her cheek against its skin, just behind its left ear. She closed her eyes. The look of stress drained out of her.

I stopped thinking then, and got to work.

—As told to Cynthia Gorney