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BY 4.0 license Open Access Published by De Gruyter Open Access November 22, 2023

The Thule Migration: A Culture in a Hurry?

  • Robert W. Park EMAIL logo
From the journal Open Archaeology

Abstract

The process by which the Thule Inuit migrated from the region around Bering Strait into Arctic Canada and Greenland, which is notable for its logistical complexities, the varied and difficult regions traversed and then populated, and for the enormous distance covered, is almost invariably described in terms emphasizing the pace at which it took place. The most common description is “rapid,” and some descriptions conclude it may have been accomplished within just a few decades, despite researchers not having explored the logistical and demographic implications of that inference. This article explores several possible meanings of “rapid” in the context of the Thule migration and reviews the evidence that is informative concerning its pace, including radiocarbon dates, historical encounters, logistics, and demography. It concludes that the Thule Inuit may indeed have felt a sense of urgency to expand into new regions, but they did this at a far slower pace than most researchers have concluded, over centuries rather than decades.

1 Introduction: The Thule Inuit Migration

Inuit who today live in Arctic Canada and Greenland are descendants of the second wave of people to enter that vast territory from the region around the Bering Strait. The first people to enter and live there did so more than 4,500 years ago and are collectively known to archaeologists as Palaeo-Inuit. They inhabited the region for the next 3,500 years, but genetic data indicate that they left no descendants there. It was a second group, known to archaeologists as Thule, who became the biological and cultural ancestors of all Inuit in Canada and Greenland. The culture the Thule Inuit brought with them was the product of continuing cultural developments around Bering Strait during the centuries when the Palaeo-Inuit lived in the East and differed from that of the eastern Palaeo-Inuit in a number of ways, most obviously in their hunting of enormous bowhead whales, and in their construction of massive and deep semisubterranean winter houses.

The subject of this article is the process by which Thule Inuit from Alaska entered and inhabited a vast region within the Canadian Arctic and Greenland, i.e. the so-called Eastern Arctic (e.g. Friesen, 2017; Maxwell, 1985). The scale of that process, usually referred to as the Thule migration, is astonishing. By the fifteenth century, some of them had rounded the southern tip of Greenland and were living well up its eastern coast. If we take Utqiagvik in north Alaska as an arbitrary starting point for the Thule expansion and map a plausible route east along the North American coastline and then northeastwards through the Canadian Arctic Archipelago, and finally around Greenland, the total distance traversed is more than 6,500 km. If they instead had started southwards, following the coast except for a shortcut across the Alaska Peninsula, the same distance would have taken them well into southern California. And although it is problematic to try to quantify the size of the area occupied by a culture whose adaptation focused on coastlines and adjacent waters, archaeological and ethnographic evidence reveals that the entire area occupied by the Thule migrants and their Inuit descendants in this new region encompasses more than 2,800,000 km2, from Alaska in the west to Greenland and Labrador in the east, and to the Barren-grounds west of Hudson Bay in the south. If that region were a country, it would be the eighth largest in the world today.

It is therefore fascinating that archaeologists researching the Thule people’s expansion into Arctic Canada and Greenland, which one might expect to be equally notable for the vast distances involved, or perhaps for the varied and difficult regions traversed and then populated, have for decades almost invariably focused on the pace at which it took place. Practically, every researcher who mentions it comments on the fact that it took place “rapidly” or some synonym thereof, as illustrated by the following representative quotes:

[…] evidence that the migration proceeded very rapidly (Morrison, 1999, p. 149)

The Thule culture … spread by a swift coastal migration from northern Alaska to Greenland and Labrador (Fiedel, 2004, p. 98)

[…] this makes the entire migration from Alaska to northwest Greenland, and points in between, extremely rapid. (Friesen & Arnold, 2008, p. 535)

Given the evidence suggesting a rapid initial movement of Alaskan Inuit to the eastern High Arctic […]. (McGhee, 2009a, p. 76)

Thule/Inuit people migrated from Alaska to the northeast High Arctic and northwest Greenland in the mid-13th century, … and they made this move extremely rapidly. (Ramsden & Rankin, 2013, p. 303)

The speed and scale of the Thule-Inuit migration are almost unprecedented in human history. (Moody & Hodgetts, 2013, p. 4)

One of the most dramatic series of events in world history happened early in the Thule period. … [D]uring the 13th century AD, Thule families migrated thousands of kilometers from Alaska eastward across the entire North American Arctic … with groups from several Alaskan regions rapidly moving thousands of kilometers, making it as far as northwest Greenland within only a few decades. (Friesen, 2021, pp. 23–24)

Numerous other examples of the use of “rapid” or variants on that theme in descriptions of the Thule migration can be found (e.g. Ameen et al., 2019, p. 2; Fitzhugh, 2019, p. 52; Friesen, 2016, p. 680; 2020, p. 223; 2022, p. 3; Friesen, Finkelstein, & Medeiros, 2020, p. 143; Gulløv & McGhee, 2006, p. 55; Hill, 2018, p. 92; Marchani, Rogers, & O’Rourke, 2007, p. 281; Mason, 2020, p. 315; McGhee, 1984c, p. 370; Tackney, Jensen, Kisielinski, & O’Rourke, 2019, p. 304). This emphasis on the pace of the Thule expansion has now spread from the specialized regional literature cited above into secondary works:

Their successful, rapid expanse across the northern Arctic was enabled by an ingenious repertoire of tools and technical knowledge. … by 1200 CE some of its people made it from Alaska to Greenland in as little as a few years. (Pauketat & Sassaman, 2020, p. 298)

The Thule culture developed in the Bering Strait and coastal areas of Alaska, perhaps as early as around AD 200, but around AD 1200 spread rapidly eastward, appearing in Greenland almost simultaneously. (Willerslev & Meltzer, 2021, p. 360)

And it is not just the initial Thule expansion into these regions that is characterized by its pace – the speed or quick completion of other Thule processes is also frequently noted:

Rather, the dates suggest a later move to northern Labrador and, perhaps, a rapid movement southward along the Labrador coast at least as far as Sandwich Bay. (Ramsden & Rankin, 2013, p. 305)

The dates also suggest that the “Classic” Thule period is a relatively brief phenomenon, lasting perhaps only 200 years or less, before being rapidly reorganized into the diversity of Inuit societies encountered in later Arctic history. (Friesen & Arnold, 2008, p. 527)

it is worth emphasizing that some of the earliest Thule sites in the region, including Tiktalik and Cache Point, are interpreted as having been occupied for relatively brief periods. (Friesen & Arnold, 2008, p. 534)

[…] we may now suggest that the Thule period throughout much of Arctic Canada was limited to approximately two centuries, between approximately 1250 and 1450 AD. (McGhee, 2009a, p. 81)

Such consistent statements inspired the title of this article and demonstrate a widespread conviction that the Thule did all these things rapidly. But in the context of exploring the archaeology of migrations, what is meant by words like “rapid” or “brief”? Presumably, identifying these movements or processes as “rapid” suggests that we archaeologists would normally have expected them to have required more time to accomplish than they actually took. Alternatively, perhaps our use of “rapid” reflects an inference that the Thule people who did these things would have felt a sense of urgency – i.e. that they made a conscious choice to do these things at a faster pace than they otherwise might have done them, or as fast as they could manage. Mason (2020, p. 308) has observed that “despite 100 years of research, the Thule migration is not as well understood by archaeologists as is commonly believed,” and it is true that researchers have generally not explored what a “rapid” migration would have entailed in contrast to any other migration pace. The rest of this article explores the evidence for and implications of our perception of Thule rapidity. What methods and data have been used to reach the inference that all these things happened rapidly, and how do those results correspond with what we know about the logistics of Thule mobility and adaptation? What additional methods could contribute to calibrating the rate at which the Thule migration took place? Did the Thule really migrate rapidly?

2 Direct Chronological Evidence

2.1 Radiocarbon Dates

Radiocarbon dating provides the direct chronological evidence most often cited as supporting a rapid Thule migration – for example, Friesen (2020, pp. 225–226) cites “an emerging consensus based on recently obtained AMS radiocarbon dates” as supporting a late and thus rapid migration. Such confidence in radiocarbon dates to interpret Arctic prehistory is relatively new. Writing decades ago about the problem of dating the initial eastward migration of the Thule, Maxwell (1985, p. 253) observed that “carbon dating appears to be of little help in this matter” and deplored “the tempting but dangerous acceptance of ‘good’ dates, those that fit an investigator’s estimates, and rejection of ‘bad’ dates, those that do not […]”. Similarly, Morrison (1999, p. 140) asserted that “any attempt to define the earliest Canadian Thule sites on the basis of radiocarbon dates alone will not yield useful results,” and more recently, Mason (2017, p. 127) feelingly called Arctic radiocarbon dating “a blunt chronological instrument.” This article agrees with those researchers and for the reasons outlined below concludes that radiocarbon dating of Thule sites will not provide definitive information concerning the earliest Thule sites in the Eastern Arctic nor about the pace of the Thule migration. However, because radiocarbon dating is so consistently cited as supporting a rapid Thule migration, it is necessary to review it before exploring other kinds of evidence.

The different kinds of datable materials found at sites in the Eastern Arctic derive from both the marine reservoir (the remains of sea mammals or fish, and of species whose diets were based upon them) and the terrestrial reservoir (the remains of land mammals or plants, plus wood from local bushy trees such as Arctic willow, or larger trees that grew far away and arrived in these regions as driftwood). It has long been recognized that radiocarbon dates obtained from these materials may not reflect the true age of the archaeological sites or components from which they were recovered due to well-understood processes. One set of processes produces dates that are too old. Materials derived from the sea mammals that were so important for so many Arctic populations may produce dates that are up to centuries too old due to the marine reservoir effect, which has been discussed extensively within the Arctic archaeological literature (Arundale, 1981; Dumond & Griffin, 2002; Dyke, McNeely, & Hooper, 1996; McGhee & Tuck, 1976; Stuiver, Pearson, & Brazunias, 1986; Tauber, 1979; Tuck & McGhee, 1983). Further, researchers have proposed a scenario under which datable samples from the terrestrial reservoir could also produce dates that are too old due to the marine reservoir effect: via sea mammal oil permeating objects made of terrestrial materials while buried together (McGhee, 2009a, p. 79).

Yet another mechanism that can produce radiocarbon dates that are too old comes from the slow rate of decay in the Arctic. Driftwood found along the shores of the Canadian Arctic Archipelago may have derived from trees that died years before they were incorporated into an archaeological site as artefacts or as fuel. And even wood from local tree species such as Arctic willow, too small to be used for anything other than fuel, can be preserved by the cold environment for years after they die. Twigs from such dead plants would have been ideal for firewood, and thus, charcoal from a hearth might produce dates consistent with the death of the tree, not when it was burned. The even slower decay of hard organic materials such as antler means that pieces can be manufactured into artefacts long after the death of the animal (Nelson & McGhee, 2002). All those factors could thus produce radiocarbon dates pre-dating the site’s occupation.

Another set of processes produces radiocarbon dates that will be younger than the occupation being dated. The most important such process is the re-use of sites and features. Later groups regularly re-used sites and houses from their own or preceding cultures, decades or centuries later, often because the local topography severely constrained the locations where new houses could be built. For that reason, most of the datable materials associated with a structure often post-date its initial occupation, sometimes demonstrably by centuries (e.g. Houmard & Grønnow, 2017, p. 453; Pinard, 2001, p. 66). Attempts to control for this problem by selecting samples for dating only from the deepest stratigraphic levels are difficult because of the confounding effects of cryoturbation on Arctic stratigraphy (e.g. Friesen, 2020, p. 232; O’Brien, 2006; Reynolds, 1995), and also from the churning effects of human use of the sites during the summer when the uppermost soil layers thaw but drainage is prevented by the still-frozen permafrost beneath. A vivid illustration of the latter comes from George Lyon’s 1822 visit to Inuit semisubterranean houses at Igloolik, where he observed that

The ground all around was strewed with skulls and skeletons of animals… Bones indeed were so numerous, that we literally trod on them. A large stagnant field of mud surrounded the place, adding its full share of sweets, as it was constantly ploughed up by all who walked through it to the huts: the bottom of this also felt as if covered with bones. (Lyon, 1824, p. 236)

Thus, the combined effects of cryoturbation and warm-season human activities at sites occupied over long periods of time mean that even samples selected from the lowest stratigraphic levels may significantly post-date the sites’ original occupations.

Finally, when trying to use radiocarbon dating to date the beginning of a process such as the Thule migration, rather than using it just to date the occupation of a particular site, the problem is exacerbated because we need to be sure we are dating the earliest uses of the earliest sites – if one is not accurately dating the oldest components at the oldest sites, then the radiocarbon dates will be younger than the process whose age one is trying to ascertain. Combined, these problems do not invalidate any individual dates but do call into question whether those dates are likely to be representative of the beginning of a process.

Archaeologists working in the Eastern Arctic have attempted to obviate these known radiocarbon dating problems via several strategies. Most researchers’ primary concern has been with the processes that cause dates to be older than the site or occupation being dated, so most strategies have focused on that. To avoid the direct consequences of the marine reservoir effect and of already-old wood, many researchers have resorted to the draconian process of eliminating any dates run on materials that they deem intrinsically problematic for any of the reasons outlined earlier. McGhee (2009a, pp. 76, 79–80) only dated “terrestrial mammal tissue,” and Friesen (2020, pp. 226–227) rejected all dates on samples that were not from “Caribou and other terrestrial herbivores.” Other researchers explicitly excluding dates on anything other than terrestrial mammal bones or local wood include Sørensen and Gulløv (2012, p. 94). Thus, those researchers avoid dating sea mammal remains and either all wood or just driftwood. Limiting dating this way is intended to ensure that dates are run only on materials whose radiocarbon was in equilibrium with the terrestrial environment and whose death coincided precisely with the site’s occupation. However, this solved only part of the perceived problem because cross-contamination with sea mammal oil while buried together in permafrost was thought to affect otherwise reliable terrestrial materials. McGhee (2009a, pp. 79–80) arbitrarily assumes that some dates on terrestrial materials, presumably the oldest ones in an assemblage of dates, will be incorrect for that reason. To solve this additional potential problem, Friesen (2020, pp. 226–227) eliminates from consideration dates from samples not prepared with “modern pretreatment techniques.” However, the concern that earlier pre-treatment techniques were ineffective led Hayeur Smith, Smith, and Nilsen (2018) to re-date some Arctic samples that had originally been dated in the 1970s using that era’s pre-treatment techniques. They re-dated remaining portions of the same samples after subjecting them to the most modern pre-treatment techniques and found that the resulting radiocarbon dates were essentially identical to those obtained in the 1970s. Therefore, extrapolating from that study’s results, there is every reason to believe that older pre-treatment techniques were effective at removing contamination, and thus, there is no reason to deprecate radiocarbon dates obtained at least since the 1970s due to pre-treatment concerns.

The cumulative effect of all these “solutions” has been that the dates relied upon today by archaeologists to make inferences about the timing and pace of the Thule migration are invariably just a small, culled subset of all the dates obtained over the years from samples submitted by archaeologists in the belief that they would date the Thule sites at which they were found. Two brief examples will serve to illustrate the difficulties archaeologists have faced in radiocarbon dating individual Thule sites. Both examples are sites that also produced artefacts that are stylistically consistent with the earliest Eastern Arctic Thule occupations, suggesting that at least part of the occupation of each derives from near the time of the migration. The first, the Nelson River site, is located on Banks Island and thus lies in one of the first Eastern Arctic regions that Thule migrants would have entered (Figure 1). One of the Thule features identified at the site was a winter house (Arnold, 1986; Arnold & McCullough, 1990; Friesen & Arnold, 2008). It was excavated in the early 1980s, and four radiocarbon dates were run at that time, followed by a further three AMS dates two decades later. Once calibrated, the seven dates, all on terrestrial materials, span the seventh through the thirteenth centuries, but the AMS dates cluster in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and the researchers now discount the earlier dates (Friesen & Arnold, 2008, p. 532). The second example is the Brooman Point site, located on Bathurst Island in the central part of the Arctic Archipelago. This is a much larger Thule site, with at least 20 winter houses, some of which were excavated in 1979 and 1980 (McGhee, 1984a). A total of four radiocarbon dates on terrestrial samples from the Thule component were obtained, although one was so aberrantly early that it warranted its own publication (Nelson & McGhee, 2002). Of the remaining three, the sample from House 12 spans the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, while the two samples from House 3 derive from the eighth through the eleventh centuries. In recent discussions of the age of the site, the researcher relies on the one later date, and no longer mentions the two earlier ones (McGhee, 2009a, pp. 76–79; 2009b, p. 158). Thus, of the 10 radiocarbon dates obtained from these two sites that plausibly might date the Thule occupations there, the researchers have deprecated the six oldest and relied just on the remaining four for their chronological inferences.

Figure 1 
                  Map showing the locations described in the text.
Figure 1

Map showing the locations described in the text.

A similar process has taken place at many Thule sites, but the rejected dates can still be found within the Canadian Archaeological Association Radiocarbon Database (Martindale et al., 2016), which contains information on a total of 448 radiocarbon assays run on samples from sites in the Canadian Arctic and Greenland ascribed to Thule or to the more inclusive “Neoeskimo” category, which excludes the Paleo-Inuit. Twenty-one of the dates were run on mixed or otherwise difficult-to-categorize materials, leaving 427 dates that could be assigned to four material categories: terrestrial mammal, wood, non-wood plant, and sea mammal. Sixteen of those dates, deriving from all four material categories, produced “modern” results and were eliminated from further analysis, reducing the total sample to 411. The largest material category, comprising 202 dates, was terrestrial mammal, mostly caribou bone or antler. A further 143 dates were run on wood, either intact or in the form of charcoal. This category includes both local wood and wood that may have been driftwood. Twenty-seven dates were run on non-wood plant materials. The remaining 33 dates were obtained from sea mammal materials, mostly bone from seals or whales. For this analysis, all 411 dates were calibrated using OxCAL v4.4.3 (Bronk Ramsey, 2009); the sea mammal dates were calibrated using the Marine20 curve (Heaton et al., 2020), while all the others were calibrated using the IntCal20 curve (Reimer et al., 2020). Six of the calibrated dates, including three samples, run on caribou and three on wood, produced ranges pre-dating AD 600, which places them earlier than the accepted age for the initial development of Thule culture in Alaska (Mason, 2016, p. 505). Those six dates were therefore eliminated from further analysis.

The remaining 405 dates are presented graphically in Figure 2 in a format intended to be as interpretation free as possible. The graphed ranges span the calibrated extremes for each date at the 68% level. A dashed line marks AD 1250, which corresponds to the latest date proposed by some of the researchers cited earlier for when the Thule migration began. Figure 3 adds geography, isolating just the terrestrial dates (i.e. mammal, wood, and plant) from the extreme western region, which would have been the first area entered by the Thule migrants, from the dates on the same materials from the far northern region whose initial occupation would necessarily have been later. Both regions produce numerous dates earlier than AD 1250 from all these materials. Thus, the only truly straightforward rationale for inferring from these radiocarbon dates that the Thule arrived in the Canadian Arctic no earlier than the thirteenth century would seem to be some version of Maxwell’s “acceptance of ‘good’ dates, those that fit an investigator’s estimates, and rejection of ‘bad’ dates, those that do not.” Even if we restrict ourselves just to the 202 terrestrial mammal samples to remove both marine reservoir effect and old wood, 39 of them from 26 sites and processed by 14 different labs have midpoints pre-dating AD 1250. Thus, an archaeologist approaching the radiocarbon dates without a preconceived notion of when the Thule migration started would have no basis on which to conclude that all pre-1250 AD dates should be eliminated.

Figure 2 
                  Radiocarbon dates from the Canadian Archaeological Association Radiocarbon Database, from sites categorized by the excavators as “Thule” or “Neoeskimo,” graphed between the calibrated extremes for each date at the 68% level.
Figure 2

Radiocarbon dates from the Canadian Archaeological Association Radiocarbon Database, from sites categorized by the excavators as “Thule” or “Neoeskimo,” graphed between the calibrated extremes for each date at the 68% level.

Figure 3 
                  Two geographically constrained subsets of the radiocarbon dates shown in Figure 2, restricted just to terrestrial materials (i.e. mammal, wood, and plant). The larger series of dates is from the “Far West,” which would have been the first part of the Eastern Arctic entered by the Thule migrants. The other series of dates is from the “Far North” region, whose initial occupation would have been later.
Figure 3

Two geographically constrained subsets of the radiocarbon dates shown in Figure 2, restricted just to terrestrial materials (i.e. mammal, wood, and plant). The larger series of dates is from the “Far West,” which would have been the first part of the Eastern Arctic entered by the Thule migrants. The other series of dates is from the “Far North” region, whose initial occupation would have been later.

2.2 Other Archaeological Dating Techniques

In addition to dates obtained from the radiocarbon technique, researchers have attempted to elicit reliable Thule dates by seriating changes in artefact styles, especially harpoon heads (Park & Stenton, 1998). Sites in Canada and Greenland producing harpoon heads of styles also found in Alaska are inferred to be early – i.e. from the initial movement or soon after. But the relative dating provided by these seriations can only provide absolute dates when anchored by radiocarbon dates, and it has proven very difficult to assign precise date ranges to specific types or styles in Arctic Canada or in Alaska (Morrison, 1999, 2001; Park, 1994). With the multiple cultures with different harpoon head styles that appear to have co-existed in Alaska at the time that Thule developed (Mason, 2017), it is impossible to use harpoon head styles to achieve the fine chronological control that would be necessary to date the Thule migration.

In Alaska, it has been possible to supplement direct chronological inferences derived from radiocarbon dating with others from dendrochronology and thermoluminescence, and the latter technique has recently provided evidence for earlier use of Thule sites than revealed by radiocarbon dating alone (Anderson & Feathers, 2019, p. 15). Unfortunately, the absence in the Eastern Arctic of local large trees and of locally manufactured ceramics means that these techniques are not available for sites there.

2.3 Historical Records

A source of direct chronological information available only from the easternmost portions of the Eastern Arctic is a small number of adequately dated early encounters between Europeans and Inuit, which provide terminus ante quem dates for the Thule arrival there. Ivar Bårdsson spent time in Greenland between 1341 and 1364 and attributed the apparent abandonment of the Norse Western settlement sometime within that period to Skraelings, the term the Norse used for Inuit (Holland, 1994, p. 10; Seaver, 1997, pp. 104–105). His explanation is unlikely but nonetheless indicates that the Norse were already aware of the Inuit, and thus that the Inuit had arrived in Greenland by then. Another source describes hostile encounters between Norse and Skraelings just a few years later, in 1379, somewhere south of Melville Bay (Arneborg, 2015, p. 268; Seaver, 1997, p. 141). On the basis of these accounts, there is good historical evidence of Thule Inuit having reached the west coast of Greenland by sometimes in the middle of the fourteenth century. A century later, around AD 1476, there is another reported encounter between explorers and Inuit, this time in East Greenland (Holland, 1994, p. 12).

We have more specific circumstantial information from Martin Frobisher’s voyages to Baffin Island’s Tasiujarjuak Bay where in 1576 and 1577 he and his crews encountered Inuit and had violent confrontations with them (Best, 1938; Holland, 1994, p. 19; Settle, 1938). Less than four decades later, in 1611, the crew of the Discovery, coasting the northeastern corner of Hudson Bay after the mutiny that saw Henry Hudson abandoned, also encountered and had violent confrontations with Inuit (Holland, 1994, p. 33; Prickett, 1860, pp. 350–351).

To summarize the direct chronological evidence, much of it is uninformative with respect to the pace of the Thule migration. The unculled radiocarbon dates are consistent with the Thule first entering the Eastern Arctic any time after the ninth century, even if we restrict ourselves just to dates run on terrestrial mammals or to dates from the region through which they must have entered. But there are many reasons why some individual radiocarbon dates could be incorrect and, to reiterate the point made earlier, radiocarbon dating of Thule sites cannot yet provide definitive information concerning the earliest Thule sites in the Eastern Arctic nor the pace of the Thule migration. All the processes potentially affecting Arctic radiocarbon dating summarized earlier would still apply, even were the dates to be subjected to more sophisticated analyses for this purpose, such as Bayesian techniques. However, we do have a small amount of reliable chronological information, in the form of the earliest documented encounters with Europeans, which confirm that the expanding Thule population had got past the challenging obstacle of Melville Bay and reached West Greenland no later than AD 1364 – i.e. the middle of the fourteenth century. The fifteenth, sixteenth, and early seventeenth century dates of the encounters in East Greenland, southern Baffin Island, and northeastern Hudson Bay serve only to provide a tiny window upon the geographical spread of the Thule.

3 Indirect Chronological Evidence

To supplement this very limited direct chronological evidence, it becomes necessary to try to elicit additional chronological inferences indirectly. Three sources of indirect chronological evidence concerning the migration are the migrants’ motivation(s), the logistics that they employed, and the demography of the migrants and their descendants. These will be discussed in turn.

3.1 Motivation

We do not know for sure the precise location or locations from which Thule bands started this migration, although presumably it would have been from somewhere within the homelands of the cultures of the Thule tradition (e.g. Friesen, 2016, p. 681; Gulløv & McGhee, 2006, p. 55; Mason, 2017, p. 119). For present purposes, it is enough to note that the migrants appear to have started their eastward movement from west of today’s Alaska-Canada border, perhaps from around the longitude of Utqiagvik. Therefore, the distance travelled by the original Thule migrants and/or their descendants to where they would encounter the Norse in West Greenland would have been around 5,000 km. What could have caused Thule living in Alaska to embark upon and complete such a major undertaking?

Extended summaries of the history of thinking on this topic can be found in the studies by Mason (2020, pp. 325–330) and Friesen (2016, p. 683), but for the limited purposes of this article, the various explanations can be subsumed within two basic categories: “pull” and “push.” Pull explanations posit that there were resources in the east that Thule in Alaska learned about and wanted to access. Over the years of Thule research, resources that have been proposed have included the eastern population of bowhead whales, meteoritic iron in northwest Greenland, and the Norse in West Greenland (e.g. Gulløv & McGhee, 2006; McGhee, 1984b, 2009b). The pull model based on the Eastern Arctic population of bowhead whales might account for Thule groups entering the Canadian Arctic and subsequently dispersing there to good whaling locations, but if that was their motive, it is hard to understand why they then would continue migrating directly to Northern Greenland, far past the best whaling locations. The pull models for iron and the Norse suffer from the lack of a plausible mechanism by which Thule in Western Alaska several thousand kilometres away could have learned about their existence. The people of the Dorset culture have been proposed (McGhee, 1984b, p. 5), but the closest Dorset sites are approximately 1,500 km east of Utqiagvik and probably pre-date the Thule by a considerable amount. And finally, no Greenland iron (Mason, 2020, p. 330; Svensson, Kissin, Corbeil, Whitridge, & Helmer, 2021) nor Norse items have been found in the far west so if some Thule had indeed set out eastwards with the idea of accessing these commodities to trade back to their Alaskan homeland, they never accomplished that goal.

Push explanations posit that some Alaskan Thule migrated eastwards to get away from circumstances with which they were unhappy. For example, Friesen (2016, p. 684) suggests that the migrants “may have been under economic pressure or subject to blood feuds or interregional conflict.” Mason (2020, p. 344) suggests that social inequality, documented from Thule mortuary contexts, existed within and between Thule communities, and that “a Thule underclass were the most likely emigrants.” In other words, it is also possible that the Thule leaving their home communities and setting off eastward were escaping undesirable social circumstances. Such push models appear very plausible as explanations for some Alaskan Thule leaving their groups and setting out eastwards for unoccupied regions, but it is hard to understand those particular motivations keeping a group moving repeatedly, year after year or decade after decade, over a distance of thousands of kilometres, long after they had removed themselves geographically from the problem.

This lack of understanding of what motivated the migrants has implications for predicting how the migrants would have acted as they entered new territories, and therefore how rapidly they were likely to have moved. If the migrants’ movements were prompted by push motivations, it would seem probable that some groups would settle down as soon as they reached promising new territories beyond the reach of whatever factors pushed them to depart their homelands. Conversely, if they had a pull motivation – i.e. to move to a known distant destination – then that would have caused many to keep migrating despite passing through promising but unoccupied new territories. Alas, based on the available archaeological evidence, no one motivation model would seem to provide a compelling explanation for why some Thule living in West Alaska would have decided to commence a continuous migration to North Greenland and beyond. However, there is nothing implausible about the early stages of the Thule migration being undertaken for one reason and the later stages undertaken for different reasons based on what they encountered after entering the Eastern Arctic. The relevance for this analysis is that because we cannot confidently model the motive(s) of those Thule at any point along their migration, we cannot use such modelling independently to infer how motivated they would have been to move rapidly. Therefore, we need to base our conclusions about the pace of the Thule migration instead on inferences derived from logistical and demographic considerations.

3.2 Insights into the Logistics of Migration from the Environment and from Ethnography

What can we infer about how quickly it would have been possible for a group of Thule Inuit to move themselves and all their belongings long-distance into entirely new regions, based on the characteristics of those regions and on the technologies the Thule had available to them? The Thule in Alaska were clearly well adapted to life in an Arctic environment but, as they expanded eastward and northward, they would have encountered new and challenging conditions due to differences in topography, sea ice, animal species, raw materials, and daylight.

3.2.1 The Arctic Environment

The region into which the Thule expanded has high mountain ranges in north Alaska and along the eastern margin of the Canadian Arctic and in many parts of Greenland, separated by relatively low and flat regions in between. The sea forms a vital part of the Arctic environment and along the Alaskan coast they would have been familiar with the wide strip of “landfast” ice that forms during the winter and meets the open ocean at the “floe edge.” The sea ice there is an extremely dynamic environment, frequently broken by leads, linear stretches of open water that are created when cracks in the ice are forced open by wind or currents. In these kinds of winter ice conditions, many kinds of sea mammals can be found in leads or at the floe edge. The Thule would find similar conditions along the eastern edge of the Canadian Arctic and in Greenland, but within the relatively narrow channels separating the islands of the Canadian Arctic Archipelago, the sea freezes in almost unbroken expanses and therefore only a limited range of sea mammals remain available during the winter and different techniques are needed to hunt them. On the land, caribou could be found in most of this vast area, but their numbers and migration patterns, and thus their seasonal availability, differed regionally and between the Barren-ground subspecies in the south and the Peary subspecies in the north.

In parts of their Alaskan homeland and along the Arctic coastline at least as far as Coronation Gulf, the Thule had access to driftwood logs washed down major rivers from below the treeline. This abundant wood provided construction material for their winter houses and for other aspects of their material culture, as well as providing fuel for cooking and heating. But throughout the rest of the Eastern Arctic, driftwood was scarce, so as the migrants moved eastwards and northwards, they will have needed to meet their fuel and manufacturing needs to a far greater extent by animal products. A final difference as they expanded northwards was daylight. At the latitude of Utqiagvik and along the Arctic coast, they would have been familiar with getting through 9 weeks in midwinter when the sun did not arise above the horizon. But as they moved northwards within the Arctic Archipelago to Ellesmere Island and the north end of Greenland, the length of the midwinter dark period, with all its constraints on activities, would have extended to 15 weeks. Any model of the Thule expansion from Alaska throughout these vast and varied new regions must take their technologies into account, consistent with migrating groups reliably meeting their food, fuel, clothing, and shelter needs, while also needing to repeatedly transport themselves and all their belongings significant distances into unfamiliar territory.

3.2.2 The Logistics of Living and Travelling in this Environment

We have a considerable amount of detailed ethnographic information concerning the late nineteenth and early twentieth century Inuit inhabitants of Alaska, Arctic Canada, and Greenland, collected by anthropologists before Inuit ways of life were too drastically altered by interactions with outside societies. That information allows us to make relatively robust inferences concerning the logistics of Thule adaptations. Starting with transportation, for the brief open-water season the Inuit and their Thule ancestors had two kinds of skin boat which were both propelled by paddling: kayaks, which normally transported just one person, and umiaks, which could carry a dozen or more. For the rest of the year, during most of which the ground was covered with snow, they had dogsleds. But the number of dogs a family could keep was constrained, since in some environments, Inuit families sometimes spent as much time working to feed their dogs as they did to feed themselves (Burch, Jr, 1988, p. 86; Saladin d’Anglure, 1984, p. 491). Therefore, people often limited themselves to small dog teams and pulled alongside the dogs when the sled was especially heavily laden. Almost all of what is known about the traditional use of kayaks, umiaks, and sleds derives from their use for hunting or in annual round movements, rather than one-way migrations. For example, in Greenland at the time of contact, groups made annual seasonal moves between the mouths and heads of fjords, during which women would paddle the umiaks while men would travel in their kayaks (Kleivan, 1984). And each winter in the central part of the Canadian Arctic Inuit would sled far out onto the sea ice, moving periodically to new campsites before returning to the coast in the spring. In both cases, the people were able to cache items not needed during the upcoming months, recovering them when they returned at the end of the season and thus limiting the load that would need to be transported by sled or by boat. In the context of the Thule migration from Alaska, this would not have been an option – they would have had to transport absolutely everything that they could not easily manufacture at each stop along the way. The Thule had a very extensive and complex material culture (e.g. Oswalt, 1976, 1987) that Maxwell (1985, p. 249) characterized as “extreme functional specificity and concern with gadgetry,” so for a foraging society they would have had an unusually large number of unique implements to transport if they did not want to have to re-create many items after each leg of the migration.

Turning to shelter, in the warmer months, they used skin tents, but for the long winters, the Thule built semisubterranean houses, with the roof framework and internal features constructed of wood beams and planks in areas where driftwood was available, or elsewhere with bowhead whale bone rafters, and walls, floor, and sleeping platform constructed from large rocks. Driftwood would have been abundant in the first areas encountered by the Thule as they expanded eastward into the Canadian Arctic, but scarce beyond that. The construction of such houses required large investments of labour and of materials, and several houses would have been required to shelter a migrating group (McCartney, 1979; Park, 1988, 2001). To build a house from scratch, the below-ground portion would need to be dug out, often down into the permafrost, and then all the materials would need to be assembled. The amount of effort they put into moving large stones to build winter houses in the Eastern Arctic, sometimes more than a thousand per house, famously led Fitzhugh (1976, p. 141) to describe the effect of their building activities on the Arctic landscape as “practically a geological event, surpassed only by the Wisconsin glaciation.” But with minimal annual refurbishment, such a house could be reoccupied repeatedly, and McGhee (2009a, pp. 85–86) assumes that Thule winter houses in non-migratory contexts were occupied on average between five and ten winters, and indeed we have evidence of houses being re-used far longer than that (e.g. Houmard & Grønnow, 2017, p. 453). If a migrating Thule group chose not to create semisubterranean houses, they had the ability to overwinter in snow houses, but doing so would have been a much less comfortable way to spend the winter and would leave very few archaeological traces (Savelle, 1984, 1987).

For heat, the Thule could burn driftwood if it was available, or the small branches of the bush-like trees that grow throughout much of the region into which they expanded. But the main way that dwellings and food were heated was by burning sea mammal blubber in lamps, over which stone cooking pots were suspended. Blubber could be obtained from a wide variety of sea mammals. One other vital commodity came from a different prey species: skins from caribou. The very best warm and light winter clothing was manufactured from the skins of caribou hunted in the autumn – the skins of other species, or of caribou hunted at other times of the year, were nowhere near as effective (e.g. Stenton, 1991). Thus, both fuel and clothing could be obtained simultaneously with food, but sea mammal and caribou hunting were tightly constrained seasonally and so could in turn have constrained migration. However, the migrants may have experienced unusually easy hunting in the first few years they spent in any given region, before the unhunted or not recently hunted populations of land and sea mammals learned to be wary of humans (Degroot, 2022, pp. 73–74; Maxwell, 1985, pp. 49–50).

In Alaska, the hunting of enormous bowhead whales was one of the most distinctive activities of the Thule and contributed to shelter, food, and fuel. The northwestern Alaskan Thule hunted primarily during the whales’ spring migration around Alaska from the Bering Strait to the Beaufort Sea, when the whales were confined to leads paralleling the coast at the edge of the landfast ice. Open-water hunting of the whales on their autumn return migration was far less productive because the whales’ movements were not constrained by the ice. Ethnographic descriptions from the large north Alaskan communities in the nineteenth century describe a complex social and logistical organization for whaling that required many participants, with the residents of already large villages supplemented each whaling season by individuals from surrounding regions (Spencer, 1959, pp. 177–181). Each whaling umiak had a crew of seven to ten (Grier, 1999, p. 12; Murdoch, 1892, p. 273; Spencer, 1984, p. 330). Normally the crew were men, but women sometimes participated (Murdoch, 1892, p. 273).

The Thule migrants who entered the Eastern Arctic would continue hunting bowheads, but almost certainly on a vastly smaller scale. A study of the demography of the Arviligjuarmiut in 1938 (van de Velde OMI, Constandse-Westermann, Remie, & Newell, 1993, p. 27) found that males aged between 11 and 50 formed almost exactly one-third of the population, so extrapolating from that very limited example we can suppose that a migrating Thule group of 50 (see below) might have been able to form two umiak crews, far fewer than the number mounted at typical Alaskan whaling villages (Grier, 1999, p. 12; Murdoch, 1892, p. 273; Spencer, 1984, p. 330). The number of bowheads the migrants could catch in a given season would therefore be extremely small, but even one would likely have met their winter food and fuel needs (Whitridge, 1999, p. 108). However, in the Eastern Arctic regions lacking driftwood, bowheads were also the source of the large bones needed for house rafters and, as noted by McCartney (1979, p. 305), the bones from multiple whales would have been required to roof even a single house, whereas a migrating group of 50 people would have needed multiple houses. Therefore, small migrating groups either resided in a location for many years in ad hoc housing while acquiring enough bowhead bones to roof their entire village, or they laboriously transported rafters (logs or bowhead bones) with them.

3.2.3 An Example of an Inuit Migration

Just before exploring how archaeologists have attempted to model the Thule migration consistent with all these logistical considerations, it is useful to conclude by describing a famous nineteenth century migration that is often cited as demonstrating Inuit capacity to make rapid long-distance migrations into unknown territory (e.g. Fitzhugh, 2019, p. 52; Friesen, 2016, p. 682; McGhee, 2009b, p. 161). As summarized in most detail in the study by Rasmussen (1908), who interviewed some of the survivors, and Mary-Rousselière (1980), who assembled all of the disparate sources of information, in the spring of 1859, a group of Inuit under the leadership of a charismatic shaman named Qitdlarssuaq set out from eastern Devon Island to join the Inughuit in northwestern Greenland (in the vicinity of present-day Qaanaaq), of whose existence they had learned from British sailors. As noted by McGhee (2009b, p. 161), the distance across unfamiliar territory that they travelled in just a few years was a significant fraction of the distance that Thule from Alaska would have had to travel to reach the same region. However, the Qitdlarssuaq example illustrates the likely complexity of migration from both a logistical and a social perspective. Using Mary-Rousselière’s (1980) reconstruction of the numbers involved and the chronology, it was found that at least 42 Inuit set out from Devon Island in 1859. They did their main traveling in the spring and early summer, utilizing very large dog teams and sleds that were unusually long in order to be able to carry their kayaks. They advanced in short stages and frequently had to double back for a second load to move their kayaks and the rest of their belongings. When the sledding season came to an end sometime in July, they would locate a place to camp, where later in the summer, they could use their kayaks to hunt sea mammals. Over the summer and autumn, they accumulated provisions, and then constructed houses near their food caches, in which to pass the winter.

After 2 years of travel, disagreements among the migrants caused at least 24 of them to break off and head back. The remaining 18 proceeded on and joined the Inughuit in 1862. Several years later, most of those 18 decided to return to Baffin Island, but during the second winter of their return migration, they chose a bad location to overwinter, and several died due to starvation and interpersonal conflict; the survivors retreated to the Inughuit region. Many of the 24 who in 1861 had headed back to Devon Island appear to have suffered the same fate several years afterwards – only two are known to have survived a terrible winter of starvation. In both return migrations, the first necessary response to prolonged hunting failure was to kill and eat their dogs, which subsequently diminished their ability to hunt and travel. Thus, of the 42 who set out in 1859, more than half appear to have died within a decade due to causes that can be linked directly to the difficulties or risks of migration. If there are lessons to be learned from the Qitdlarssuaq migration, they must include that Inuit groups could indeed migrate rapidly but also that such rapid movements into unfamiliar regions were risky and could have catastrophic results if a single unlucky choice of wintering location were made.

3.3 How Archaeologists Have Modelled the Logistics of the Thule Migration

3.3.1 Mode of Travel

With the context provided by all the logistical options available to the Thule, and by the Qitdlarssuaq example, we can now turn to how archaeologists have actually envisaged the Thule migration, although surprisingly few have attempted to describe it in any detail. In just a few sentences, Morrison (1999, p. 150) provides the most comprehensive model, which essentially matches what Qitdlarssuaq did:

it is likely that our Thule migrants did their main travelling during the long days of spring, by dog-sled, with their precious boats lashed on top. Autumn would be spent in intensive hunting, perhaps sometimes at inland locations where muskoxen and caribou may have been more reliable than coastal sea mammals. In winter they hunkered down in newly-built houses, and the next spring were off again.

Thus, Morrison sees the sled as the most important mode of travel for the migration, and other researchers have also emphasized the importance of dog traction for the migration (Hill, 2018, p. 92; Lupo, 2021). However, the boats of Qitdlarssuaq’s group only included kayaks, whereas the Thule migrants also needed to transport their much larger umiaks. A Thule umiak found in northern Greenland (Knuth, 1952) was more than 10 m long, which would have made it an extremely awkward sled load, especially when combined with all their other possessions. Alternatively, Friesen (2013, p. 350) proposes that “movement likely occurred during the summer, by umiak,” as does Mason (2020, p. 315) who notes that “a migration by watercraft squares well with the assumed rapidity of the Thule migration.” Migrating during the summer open-water months would have involved its own logistical complications, because it is unclear if an umiak fully laden with as many people and possessions as possible for the purpose of migration could also have been used for whale hunting, although we should undoubtedly imagine each migrating group as one or more umiaks accompanied by several kayaks. Travel by umiak would see the migrants arriving at their new home in the late summer or early autumn, leaving little time to accumulate supplies there before the winter. Items that in the summer would need to be transported by umiak included their sleds and dogs so, as with Qitdlarssuaq’s spring migration, it is probable that migration via umiak would have required backtracking repeatedly in order to transport everything.

Other researchers do not attempt to give priority to one mode of transport over the other. McGhee (2009b, p. 161) envisions “Thule explorers, traveling by dogsled as well as by umiak during the summer months,” and Pauketat and Sassaman (2020, pp. 298–299) note that “Umiaks enabled rapid migration with the transport of lots of people and gear” and that “Dogsleds appeared at the time of Thule expansion, so travel over land with gear and resources was vastly improved.” These models would seem implicitly to envision travel by sled in the spring, followed by umiak travel in the summer. The distance that could be migrated in a single year by utilizing both modes of transport sequentially would be impressive but doing so would impose serious time constraints on hunting or other activities.

3.3.2 Duration of Occupations

Whatever mode of transportation they employed in their moves, another important consideration is how many winters a migrating group would remain at each over-wintering location, which of course has implications for how rapidly the migration could have proceeded. Morrison’s (1999, p. 150) model quoted earlier would seem to suggest just a single winter, but there are two reasons to question whether such brief stays at overwintering sites would have been the norm. First, the implicit assumption is that they overwintered in the same kind of semisubterranean houses that they used in both Alaska and in the Eastern Arctic, which required considerable labour and material to construct, and in non-migratory contexts, such houses are assumed to have had average use-lives of perhaps five to ten winters (McGhee, 2009a, pp. 85–86). Performing the additional labour of constructing new semisubterranean houses every autumn year after year, on top of the extreme exertion that would have been involved in migrating all their possessions by sled or umiak from their previous winter site, including rafters for the houses, would have been extremely onerous.

3.3.3 Gaining Knowledge of Unfamiliar Regions

Second and more important, such brief stays at each overwintering location would have meant advancing far into new regions potentially possessing differing characteristics without having thoroughly explored them beforehand to learn about their resources, which would have been risky. With respect to sea mammals, the differing coastline configurations and bathymetries of the Canadian Arctic Archipelago mean that the abundance of sea mammals can vary dramatically from locality to locality, as does the timing of freeze-up and break-up of the sea ice. The local availability and abundance of land mammals, especially caribou, varies enormously as well. The Qitdlarssuaq example shows that Inuit sometimes did migrate in this rapid fashion, but the catastrophic outcome for many of those migrants from choosing poor overwintering locations indicates how risky doing so could be. Therefore, it seems likely that some years may have devoted not to migrating but to “frontier scanning” (Hickey, 1984, p. 18), by remaining additional winters at one location and making extended hunting trips from there at different times of the year in the direction in which they eventually intended to migrate, to learn about the availability and distribution of resources before actually moving there. Frontier scanning would have been even more important if they wanted to implement the strategy Friesen (2016, p. 684) proposed:

In particular, migrants would have initially sought locations that allowed accumulation and storage of large amounts of food to be consumed in sedentary winter villages

Given that both the people and their dogs needed to be reliably fed throughout the winter, this strategy indeed seems likely, but identifying such locations in the unfamiliar lands ahead of them would have been difficult without first having made exploratory expeditions at different times of year. Thus, there clearly would have been benefits for a migrating group to reside in a single location for several years between major moves to allow enough time for thorough frontier scanning.

3.3.4 Number and Duration of Migration Events

However, we should not build our model based on the logistics of just a single migrating group. It seems generally accepted that the migration was not a single discrete event, but rather a series of such events that may have taken place over a period of years, decades or even centuries. Friesen (2016, p. 681) observes that the process may have ranged from “a tightly constrained series of a few population movements within a short period” to “continued periodic immigration from Alaska,” while Mason (2020, p. 325) likens the movement to a “continuing trickle of people eastward.” In the absence of direct evidence from single-component sites created by migrating groups, we must rely on inferences derived from ethnography to get a sense of how the groups of migrants would have been organized. On that basis, Friesen (2016, pp. 680–681) infers that “most migrating groups were probably relatively small, ranging in size from perhaps 15 to 50 people.” From ethnographic research conducted from the nineteenth century through the middle of the twentieth century, we know that some Inuit societies temporarily broke up into groups as small as 15–20 during the summer (e.g. Balikci, 1984, p. 422) but, because they normally aggregated into larger groups at other times of the year, it seems likely that the maximal band size for each migrating group would necessarily have been larger, closer to the 50 number.

One relevant implication of this model of several sequential groups of Thule migrating eastward is that later migrants may have been able to take advantage of the winter house sites created by earlier groups, making the amount of labour necessary for each major move less. But this model also raises the possibility that earlier groups may have ceased migrating and settled down as soon as they came to promising uninhabited locations in the western Canadian Arctic. Subsequent migrating groups following in their footsteps, especially if they were migrating precisely to avoid conflict or to escape being an underclass, may therefore have been motivated to pass quickly through these newly settled regions to reach new territories they could call their own.

3.4 The Demography of the Thule Migration

3.4.1 The Initial Migrant Population

A final indirect but vital source of information concerning the timing and pace of the Thule migration is demography – more specifically, the number of Thule individuals who commenced migrating in Alaska, and the eventual size of their descendants’ populations in Arctic Canada and Greenland. The number of Thule people who undertook the eastward migration is of obvious interest, and there is evidence that the number was quite small, based on what turns out to be a very limited amount of genetic diversity among their Inuit descendants in the Eastern Arctic. Inuit genetic diversity can be used to make direct inferences about the size of the Thule migrant population because the Inuit are entirely descendants of those Thule migrants. The Eastern Arctic had previously been occupied by the Paleo-Inuit, and by the eleventh century, Norse Vikings had colonized part of Greenland, but genetic studies supported by circumstantial archaeological evidence demonstrate that there was no intermarriage, and thus, there are no descendants of the Paleo-Inuit or Norse to be found amongst the Inuit (Lopopolo, Børsting, Pereira, & Morling, 2016, p. 701; Park, 2016; Raghavan et al., 2014; Tackney et al., 2019; Unkel et al., 2022). On that basis, Marchani et al. (2007, p. 283) conducted a pilot study using mitochondrial haplogroup data to conclude that the likely “Eastern Inuit female effective population size” of the Thule migrants was between 25 and 50 women. Mason (2020, p. 344) reports that “The demography of the Western Arctic remains too poorly documented to infer the role of population in the Thule migration,” but the geographic region most often suggested as the source of the Thule population migrating into Canada encompasses Northwest Alaska and, before nineteenth century reductions due to introduced diseases (Milan, 1980, p. 20; Spencer, 1984, p. 326), the Inuit population of that region according to Burch (2005, p. 7) was approximately 4,700, so even a millennium earlier, it plausibly could have been the source of up to a few hundred Thule migrants, but likely not more than that.

3.4.2 Constraints on Population Growth

Models of the Thule migration have all implicitly or explicitly postulated “rapid population increase” (e.g. Morrison, 2009, p. 76) among those initial migrants and their descendants, but the rate of population growth would have been constrained by several well-documented factors. The earliest data collected from Inuit societies in the Eastern Arctic noted long lactation periods and long intervals between births, anywhere from 3–5 years (Scheffel, 1988, pp. 40, 42; van de Velde OMI et al., 1993, pp. 31, 33). Another factor that may have contributed to long intervals between births was the suppression of fertility by high-energy activities such as travel, and on an annual basis, the timing of births indicated that conceptions were fewer in seasons when groups had to be highly mobile (Burch, Jr, 1988, p. 19; Lupo, 2021; van de Velde OMI et al., 1993, p. 33). It would therefore seem probable that the additional mobility requirements of migration, over and above those already entailed in their annual pattern of mobility, would have exacerbated the suppression of fertility. A final constraint on population growth was the fact that hunting accidents produced a high mortality rate among young and middle-aged men (Damas, 1975, p. 412; Scheffel, 1988, p. 42; van de Velde OMI et al., 1993, p. 31). This was documented ethnographically among groups who lived in areas with which they were very familiar. Such losses might have been an even more significant factor for hunters hunting in unfamiliar regions and might have affected their ability to migrate rapidly while simultaneously supporting a growing population.

3.4.3 Inuit Populations at the Time of Contact

With the understanding that these ethnographically documented factors must also have influenced Thule Inuit demography, over the next few centuries, those Thule migrants’ Eastern Arctic descendants nonetheless flourished and populated a vast area, although our knowledge of the ultimate sizes of the Inuit populations prior to the effects of introduced diseases is not precise. Our earliest information comes from Greenland, where in the late eighteenth century, the total Inuit population is estimated to have been around 8,000 (Hamilton & Rasmussen, 2010, p. 45). The earliest estimates of the Inuit population in Arctic Canada come from somewhat later but indicate a population totalling more than 9,000 in the nineteenth or very early twentieth century (Arima, 1984, p. 460; Balikci, 1984, p. 429; Boas, 1888, p. 425; Damas, 1984, p. 400; Mary-Rousselière, 1984, p. 445; Mathiassen, 1927, p. 285; Robinson, 1944; Saladin d’Anglure, 1984, p. 480; Smith, 1984, p. 349; Taylor, 1984, p. 508). Thus, it is possible that by AD 1800, the descendants of those few hundred Alaskan Thule Inuit who had entered the Eastern Arctic numbered up to 17,000.

3.4.4 Modelling Thule Inuit Population Growth

We can combine these population estimates – the initial number of Thule migrants, and the number of their descendants by around AD 1800 – to model the growth of the population over time on the assumption that no dramatic bottlenecks intervened. The rate of growth is largely dependent on when the migration commenced, and Figure 4 models it based on four entirely arbitrary entry dates: AD 1250, AD 1200, AD 1100, and AD 1000. The calculated average annual rates fall between 0.737 and 0.506%, which are plausible given what we know about Inuit fertility and the exigencies of migration. These are averages across the entire Eastern Arctic – presumably some regions would have supported higher rates, while others would have been constrained to lower rates. The useful chronological insight provided by this exercise comes from what it reveals about how many individuals were available to settle in the Eastern Arctic soon after the migrants arrived because that population had to be large enough and in the right locations long enough to produce the archaeological record known from each region. On stylistic grounds, we infer that the initial Thule movement beyond the westernmost portion of the Canadian Arctic included groups who migrated towards the northeast. Beyond Victoria Island, examples of artefact styles that would not be out of place in Alaskan sites, and which are therefore inferred to be “early” in the Eastern Arctic, are found primarily in sites along Lancaster Sound and on the islands north of it (Friesen, 2016, p. 684; Friesen & Arnold, 2008, p. 535; Morrison, 1999, p. 142). Researchers have inferred that Labrador and the coasts of Hudson Bay were entered by the Thule somewhat later (Friesen, 2017, p. Loc 3122; Friesen et al., 2020, p. 145; Maxwell, 1985, p. 297; McGhee, 2009a, p. 84; Whitridge, 1999, pp. 133–134; 2016, p. 831), which has implications for demography, although how much later is disputed. Movement into these regions may have commenced by AD 1350 (Fitzhugh, 2020, p. 95) or AD 1400 (Fitzhugh, 2019, p. 54; Kaplan & Woollett, 2016, p. 857), but others put it even later, at AD 1500 (McGhee, 2009a, p. 84; Ramsden & Rankin, 2013, p. 304).

Figure 4 
                     Hypothetical Thule Inuit population curves predicated on an initial migrating population of 300 that grew to 17,000 by AD 1800, with start dates of AD 1000, AD 1100, AD 1200, and AD 1250.
Figure 4

Hypothetical Thule Inuit population curves predicated on an initial migrating population of 300 that grew to 17,000 by AD 1800, with start dates of AD 1000, AD 1100, AD 1200, and AD 1250.

The one reliably dated event early in Thule history is the encounter no later than AD 1364 between Inuit and Norse somewhere in West Greenland. For that encounter to have taken place there and then, a viably large Thule population had to have already migrated all the way from Alaska to North Greenland, and then continued south past the difficult barrier of Melville Bay, where the inland ice cap reaches the sea. As shown by the population curves in Figure 4, if a migration of around 300 Thule Inuit from Alaska commenced around AD 1250 (e.g. Friesen, 2020, p. 226; McGhee, 2009a, p. 81), then the people who met the Norse in the middle of the fourteenth century were part of an entire Eastern Arctic Thule Inuit population that would have grown to just 700 individuals; if they had started migrating 150 years earlier, in AD 1100, the AD 1364 population would have been twice as large, and an earlier migration would have produced an even more substantial fourteenth-century population.

Is the smallest AD 1364 total Eastern Arctic population based on these models – 700 people – enough to account for the evidence? As a thought experiment, we might imagine that of the original 300 or so migrants starting out from Alaska in AD 1250, perhaps half would have settled in the western portion of the Canadian Arctic, around the Mackenzie Delta, Coronation Gulf, and Victoria and Banks Islands on the rationale that some Thule Inuit would have chosen to settle in those very productive regions, supported by archaeological evidence suggesting that Thule occupations were continuous following initial occupation (Ross & Friesen, 2022). The rest migrated further to where many settled along Lancaster Sound and the islands to its north. The ones who continued beyond there entered Greenland and moved south to where they encountered the Norse. The population growth that would have taken place over the 16 or 17 decades since they left Alaska would have resulted in approximately 350 Thule in the west, perhaps 250 in the eastern part of the Canadian Arctic, and 100 in Greenland. The 250 in the eastern part of the Canadian Arctic would have then needed to provide the groups that would head south to Labrador and Hudson Bay. It is impossible to reject this highly speculative scenario with certainty, but these numbers seem improbably small to have colonized all those regions and created the substantial archaeological record attributed to the early Thule. So, from a demographic perspective, a scenario involving a larger fourteenth-century Thule Inuit population in the Eastern Arctic is more consistent with the evidence.

4 Discussion

On the basis of this summary of the direct and indirect chronological evidence pertaining to the Thule migration, one is reminded of Alice in Wonderland’s queen saying “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast” (Carroll, 1872, p. 100). The picture of a “rapid” Thule migration that we archaeologists have promulgated would seem to indicate that we, like her, are comfortable believing at least a few impossible things which reveal themselves as inconsistencies – i.e. necessary inferences that cannot simultaneously be correct.

The first inconsistency is between the inferred pace of the migration and number of Thule who participated. Genetic evidence and our best estimates show that no more than a few hundred Thule Inuit set out towards the Eastern Arctic and became the ancestors of all the Inuit there, reaching approximately 17,000 by AD 1800, and growing to well over 100,000 today. Such dramatic population growth from a very small founding population clearly happened, but, as Figure 4 shows, the first centuries immediately after they set out would have seen little of that growth. We know that by the late fourteenth or early fifteenth centuries, there were viable local populations in the Western Canadian Arctic, the shores of Parry Channel, the High Arctic, West and East Greenland, southern Baffin Island and, no later than the end of the fifteenth century, Labrador. If the Thule migration only commenced in the thirteenth century, it is difficult to model how there could have been enough Inuit to inhabit and create the archaeological record evident in all of those regions so soon. Thus, there is something inconsistent between (a) the small number of migrants, (b) the plausible rate at which their population could have increased, (c) the inferred starting date for the migration, and (d) the existence in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries of viable local populations in multiple widely separated Eastern Arctic regions.

The second inconsistency is logistical, between the migration’s inferred rapid pace and the behaviours that would have been required to move that far that fast. We know that the original migrants or their descendants had advanced 5,000 km from Utqiagvik to West Greenland by no later than AD 1364. We are not certain how they conducted their migration movements – i.e. whether they did them primarily by sled in the spring, or primarily by boat in the summer, or both – but each move of everything they owned, followed by the creation at their new wintering site of several new semisubterranean houses and the accumulation of enough food and fuel for the upcoming winter, would have represented a major undertaking. The specific logistical issue here relates to how far they would have advanced in each individual move. It has been suggested that they covered the entire 5,000-km distance “within a single generation or less” (Friesen, 2016, p. 685) or “within only a few decades” (Friesen, 2021, p. 224), or even “in as little as a few years” (Pauketat & Sassaman, 2020, p. 298). Travelling 5,000 km in 30 years or so would mean relocating their wintering location more than 165 km further into unfamiliar territory each and every year. Such yearly distances are consistent with how far some of the Qitdlarssuaq migrants managed to travel between 1859 and 1862, but soon afterwards, more than half of them perished due to errors choosing wintering locations. Inuit normally avoided such deadly outcomes by first conducting extensive frontier scanning, and the fact that most Thule migrants clearly did not suffer the same fate as the Qitdlarssuaq migrants suggests that they too may have taken this precaution before moving into completely unfamiliar territories. Therefore, if the 5,000 km migration spanned just a few decades, then the Thule either advanced steadily into completely unfamiliar territory at the 165 km per year pace briefly achieved by Qitdlarssuaq’s group while completely avoiding the severe mortality the latter suffered, or they devoted some years to frontier scanning far into unknown territories, and then advanced unprecedented distances (330 km or more) in the years in which they did migrate. Both of those scenarios appear inconsistent with everything we know about Thule Inuit logistics, calling into question the premise that the migration happened over so few years.

5 Conclusions

Taken together, these demographic and logistical inconsistencies are most easily harmonized if we conclude that the Thule migrants did not traverse and populate the entire Eastern Arctic within just a few decades. It is possible that the initial number of migrants or their rate of population growth was somehow significantly larger than we believe, or else the logistics the Thule employed in the migration were far more efficient than we can infer from ethnohistorical information. But the most likely resolution of these demographic and logistical inconsistencies is that the migration took significantly longer. And because we know for sure that the Thule Inuit had reached West Greenland no later than AD 1364, the only way the migration could have taken longer would be for it to have commenced earlier than most researchers believe.

Happily, we do have some tangible evidence that is consistent with the possibility that the migration commenced earlier: the previously rejected pre-thirteenth-century radiocarbon dates from the Eastern Arctic. Fully 74 radiocarbon dates from there have mid-points pre-dating AD 1200, of which 19 were run on the preferred terrestrial mammal samples. As shown in Figure 3, 28 of them come from the western Canadian Arctic (the first Eastern Arctic region entered by Thule migrants), with quite a few spanning the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries. Figure 3 also shows that five of them come from the Far North, of which the oldest comes from the tenth century. The fact that the earliest dates come from the west, where we would expect the earliest Thule occupations, and the fact that there are fewer dates from the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries than there are from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, is exactly what would be predicted from the demographic information, because there would not have been many Thule Inuit creating datable sites and samples in the Eastern Arctic in the centuries immediately following their entry. It is vital to remember that these radiocarbon dates do not prove that the Thule migration commenced earlier – all the problems with radiocarbon dating outlined earlier still remain, and this article concurs with the conclusions cited earlier (Mason, 2017, p. 127; Maxwell, 1985, p. 253; Morrison, 1999, p. 140) to the effect that radiocarbon dates cannot resolve this question. But it is equally important to remember that it has only been possible to argue that the Thule migration commenced in the thirteenth century by arbitrarily culling all of these pre-thirteenth century dates. What these dates do is they direct our attention back to the logistical and demographic evidence presented here, which strongly suggests a Thule migration spanning centuries rather than decades. If that is correct, the radiocarbon dates possibly clarify the scenario, suggesting that some Thule reached the Western Canadian Arctic as early as the ninth or tenth centuries, and then took 200 or 300 years to reach Ellesmere Island and North Greenland, before finally expanding southwards to reach West Greenland by the middle of the fourteenth century.

If we accept that scenario, it changes our understanding of the Thule peopling of the Eastern Arctic, especially from the perspective of its participants. Under the most rapid migration scenarios, many of the same individuals who set out from Alaska as youngsters or young adults could have lived long enough to reach Greenland, and during those decades most Thule individuals would have moved repeatedly, because the migrating Thule population would not have grown enough to both continue advancing while also leaving behind viable local colonies along the way. Further, such a brief migration could presumably have been undertaken with continuity of purpose and leadership, like that of Qitdlarssuaq. From the experience of the migration he led, we know that powerful leadership could keep groups of Inuit migrating continuously for several years, although it is worth remembering that half of Qitdlarssuaq’s followers changed their mind and turned back after just 2 or 3 years. But the slower scenario – i.e. that the Thule expansion from Alaska throughout Arctic Canada and Greenland spanned multiple centuries – implies a much different experience for its participants. The maximum distance any one individual migrated during their lifetime may have been no more than a few hundred kilometres and, as new local populations were established along the route, many individuals may have lived out their lives in the same general region where they had been born. The process of migration would thus have involved repeated fission of local growing populations, similar to what we assume happened back in Alaska with the initial Thule migrants. In each newly occupied region, there would have been enough time for significant population growth and extensive frontier scanning, ultimately allowing some groups to remain there while others headed off to familiar but previously unoccupied regions eastward and northward throughout the Canadian Arctic Archipelago, and then into Greenland. Further, in each new generation, the motivation for those individuals who chose to migrate may have involved some consistent process or widely shared goal, not restricted to the local circumstances that had existed back in Alaska or in any of the newly occupied regions. Their worldview may have celebrated the exploring of new areas, encouraging them to give up the larger social universes they repeatedly left behind, since the earliest Thule migrants in each new region would have experienced living in extremely small groups separated by great distances from other such groups.

All of which lead back to the question that prompted this article: was the 5,000-km Thule expansion from Alaska to where they encountered Norse Vikings in West Greenland around AD 1364 indeed “rapid” as researchers have consistently and confidently asserted? Most of the representative quotations at the start of this article are explicitly or implicitly describing a process as brief as a single generation or few decades. The analysis presented here indicates it almost certainly took multiple centuries and many generations which, given the distances and difficulties involved, is still hugely impressive. But here it is appropriate to conclude by reiterating Mason’s (2020, p. 308) cogent insight that “despite 100 years of research, the Thule migration is not as well understood by archaeologists as is commonly believed” with the postscript that the one thing we seemed sure we knew, that it was “rapid,” turns out to have been mistaken or exaggerated. This has some implications for migration studies generally, because it calls into question attempts that have been made to use what we thought we knew about the Thule migration as an analogue for other migrations (e.g. Fiedel, 2004; Mason, 2020). Arctic pre-historians need to find some way to place Thule chronology throughout the entire Arctic on a more solid footing before the Thule migration should be used again as a yardstick against which others are measured.


Special Issue on Archaeology of Migration: Moving Beyond Historical Paradigms, edited by Catharine Judson & Hagit Nol.


Acknowledgements

Douglas R. Stenton and S. Brooke Milne provided helpful commentary on an earlier draft of this paper.

  1. Conflict of interest: The author states no conflict of interest.

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Received: 2023-05-01
Accepted: 2023-09-04
Published Online: 2023-11-22

© 2023 the author(s), published by De Gruyter

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.

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