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Inscribing identities on the landscape : a spatial exploration of archaeological rock features in the.. Supernant, Kisha Marie 2011

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     INSCRIBING IDENTITIES ON THE LANDSCAPE: A SPATIAL EXPLORATION OF ARCHAEOLOGICAL ROCK FEATURES IN THE LOWER FRASER RIVER CANYON by Kisha Marie Supernant  B.A., University of British Columbia, 2002 M.A., University of Toronto, 2004   A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY  in  THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (Anthropology)  THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) April 2011 © Kisha Marie Supernant 2011 ii  ABSTRACT The research presented in this study is an archaeological exploration of the role of monumental rock features in the formation and maintenance of community identity in the past among the Coast Salish peoples of the Lower Fraser River Canyon region of south-western British Columbia. An area of intensive seasonal aggregation during the height of the salmon fishing season, the Lower Fraser River Canyon is an area where ownership and access to valuable commodities has been paramount through time. This central place is marked by a type of archaeological feature rarely found anywhere on the Northwest Coast – large scale, stacked rock walls, terraces, and other constructions. I apply a landscape approach to understand the cultural dynamics of social interaction in this region and argue that people evoke identities at various scales and defend their territory on the landscape through the construction of these features.  Since only preliminary research had been undertaken on the rock features, I conducted a survey of the Lower Fraser River Canyon and located 82 rock features along a 7 km stretch of river. Characteristics of these features, along with three-dimensional maps of several sites where features cluster, form the basis of my analysis. I outline uses for the rock features, including fishing, defense, living surfaces, and ownership makers, before applying spatial analyses to evaluate whether or not these features formed a defensive network throughout the Canyon. The results of the Defensive Index, a quantitative measure of site defensibility, illustrate that the building of the rock features, even if their primary use was not defensive, enhances the defensibility of village sites. In addition, viewshed analyses indicate that sites with and without rock features are intervisible, supporting the hypothesis that signals could be sent through the Canyon as a warning of impending raids from either upriver or  iii  downriver (Schaepe 2006). I conclude that while rock features were a result of co-ordinated community activity and had an impact on the identities of people living in the Canyon in the past, assigning ownership of a place to a family or community has always been an active and ongoing process.     iv  TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract.............................................................................................................................. ii Table of Contents ............................................................................................................ iv List of Tables ................................................................................................................... vii List of Figures ................................................................................................................... x Acknowledgements ...................................................................................................... xxi Dedication ..................................................................................................................... xxv 1: Introduction .................................................................................................................. 1 Transformations ......................................................................................................... 1 Setting the Stage: The Cultural Context of the Lower Fraser River Canyon ..... 7 Inscribing Identity and Defending the Landscape .............................................. 12 Research Questions .................................................................................................. 15 A Journey through the Landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon............ 19 2: Landscapes and Agents ............................................................................................ 24 A Critical Methodology .......................................................................................... 24 Landscapes ................................................................................................................ 26 Agency ....................................................................................................................... 39 Agential Landscapes of the Lower Fraser River Canyon ................................... 46 3: Defining the Lower Fraser River Canyon: ............................................................. 48 Introduction .............................................................................................................. 48  v  Physical Landscape .................................................................................................. 49 Archaeological Landscape ...................................................................................... 52 Cultural Landscape .................................................................................................. 63 Colonial Landscape ................................................................................................. 72 4: Acquiring Data: Methods of Field Collection ........................................................ 84 Introduction .............................................................................................................. 84 Background to the Project ....................................................................................... 85 Data Collection ......................................................................................................... 87 Recording the Rock Features .................................................................................. 96 Mapping the Rock Features .................................................................................. 106 Dating the Rock Features ...................................................................................... 108 Discussion ............................................................................................................... 113 5: Analysing the Rock Features .................................................................................. 115 6: Exploring Patterns in the Rock Feature Data: Summarizing the Variables ..... 150 Introduction ............................................................................................................ 150 Exploratory Data Analysis .................................................................................... 150 Rock Feature Data .................................................................................................. 152 Discussion ............................................................................................................... 174 7: Evaluating Form, Labour Investment, and Functions of Rock Features ......... 177 Evaluating Rock Feature Types ........................................................................... 178 Construction: Estimating Labour Investment ................................................... 189 Hypothesising Rock Feature Function ................................................................ 211 Discussion ............................................................................................................... 232  vi  8: Defensibility and Viewshed of Rock Features: A Landscape Approach ......... 235 Introduction ............................................................................................................ 235 Defensive Index Measures .................................................................................... 237 Defensive Index Discussion .................................................................................. 254 Spatial Analysis: GIS ............................................................................................. 255 9: Rock Features and the Coast Salish Built Environment ..................................... 281 The Coast Salish Built Environment.................................................................... 282 10: Archaeological and Contemporary Implications of the Research .................. 304 Introduction ............................................................................................................ 304 Revisiting the Research Questions ...................................................................... 304 Archaeological Implications ................................................................................. 310 Contemporary Implications ................................................................................. 313 Future Directions ................................................................................................... 317 Final Thoughts ........................................................................................................ 320 Bibliography ................................................................................................................. 322 Appendix 1: Halkomelem Place Names ................................................................... 343 Appendix 2: Table of All Rock Features ................................................................... 345 Appendix 3: Table of Sampled Rock Features ......................................................... 360 Appendix 4: Coding of Rock Feature Variables ...................................................... 372 Appendix 5: Cross-Tabulations ................................................................................. 379 Terrace Cross-Tabs ................................................................................................. 379 Size Cross-Tabs ....................................................................................................... 380 Use Cross-Tabs ....................................................................................................... 382  vii  LIST OF TABLES Table 3.1. Cultural Sequence in the Lower Fraser River Canyon (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996).................................................................................................59 Table 4.1. Sampled Rock Features. ...............................................................................95 Table 4.2. Sphericity Scale after (Powers 1953). ........................................................101 Table 4.3. Clast Scale (after Mathews 2006). ..............................................................103 Table 4.4. Dendrochronology Dating Results. ..........................................................112 Table 6.1. Summary of Sampled Rock Features Indicating Site Name and Feature Type. ...............................................................................................................153 Table 6.2. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Types. .....................................154 Table 6.3. Frequency Distribution of River View of Rock Features. ......................155 Table 6.4. Frequency Distribution of River View by Direction of the View. ........155 Table 6.5. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Primary Materials. ................156 Table 6.6. Frequency Distribution of Number of Rocks in Rock Features. ...........156 Table 6.7. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Clast. .......................................157 Table 6.8. Frequency Distribution of Primary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features. .........................................................................................................157 Table 6.9. Frequency Distribution of Secondary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features. .........................................................................................................158 Table 6.10. Cross-tabulation of Primary and Secondary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features. ...............................................................................................158  viii  Table 6.11. Frequency Distribution of Freestanding Features. ...............................159 Table 6.12. Frequency Distribution of Infill of Rock Features. ...............................159 Table 6.13. Frequency Distribution of Intactness of Rock Features. ......................160 Table 6.14. Frequency Distribution of Chinking in Rock Features. .......................160 Table 6.15. Frequency Distribution of Stacking in Rock Features. ........................161 Table 6.16. Frequency Distribution of Artifacts on Rock Features. .......................162 Table 6.17. Frequency distribution of Fire-altered Rock on Rock Features. .........162 Table 6.18. Frequency Distribution of Historical Materials on Rock Features. ....162 Table 6.19. Summary Measures of Level and Spread for Continuous Variables.163 Table 6.20. Five-number Summaries for Continuous Variables. ...........................163 Table 6.21. Contingency Table of Features with Historical Materials and   Artifacts. ........................................................................................................175 Table 6.22. Contingency Table of Features with Artifacts and FAR. .....................175 Table 6.23. Contingency Table of Features with Historical Materials and FAR. .175 Table 7.1. Rock Feature Types Defined by Schaepe (2006). ....................................178 Table 7.2. Comparison of Measures of Centre and Spread of the Entire Sample and Terrace/Non-Terrace Features. ..........................................................185 Table 7.3. Five-number Summaries for Terrace/Non-terrace Distributions. .......186 Table 7.4. Comparison of Measures of Centre and Spread of  Categories of   Size..................................................................................................................204 Table 7.5. Five-number Summaries for Continuous Variables of Size   Categories. .....................................................................................................205  ix  Table 7.6. Possible Fishing Features. ..........................................................................214 Table 7.7. Possible Defensive Features. ......................................................................218 Table 7.8. Possible Living Surfaces. ............................................................................221 Table 7.9. Unclassified Features. .................................................................................224 Table 7.10. Comparison of Measures of Centre and Spread of the Entire Sample and Use Categories. .....................................................................................229 Table 7.11. Five-number Summary of Continuous Variables of Use Categories.230 Table 8.1. Definitions of Individual Variables in the Defensive Index. ................238 Table 8.2. Defensive Measures for All Mapped Sites in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. ..........................................................................................................239 Table 8.3. Defensive Index Measures Based on Numbers Presented in  Table 8.2 . ........................................................................................................................243 Table 8.4. Site Intervisibility Showing which Sites have Views to Other Sites. ...259 Table 8.5. Site Intervisibility including DjRi-21 and DjRi-3/5. ...............................268 Table 9.1. Comparison of the Functions of Rock Features at Different Scales. ....294 Table 9.2. Comparison of Identities Enacted by Agents at Different Spatial   Scales. .............................................................................................................295  x  LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1.1. View of the Lower Fraser River Canyon from the rock wall visited in 2001. ....................................................................................................................2 Figure 1.2. The author on the rock wall as described in the text, circa 2001. ...........3 Figure 1.3. Rock wall at site DjRi-46, first viewed by the author in 2001. ................3 Figure 1.4. The Coast Salish world adapted from Angelbeck (2009). .......................8 Figure 1.5. The Lower Fraser River Canyon. ..............................................................16 Figure 2.1. Natural landscape (after Sauer and Leighly 1963:337). .........................28 Figure 2.2. Cultural landscape (after Sauer and Leighly 1963:341). ........................29 Figure 3.1.  Lady Franklin Rock (from Schaepe 2006:684). .......................................51 Figure 3.2. The Northwest Coast (from Donald 2003). ..............................................54 Figure 3.3. Gulf of Georgia region - borders reconstructed from Mitchell (1971). Map adapted from Grier (2001). ..................................................................56 Figure 3.4. Map showing the location of DjRi-3 and DjRi-5. ....................................58 Figure 4.1. The Lower Fraser Canyon, showing area surveyed. ..............................88 Figure 4.2: Vegetation cover obscuring rock features................................................90 Figure 4.3. Natural (left) and cultural (right) rock features. .....................................91 Figure 4.4. Sampled rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. ...................94 Figure 4.5. Field form used to record rock features. ..................................................97 Figure 4.6. Roundness and Sphericity (Wikipedia.org). .........................................101  xi  Figure 4.7. Coursed rock features with medium-loose stacking (left) and tight stacking (right). .............................................................................................105 Figure 4.8. Sites mapped in the field. .........................................................................109 Figure 5.1. Rock features and mapped sites. .............................................................116 Figure 5.2. Sketch map of DjRi-2(S). ...........................................................................118 Figure 5.3. RF-T01 - A portion of the terrace feature located at DjRi-2S. The area above the rock feature is flat and the down river portion (seen at the left in this photo) has slumped away. Lithic materials (flakes) were found in this feature. ...............................................................................................119 Figure 5.4. RF-T02 - A portion of the terrace feature located at DjRi-2S. This feature runs perpendicular to RF-T01 and is less clearly stacked. The eastern edge (seen at right in this photo) is formed by a large piece of bedrock. .........................................................................................................119 Figure 5.5. RF-T03 - This feature is down slope from RF-T01 and RF-T02. It is small and heavily disturbed, but some stacking can be seen. The down river edge (seen at left in this photo) has a rock containing a water worn bowl-shaped depression. ............................................................................120 Figure 5.6. Sketch map of DjRi-2 (N). .........................................................................121 Figure 5.7. Gap between the two sides of the bluff at DjRi-2(N). This gap restricts access to the upriver portion of the site. ...................................................122 Figure 5.8. RF-T05 is visible in the background of the photos.RF-T05 - A terrace feature just down from the road at DjRi-2N. This feature shows chinking and some use of “cap” stones to create a flat surface stretching over 9 m atop the feature. ...........................................................................123  xii   Figure 5.9. RF-T04 - Two views of the upper portion of RF-T04, a small terrace. This feature is a combination of angular boulders and river cobbles. The feature slopes some distance toward the river. .......................................123 Figure 5.10. RF-T06 - Small terrace feature topped with a large cap stone. Several small stones are holding the cap stone flat. The feature has slumped down slope considerably. ...........................................................................124 Figure 5.11. RF-T07 - Another small terrace feature just down river from RF-T06 (to the right in this photo). This feature is stacked between two pieces of bedrock and is therefore quite narrow. .....................................................124 Figure 5.12. Sketch map of DjRi-46. ............................................................................126 Figure 5.13. RF-T18a - This feature was once more freestanding and sits 10 m upriver from RF-T18b. It overlooks a steep drop and contains some large boulders. ..............................................................................................127 Figure 5.14. RF-T18b - This is a jumbled feature 10 m downriver from RF-T18a. It appears likely that these features were once joined. ...............................128 Figure 5.15. RF-T85a - This feature is located down slope from RF-T18 and it is jumbled. Some intact stacking patterns remain. ......................................128 Figure 5.16. RF-T85b - This feature is near RF-T85a, suggesting that they were once a single feature blocking access to the site above. ..........................129 Figure 5.17. Map of the DjRi-14 locality. ....................................................................130 Figure 5.18. RF-T21 - This feature was recorded in winter and did not get cleared as extensively as some others, so its shape is somewhat unclear. It does form a clear terrace edge but is primarily constructed out of smaller angular boulders. .........................................................................................131  xiii  Figure 5.19. RF-T29 - This is a terrace feature situated between two large bedrock outcrops atop the bluff at DjRi-14. .............................................................132 Figure 5.20. RF-T35 - This is another terrace feature. It is down slope on the upriver side of the bluff of DjRi-14 and is quite tightly stacked with smaller stones than other terraces. The tree stump on top of this feature has been dated to the 1790s. .......................................................................132 Figure 5.21. Sketch map of DjRi-13. ............................................................................134 Figure 5.22. Linear rock piles at DjRi-13 ....................................................................135 Figure 5.23. RF-T64 - This feature is 5 m down river and down slope from RF-T63. It is quite jumbled but there appears to be some deliberate stacking patterns within the feature. .........................................................................135 Figure 5.24. RF-T63 - This is a linear boulder alignment placed at the top of a sheer bluff leading down toward the water. There is an excellent view down river from this location and it is the only completely freestanding feature in the entire sample. .......................................................................136 Figure 5.25. RF-T66 - This feature consists of a jumble of small boulders and very large angular boulders, but the strategic placement of chinks indicates purposeful construction. The top is flat and there may be additional remnants of a similar feature at the back of the bluff. ............................136 Figure 5.26. RF-T68 - This feature is situated atop a third bluff at DjRi-13 and faces down river. This is the feature first photographed in the 1887 (Schaepe 2006) and is a large terrace, creating a flat area behind. ........137 Figure 5.27. RF-T69 - Facing away from the river, this feature is another long terrace, although a major portion of the face of the terrace is buried in sediment. .......................................................................................................137 Figure 5.28. Sketch map of DjRi-62. ............................................................................139  xiv  Figure 5.29. RF-T73a - This is the south edge of an L-shaped feature. The corner of the ‘L’ is located at the left end of this photo. Large angular rocks are strategically placed on the top of the feature to create a flat surface. At some point in the past, the middle portion of the feature collapsed. ...141 Figure 5.30. RF-T73b: This is the west edge of an L-shaped feature. The corner of the ‘L’ is located at the right end of this photo. Large angular rocks are strategically placed on the top of the feature to create a flat surface but some have slid down off the top. ...............................................................141 Figure 5.31. RF-T74 - This feature is just north of RF-T73. It is the longest feature in the sample at 18+ m. As with other features at this site, the top of the feature is a large, flat area. ..........................................................................142 Figure 5.32. RF-T75 - This is a terrace feature - the flat surface on top is emphasised by the trees growing out of the top. The feature has clear stacking with some evidence of chinking and a preference for large boulders. ........................................................................................................142 Figure 5.33. RF-T89 - This feature lies about 25 m upriver from RF-T75 and is a low L-shaped terrace that stands at maximum about half a metre above the ground surface. The feature is quite flat on top but partially buried in soil. .............................................................................................................144 Figure 5.34. RF-T76 - This feature is down slope from RF-T73, T74 and T75. It is constructed out of some of the largest rocks in the entire sample, weighing upward of 10 tonnes. The feature is almost 3 m high and shows clear stacking patterns. ....................................................................144 Figure 5.35. Location of unmapped rock features included in the sample. .........145 Figure 5.36. RF-T10 and RF-T11, situated on a rocky slope with considerable modern detritus. ...........................................................................................146  xv  Figure 5.37. A portion of RF-T14. This is a small, unusually situated rock feature. A similar rock feature is on the other side of the creek from this location, but this whole area needs to be mapped to understand the relationships between these features.........................................................147 Figure 5.38. RF-T16, situated on a trail leading down from a modern fish camp, but buried in soil and associated with ancient cultural materials. .......148 Figure 5.39. South wall of RF-T17. This feature also has a north wall and a west wall, but they are considerably more disturbed than the south wall. The eastern edge is open to the river. ...............................................................148 Figure 6.1. Tightly stacked rock feature - RF-T14.....................................................161 Figure 6.2. Stem-and-leaf plot of rock feature length. .............................................164 Figure 6.3. Boxplot of rock feature length. ................................................................165 Figure 6.4. Stem-and-leaf plot for rock feature width. ............................................166 Figure 6.5. Boxplot of rock feature width. .................................................................166 Figure 6.6. Stem-and-leaf plot for rock feature height. ............................................167 Figure 6.7. Boxplot of rock feature height. ................................................................167 Figure 6.8. Stem-and-leaf plots for rock feature area. ..............................................168 Figure 6.9. Boxplot of rock feature area. ....................................................................169 Figure 6.10. Stem-and-leaf plot for rock feature volume. .......................................170 Figure 6.11. Boxplot of rock feature volume. ............................................................170 Figure 6.12. Stem-and-leaf plot of rock feature courses. .........................................171 Figure 6.13. Boxplot of rock feature courses. ............................................................171 Figure 6.14. Stem-and-leaf plot of rock feature elevation above river level. ........172 Figure 6.15. Boxplot of metres above river level. .....................................................173  xvi  Figure 6.16. Aspect of rock features. Values in each 45°circle interval indicate the number of rock features within that range. Cardinal direction is indicated at the junction of each wedge and wedges with darker shading indicate a great number of features falling within that range.173 Figure 7.1. Bar chart showing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features in the overall sample. .......................................................................................179 Figure 7.2. Bar chart comparing the frequency of freestanding terrace and non-terrace features. ............................................................................................180 Figure 7.3. Bar chart comparing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features that show infill. .............................................................................................181 Figure 7.4. Bar chart comparing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features with cap stones. ............................................................................................182 Figure 7.5. Bar chart comparing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features with chinking. ...............................................................................................182 Figure 7.6. Bar chart comparing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features with tightness of stacking. ..........................................................................183 Figure 7.7. Bar chart comparing the frequency of terrace and non-terrace features  with villages. .................................................................................................183 Figure 7.8. Boxplot comparing width of rock features based on terrace/non-terrace categories ..........................................................................................184 Figure 7.9. Boxplot comparing area of rock features based on terrace/non-terrace categories. ......................................................................................................187 Figure 7.10. Boxplot comparing volume of rock features based on terrace/non-terrace categories. .........................................................................................187 Figure 7.11. Coast Salish Plank House (from Grier 2001). ......................................192  xvii  Figure 7.12. Stem-and-leaf plot of rock feature volume. .........................................193 Figure 7.13. Linear regression of rock feature area and rock feature volume. .....194 Figure 7.14. Bar chart showing the number and proportion of rock feature size categories. ......................................................................................................195 Figure 7.15. Bar chart of rock feature size categories by terrace/non-terrace......196 Figure 7.16. Bar chart of rock feature size category by percentage of infill. .........196 Figure 7.17. Bar chart of rock feature size by number of rocks. .............................197 Figure 7.18. Bar chart of rock feature size categories by all clast categories. .......198 Figure 7.19. Bar chart of rock feature size by modified clast. .................................198 Figure 7.20. Bar chart of rock feature size by primary material. ............................199 Figure 7.21. Bar chart of rock feature size by freestanding. ....................................200 Figure 7.22. Bar chart of rock feature size by chinking. ..........................................201 Figure 7.23. Bar chart of rock feature size by cap stones. ........................................201 Figure 7.24. Bar chart of rock feature size by stacking. ...........................................202 Figure 7.25. Boxplot comparing volume of rock features based on proposed size and labour investment categories. .............................................................203 Figure 7.26 Boxplot comparing width of rock features based on proposed size and labour investment categories. .............................................................203 Figure 7.27. Boxplot comparing area of rock features based on proposed size and labour investment categories. .....................................................................204 Figure 7.28. Bar chart of rock feature size by village association. ..........................208 Figure 7.29. Bar chart of rock feature use. .................................................................212  xviii  Figure 7.30. Photo from the Canada Archives (PA-009216) showing a dry-rack in the Canyon in 1879. Note the rocks used to stabilize posts at the base of the dry-rack feature. .....................................................................................213 Figure 7.31. Bar chart showing the direction of river view for fishing features. .215 Figure 7.32. Bar chart of fishing features by percentage of infill. ..........................216 Figure 7.33. Bar chart of fishing features by percentage freestanding. .................216 Figure 7.34. Bar chart showing fishing features by cap stones and village association. ....................................................................................................216 Figure 7.35. Bar chart of fishing features by associated cultural material. ...........217 Figure 7.36. Bar chart of defensive features by percentage freestanding. ............218 Figure 7.37. Bar chart of defensive features by percentage of infill. ......................219 Figure 7.38. Bar charts showing defensive features by cap stones and village association. ....................................................................................................219 Figure 7.39. Bar chart of defensive features by associated cultural material. ......219 Figure 7.40. Bar charts showing living features by rock feature size. ...................222 Figure 7.41. Bar chart showing the direction of river view for living features. ...222 Figure 7.42. Bar chart of living features by associated cultural material. .............223 Figure 7.43. Bar charts showing living features by cap stones and village association. ....................................................................................................223 Figure 7.44. Bar chart showing the direction of river view for unclassified features. ..........................................................................................................225 Figure 7.45. Bar chart of unclassified features by percentage of infill. ..................226 Figure 7.46. Bar chart of unclassified features by associated cultural material. ..226  xix  Figure 7.47. Bar charts showing unclassified features by cap stones and village association. ....................................................................................................227 Figure 7.48. RF-T76 - a possible ownership marker (different view from Figure 5.34). ...............................................................................................................227 Figure 7.49. Boxplot comparing width of rock features based on use   categories. ......................................................................................................230 Figure 7.50. Boxplot comparing area of rock features based on use categories...231 Figure 7.51. Boxplot comparing volume of rock features based on use   categories. ......................................................................................................231 Figure 8.1. Location of mapped rock features. .........................................................236 Figure 8.2. Natural rock feature at DjRi-21 ...............................................................241 Figure 8.3. Site map of DjRi-21 showing defensive index measures. ....................242 Figure 8.4. Site map of DjRi-2(N) showing defensive index measures. ................245 Figure 8.5. Site map of DjRi-2(S) showing defensive index measures. .................247 Figure 8.6. Site map of DjRi-46 showing defensive index measures. ....................249 Figure 8.7. Site map of DjRi-13 showing defensive index measures. ....................251 Figure 8.8. Site map - DjRi-62 showing defensive index measures. ......................253 Figure 8.9. Viewshed of DjRi-2 N. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................260 Figure 8.10. Viewshed of DjRi-2S. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................261 Figure 8.11. Viewshed of DjRi-13. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................262  xx  Figure 8.12. Viewshed of DjRi-14. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................263 Figure 8.13. Viewshed of DjRi-46. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................264 Figure 8.14. Viewshed of DjRi-62. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................265 Figure 8.15. Viewshed of DjRi-3/5. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................269 Figure 8.16. Viewshed of DjRi-21. White cells represent the cells that can be seen by a viewer at the site. .................................................................................270 Figure 8.17. Combined map of the cumulative viewshed of all sites. White cells represent areas that can be seen by a viewer at one or more sites, resulting in the viewable area of the Canyon. .........................................272 Figure 8.18. Combined map of the cumulative viewshed of all rock features. White cells represent areas that can be seen by a viewer at one or more features, resulting in the viewable area. ...................................................274 Figure 8.19. Site viewshed (white cells) over rock feature viewshed   (black cells). ...................................................................................................275 Figure 8.20. Feature viewshed (white cells) over site viewshed (black cells). .....276 Figure 8.21. Kolmogorov-Smirnov one sample test results for distribution of site visibility. ........................................................................................................278 Figure 8.22. Kolmogorov-Smirnov one-sample test results for the distribution of rock feature visibility. ..................................................................................279 Figure 9.1. Spatial scales of identity among the Coast Salish. ................................293  xxi  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS As is the way with documents such as this, what can often feel like a solitary endeavour is, in fact, the result of the love, support, advice and contribution of many people throughout the years. First, I must acknowledge the members of the Yale First Nation, especially Beatrice Bonneau, Doug Hansen, and the amazing Larry Hope, for their support of my project, for providing resources, and for being great colleagues. Without Larry’s ability to find paths where there were none and his keen eyes, the other members of my field crew and I would have been up the Fraser River without a paddle. I also thank Chief Bob Hope and the other members who attended the community presentation for asking insightful questions and sharing your knowledge. An equal thanks goes to the members of the Shxw’ow’hamel First Nation Band Council, including Melody Andrew. I send special thanks to members of Stó:lō Research and Resource Management Centre, in particular Dave Schaepe, for laying the groundwork for this thesis, for being a generous colleague, and for having a wonderful sense of humour. Another special thank you to Naxaxalhts'i Albert (Sonny) McHalsie, for first showing me a rock feature, sharing stories of the land, and for taking me through the rapids at Lady Franklin Rock in a Zodiac on one of the best days I have ever had.  Archaeological field research is dependent on group labour, and in my case, volunteer labour. A big thank you to everyone who helped out in the field: Natasha Lyons, Angela Ruggles, Joey Chang, Jason Penner, Shawna Tait, Dominique Alexis, Jeff Martyn, Zach Nowak-Stopel, Jenny Lewis, Chris Springer, Tom Maertens, Dave Schaepe, Sonny McHalsie, Michael Blake, and Bruce Miller. For those who had the joy of camping in the Canyon, I am sure you still have nightmares of trains barrelling through the campsite. I appreciate your patience, good humour, and hard work. A special thank you goes out to Sue Formosa for sharing her great knowledge with me  xxii  over the years and teaching me pretty much everything I know about maps and the joys of multipath error.  I have been lucky enough to have a great committee – I always looked forward to committee meetings, because I could benefit from the diverse knowledge that each member brought to the table. Michael Blake always challenged me to think about the big picture and the data both and employed his prodigious skills of archaeological discovery to keep finding rock features, even long after I was done with fieldwork. His patience, good humour, and support are a large part of where I am today as an academic. David Pokotylo provided my introduction to Northwest Coast archaeology and to fieldwork when I was an undergraduate by teaching the Spirit Camp field school. This moment, when the idea of archaeology became practice, was transformative for me and set me on my current path of community-based, empirically grounded research. David’s unending support and enthusiasm throughout my career has been influential, as has his sense of humour and passion for both statistics and guitars. Andrew Martindale enabled me to experience one of the most beautiful and archaeologically exciting places on the Northwest Coast – the Dundas Islands. I will never forget that archaeological and social experience, nor the slug-juggling that ensued and the laughter that was shared. I have also benefited from Andrew’s remarkable grasp of archaeological and social theory, which culminated in a co-authored piece that was an excellent introduction to the world of academic publishing. Bruce Miller was the first person to treat me as a true colleague, sharing his enthusiasm and extensive knowledge with me over the years. His ability to challenge and encourage at the same time is a remarkable skill that I hope to emulate in my own teaching and mentoring.  Over the years, many of my teachers and colleagues have influenced my thinking and informed my research, including Kathy Shoop, Lisa Cooper, Julie Cruikshank, Gary Coupland, Heather Miller, Max Friesen, Gaston Gordillo, John Barker, and Dana Lepofsky. Many of those who shared the grad school experience with me also deserve thanks for late night study sessions, Anth 500 survival, and general  xxiii  support: Terry Clark, Trevor Orchard, Emily Wilkerson, Robin Anderson, Lisa Vermulen, Craig Smith, Sandra Youssef, Marie-Eve Carrier-Moisan, Chris Condin, and Marina LaSalle. And to my fellow Northwest Coast archaeologists with whom I have had many discussions and shared pints: Megan Caldwell, Rudy Reimer, Patrick Dolan, Bill Angelbeck, Adrian Sanders, Morgan Ritchie, Colin Grier, and Bryn Letham. Writing a thesis can be a particularly solitary process, but I was lucky enough to have colleagues who helped me weather the storm with much greater success and aplomb than I could have managed without out them. My writing group buddies – Kate Hennessey and David Geary – we made it! I thank them for their advice, editing skills, and general support on both the good days and the bad. Other people came and lent their voices to the writing group – including Robin O’Day and Karen Riedout – and I also appreciate their contributions. In the final months of my thesis, I had the great privilege of being an unofficial scholar-in-residence and member of the Lyons-Cameron clan in Vernon, B.C. My heartfelt thanks to Ian Cameron for his sense of humour, generous nature, and willingness to pay me to make maps for him, to Natasha Lyons for being a kindred spirit, dear friend, amazing colleague, and confidant, and to Hallie Lyons-Cameron for making me laugh and sharing many a dance with me. My time in Vernon was among the most challenging and amazing of my life.  Finally, everything I am and everything I have accomplished comes from my closest friends and family. Without them, I would be nothing, and this thesis is a result of the support and inspiration of those closest to me. I have been lucky in my friendships and I must acknowledge all the friends I have made and kept through the years, from my first day at UBC onwards: Edith Syzlagi, Vicki Huang, Amanda Roberts and Dan Enjo. Very special thanks to Sylvia Wong, for sharing Latin, silliness, and laughter through the years, and to Angela Ruggles, for being a friend, colleague and inspiration to live life to the fullest. Melissa Demmers, my oldest and dearest friend - thanks for growing up with me, through thick and thin, joy, sorrow and heartbreak. She is truly a sister to me. And my family - Bob Supernant, my father, was the impetus for  xxiv  my entire career, sharing his interest in ancient cultures and lost cities. I may have never started down this path without him. Jaya Supernant, my sister, has been my rock in a turbulent life, steady, loyal and a great friend, always there to finish my sentences, supply an appropriate Simpsons quote for every situation, and cheer loud and proud for the Vancouver Canucks. And my mother, Shanti Supernant, with whom I often feel I share the same soul. She is my best friend, the person whom I turn to when all hope seems lost, when I am far from home, and when I am at the end of my rope. She has provided unending guidance, support, and love throughout my entire life. I would not be here without her.   xxv   DEDICATION   For my mother, without whom I would not have finished, and for my father, without whom I would not have started.   1  1: INTRODUCTION  Transformations We all have had moments, whether unexpected or anticipated, that have transformed our lives, altered our course, and impacted the way in which we view the world. My life changed on a sunny day in early July, 2001, when I first encountered a unique form of archaeological feature in an area of southern British Columbia known as the Lower Fraser River Canyon. I was travelling through the area in the glamorous form of transportation known as a minivan, packed in with other members of my archaeological field school from the University of British Columbia. We were driving through the landscape, guided by members of the Stó:lō First Nation, a large organization of many local First Nations bands, and learning about a completely different perspective on the places we encountered than any of us had experienced before. A cultural historian from the Stó:lō Nation, Naxaxalhts'i (Sonny McHalsie), was telling us the names of many places throughout the Upper Fraser River Valley and Lower Fraser River Canyon in Halkomelem, a dialect of Coast Salish spoken throughout the area. These named places had associated stories, some from the time of myth, others from a time only just passed, but all imbued with important cultural lessons. I recall feeling a deep sense of privilege to be the recipient of such knowledge, and listened to the stories with rapt attention, sounding out the place names in my head. On our trip, a few kilometres upriver from the small town of Yale, 170 km east of Vancouver along the Trans-Canada Highway, we pulled off to the side of the road and all piled out of the van, grateful for a chance to stretch our legs. Following Naxaxalhts'i, we crossed the train tracks, traversed the remains of an old road, and manoeuvred our way through the dense underbrush, regretting wearing shorts even in the dry midsummer heat. After a short hike, we reached the edge of the turbid waters of the   2  Fraser River, one of the largest salmon rivers in the world with a drainage that spans a quarter of British Columbia. The Lower Fraser River Canyon is, in geological terms, aptly named. When we reached the river, we experienced the steep-sided Canyon, reverberating with the echo of the swift, treacherous waters below (Figure 1.1)   Figure 1.1. View of the Lower Fraser River Canyon from the rock wall visited in 2001. The waters of the Fraser, constrained by the sheer rock faces, rushed through the Canyon, tumbling over submerged rocks and creating dangerous currents. The extreme nature of the area had an immediate impact on me – here was a powerful place that seemed to convey to my eyes a sense of danger. Just upriver from our perch was a sheer cliff, behind which stood the remnants of an ancient village, and under our feet, we were informed, was another archaeological feature (Figure 1.2). After a bit of awkward shuffling, I turned and set my eyes on a 12 m long stacked rock wall. While clearly not as tall as it once would have been, the wall was impressive, constructed out of angular boulders, some of which are one metre or more in diameter (Figure 1.3). The regularity in stacking patterns and strategic placement of certain stones immediately indicated that this was not a natural occurrence, but a purposeful construction.    3   Figure 1.2. The author on the rock wall as described in the text, circa 2001.  Figure 1.3. Rock wall at site DjRi-46, first viewed by the author in 2001.   4  Little did I know then that this feature, along with many others throughout the Lower Fraser River Canyon, would become the focus of my doctoral research. At the time, I wanted to study the monumental architecture of early city-states in the Near East. Yet here in British Columbia was monumental stone architecture in a society without a reliance on domesticated foods. We were told at the time that these features had been found at several sites throughout the region and had recently been established as structures built by local Aboriginal peoples. While they had not yet been the focus of intensive research, elders and archaeologists interpreted these rock walls as fortifications, built to protect ancient villages from raiders. I recall being fascinated at the time, yet it took a few more years for me to realize that my archaeological path would not lead to Syria, but back to the Lower Fraser River Canyon. Why was I drawn back? While there are many reasons, one of the most central to my decision was the archaeological enigma that these rock features presented. In the Northwest Coast, the primary building material for housing, tools, clothing, and canoes was wood, the majority of which came from western redcedar (Thuja plicata). Building with stone, however, has largely been seen as restricted to intertidal features related to fishing, shellfish gathering, and other beach clearing activity (Caldwell et al. 2010; Menzies and Butler 2007). The rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon are markedly different in construction from these coastal formations. First, some rock features are built of large boulders with individual volumes up to 4 m3 and weights above 10 tonnes. On average, rocks used in these features range from 0.5 to 1 m in diameter and generally are found breaking off from local bedrock outcrops. Most are angular with flat edges that are used strategically to enhance stability of features. The masonry ranges from loosely stacked to tightly stacked, with extensive use of chinking – the use of small rocks to fill in gaps that might negatively impact the overall stability of the features. In addition, most of the rock features are terraces, built to create stable, level areas in an otherwise very steep landscape. Terraces, however, are by no means the only type of rock feature. They can range from 300 m2 terraces 50 m above mean   5  river level to small, semi-circular stone enclosures, less than 2 m2, subject to yearly inundation by seasonal changes in the river level. Some consist of hundreds of rocks, while one feature is constructed from only nine large boulders and a few small rocks used as chinks. Some have extensive views, placed at locations where large portions of the rest of the Canyon are visible, while others have no view of the river at all.  When the rock features were first encountered by archaeologists, they were a puzzle, a feature type without clear precedent in this area of the world. Some were summarily dismissed as being the result of post-contact mining or railway activity, while others were interpreted as likely natural formations (Kidd 1968). Nevertheless, some researchers were interested in their connection to Aboriginal communities as early as the 1960s (Melhuish 1970). Even with the early interest, no systematic archaeological research was performed on these features until the 1990s, when Dave Schaepe and Sonny McHalsie (Naxaxalhts'i ) of the Stó:lō Research and Resource Management Centre1When I first decided to extend their study by further examining the range, extent, use, and meanings of the rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, I had previously worked only with members of the Stó:lō Nation and Stó:lō Tribal Council. As I looked into the necessary permissions to undertake my research, however, I discovered some potential barriers. Belatedly, I discovered that the Lower Fraser River Canyon was and is a site of contestation where ownership and access, largely to fishing locations, has been disputed between members of the Stó:lō Nation/Stó:lō Tribal Council began to investigate these features in greater detail. Based on their preliminary investigations, the features were interpreted as fortifications, forming a network of defense and providing evidence for inter-village governance in the Lower Fraser River Canyon (Schaepe 2000, 2001b, 2006) 2                                                 1  and the Yale First Nation for several decades. When, as an undergraduate http://www.srrmcentre.com/  2 Stó:lō Nation: http://www.stolonation.bc.ca/. Stó:lō Tribal Council: http://www.stolotribalcouncil.ca/   6  student, I was taken on the place name tour, I did not realize that moving through the landscape, naming places and telling stories, was an inherently political act (Keith and Pile 1993), involving the inscription of meaning, history and identity on these places through generations of oral knowledge. I was not aware of the contested nature of some of these places when I first visited them; instead, I became enthralled with the opportunity that such knowledge provided for working in collaboration with local communities to integrate multiple voices and different knowledge systems into a richer understanding of the past. As will be evident throughout this thesis, it did not work out quite the way I had anticipated. The nature of disputes between communities over this central landscape, defined in relation to structures of the colonial government (both of British Columbia and Canada), changed my research in important ways. While the basis of the research in this thesis revolves around the archaeological study of rock features, contemporary politics in the Canyon have come to inform my thinking and impact the very structure of my research. In the history of anthropological research among the Coast Salish, some indigenous communities have prioritized research and developed close relationships with scholars, while others have been indifferent or actively resistant to colonial research practices.3                                                 3 A number of variables influence whether or not a First Nations band or Native American tribe has a collaborative relationship with anthropologists, including litigation. At times, “anthropologists have assumed the role of ‘speaking for’ the Coast Salish”( This has led to particular histories being recorded and reproduced, often lending the most widely published accounts of traditional practices and stories a greater authority than other voices and perspectives that have not been recorded in the literature. The focus of my research and analysis in this thesis is on archaeological data, so other necessary background information is drawn from what has been published within academic and popular literature. There are multiple stories and histories about the Lower Fraser River Canyon, not all of which can be presented here for many Boxberger 2007:77), although many Coast Salish communities now use collaborative research relationships to speak for themselves.   7  reasons, including contemporary politics. I focus, therefore, on the results of my archaeological research and what the physical remains of past cultural activity can illuminate about this historically and culturally important place. Setting the Stage: The Cultural Context of the Lower Fraser River Canyon  Located approximately 170 km upriver from the mouth of the Fraser River at the Pacific Ocean at Vancouver, the Lower Fraser River Canyon4                                                 4 Throughout the thesis, I use the term “the Canyon” and the “Lower Fraser River Canyon” interchangeably to refer to the portion of the Fraser River drainage indicated in  is usually considered part of the broader Coast Salish world (Carlson 2001c, 2007; Miller 2007; Mitchell 1971; Suttles 1987). The Coast Salish world consists of communities that speak variations of Coast Salish languages in the Strait of Georgia, Puget Sound, Strait of Juan de Fuca and river valleys in south-western British Columbia and Washington (Figure 1.4). Beyond linguistic similarity, people living in this region are connected via far-reaching kin networks, since Coast Salish people have “long constructed and maintained complex personal social identities that connect them to a variety of other groups” (Harmon 2007:17). Home to an abundance of natural resources, ranging from the ocean to the high alpine, the Coast Salish world was one of affiliation based on a number of different factors without centralized political leadership, but with at least two clear class differences, free people and slaves, along with ownership of productive resource locations (Carlson 2003; Harmon 2007; Schaepe 2009; Suttles 1960). Key resources included anadromous fish, particularly salmon (Oncorhynchus sp.), intertidal resources, and cultivated plant foods such as the starchy root of wapato (Sagittaria latifolia) (Suttles 1960; Turner 1995). Waterways connect much of the territory of Coast Salish peoples and travel time in the past was measured by the number of days it took to traverse the local rivers, seas and sloughs in canoes (Ames 2002; Duff 1952; Schaepe 2009). Figure 1.4. and Figure 1.5.   8   Figure 1.4. The Coast Salish world adapted from Angelbeck (2009). Permanent winter villages were established, supplemented by seasonal movement to productive resource locations to acquire food to last throughout the   9  winter. Villages consisted of household groups living in communal plank houses in coastal areas, supplemented by semi-subterranean pit houses as the winter weather became more extreme inland (Suttles 1990). With a reliance on salmon as a primary food resource, catching, processing and preserving these fish to last through the winter was an important part of the yearly cycle. According to cultural historians, ethnohistorians, and ethnographers, the Lower Fraser River Canyon was the best place in the Coast Salish world to acquire the necessary salmon stocks and “was arguably the most valuable Aboriginal real estate on the Northwest Coast” (Carlson 2007:147). The steep-sided Canyon created a narrow passage for the river, providing limited room for millions of salmon to manoeuvre on their journey from the ocean to their spawning grounds. This funnel effect led to a high density of fish moving through the Canyon that, in the past, could be caught efficiently using a dip net -- a net with a long handle and a woven scoop attached to hoop at the end of this handle that could be closed to trap fish. The net would be dipped into the Fraser River at strategic points or eddies and salmon caught by the hundreds in a short period of time (Carlson 2007:147). Once taken from the river, salmon were filleted and hung up on wooden structures, known as drying racks, along the edges of the river bank. In the Canyon, smoking was not needed to preserve the salmon, as the summer months brought a consistent dry warm wind from the southwest, followed by a dry night-time wind from the northeast. The daytime sun heated the surfaces of the rocks that form the Canyon, and as night fell, this heat radiated into the atmosphere, helping to dry the salmon (Carlson 2001c:26-27). Salmon also lose fat as they travel upriver, but when fish are too fatty, they take longer to preserve and are more likely to spoil or grow mould. The amount of fat burned by the salmon between the ocean and the entrance to the Canyon is perfect for the wind-drying method. All of these factors contributed to a social pattern of movement whereby thousands of people from all over Coast Salish territory would converge on the Lower   10  Fraser River Canyon for the months of July and August (MacLachlan 1998). Fishing sites, along with other productive resource locations, were owned by extended families related through descent, and rights would be passed on, usually from father to son, in public displays such as potlatches (Carlson 2007; Thom 2009). Families, tied together through bilateral kinship, formed corporate groups, the foundational unit of production (Croes 2010). These stretched across village boundaries and provided linkages between settlements (Schaepe 2009:24). People would invoke affiliations to these groups to gain access to highly productive and valuable fishing locations along the river. If communities could not show connection to a family group that owned one of the fishing rocks in the Canyon, they could bring food or other types of items to trade for rights to some salmon (Duff 1952). While access was regulated by heads of families, the general cultural ethos was toward sharing (Suttles 1960). This does not mean that disputes over access did not occur; rather, status was gained by directing food production and ensuring that all members of the extended family had enough food (Suttles 1960:300). The Fort Langley Journals, complied by daily entries of the Chief Factors of Fort Langley on the Fraser River from 1827-1830, frequently note the seasonal movement, for example: “August 12, 1828: About 100 canoes of different tribes went up with their families”(Chief Factor MacMillan in MacLachlan 1998:71). Once they had acquired the fish needed for the winter, these families would pack up their canoes and head back to their winter villages: “September 22, 1828 - 345 canoes of Cowitchens already passed down” (Chief Factor MacMillan in MacLachlan 1998:75). If these canoes are assumed to have been the all-purpose canoes built by Coast Salish peoples, they had a capacity of about 10 people per canoe (Duff 1952:52). A conservative estimate based on this account after potentially 70-90 percent of the population had died of smallpox in the first wave of the disease in 1782 (Harris 1994) indicates more than three thousand individuals may have returned from the Lower Fraser River Canyon on one day in September 1828. This seasonal aggregation of large numbers of people on a highly desirable landscape   11  ensured that the region was a nexus of social interaction, both cooperative and competitive. Along with visitors, people lived in the Canyon in permanent settlements, creating one of the highest densities of settlement along the Fraser River (Schaepe 2006, 2009).  When thousands of people aggregate in an area where others live year round, adjustments have to be made, both socially and physically, to accommodate them. What, if anything, did rock features have to do with the social and economic activity in the Lower Fraser River Canyon? This thesis is, in part, an attempt to address this question. The rock features may have been built to enforce the importance of this place by marking locations along the river that belonged to families. Access to valuable locations along the river may have been in constant negotiation, so a durable structure that could emphasise who belonged in the Canyon may have been a useful tool when disputes arose. The centrality of this region in the Coast Salish world is supported by the presence of a large winter village adjacent to Lady Franklin Rock, where the river is first constricted. The combination of pit houses, plank houses, rock features, burial mounds, and defensive structures as DjRi-14 (Xelhálh in Halkomelem) indicates it was an important site for regulating access to the Canyon. In my dissertation, I explore whether these rock walls were built as a response to the diverse nature of interaction that took place in the Canyon. With the probable absence of a centralized political structure, how did groups who aggregate seasonally for resources exert claim or control over highly desirable locations of resource acquisition? The rock features may be the result of efforts to build a material presence that emphasised belonging and may have worked to protect these communities against attack. I want to know if the array of stone walls, platforms and other features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon served as markers of identity that helped these fluid social groupings assert ownership and negotiate control over prime fishing and fish drying locations.    12  Inscribing Identity and Defending the Landscape  My exploration of the rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon is informed by three central concepts – landscapes, identity, and defensibility. The first two concepts have clear theoretical connotations, while the idea of defensibility, while often evoked by archaeologists talking about warfare, settlement patterns, and feature types, is rarely theorized and evaluated. Although I detail my theoretical and methodological approach in the next chapter, I outline these ideas here to anchor the thesis. Landscapes The Lower Fraser River Canyon is a landscape that has been observed through many lenses over the past decades and centuries. Impacts on the landscape range from mythic beings, to the movement of rivers of ice and water that carved the very land, to the lives of people who have lived on this river and modified the surrounding land for their own purposes. The arrival of disease, followed by explorers and colonizers, disturbance of the land to extract gold, and the destructive force of the railway and highway had transformative effects. Now, it is a focal point in the fight to reclaim Aboriginal rights and title (Carlson 2007). In this thesis, therefore, I use ‘landscape’ as a framework for exploring how space has been transformed into places through time. Landscape studies in archaeology have seen a major increase over the past 20 years, with research projects increasingly employing this scale of analysis to understand past human behaviours, experiences, and ways of life (Anschuetz et al. 2001; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Barrett 1999; Bender 1992, 1999; Cosgrove 1984; Darvill 1999, 2009; Edmonds 1999; Feinman 1999; Gosden and Head 1994; Head 1993; Ingold 1993; Johansen 2008; Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Llobera 2001, 2007; Lock 2001; Maschner 1996; Nicholas 2006; Norton 1989; Smith 2003; Stoffle et al. 1997; Thomas 1993, 2001; Tilley 1994; Wagstaff 1987). Built rock features constitute a form of data that can be made sense of from a landscape perspective, where relationships between sites are   13  highlighted. I hypothesize that the rock features, as a durable form of landscape modification, point to the process whereby meaning and identities are inscribed in visible ways. Identity My approach to identity draws on agency theory, considering the dialectic between agent and structure as foundational to the human experience. Identities, in this conception, “must be construed as projects, sometimes grounded, other times contingent, but always ongoing” (Meskell 2003:293). Formed by both individual and collective action, identities are evoked and enforced when necessary, and archaeologists are applying this concept to understanding the past with increasing vigour (Barrett 2001; Bernardini 2005; Cannon 1998; Coole 2004, 2005; Dobres 2000; Dobres and Hoffman 1994; Dobres and Robb 2000, 2005; Dornan 2002; Fisher and Loren 2003; Franklin and Fesler 1999; Gardner 2004; Hall 1991; Hodder 2000; Jones 1997; Joyce and Lopiparo 2005; Kockelman 2007; Meskell 2001, 2003; Owoc 2005; Pauketat and Alt 2005; Schortman and Nakamura 1991; Silliman 2001; Smith 2001; Yoffee 2007). When the process of identity-making is accelerated, such as in times where groups are threatened or challenged, change can occur in how those identities are marked. For example, while family or kin relationships always inform an individual’s identity, that particular identity comes to the fore when others challenge an individual’s lineage membership, or a lineage’s rights to the land, resources, or social status that they claim. In scenarios such as these, what may have been implicit before comes to the surface and an identity is asserted. The evocation of an identity may resolve the challenge, but in certain situations, the very means of claiming that identity may need to become more overt to deflect any future disputes. When this occurs, the action of a group of people to assert an identity can influence the very structure of that culture and alter the means by which identities are marked. I argue in this thesis that the rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon may be a result of needing to assert belonging, considering the intense   14  nature of seasonal aggregation, the high value of fishing locations, and the forms of ownership that existed on this landscape. Building a rock feature may have been an act of explicitly marking the landscape in resilient and lasting ways, and defending that location against both physical and symbolic attack. Defensibility  Many Northwest Coast archaeologists who have studied conflict discuss the role of defensive sites in protecting communities from attack (Angelbeck 2009; Martindale and Supernant 2009; Maschner 1996; Maschner and Reedy-Maschner 1998; Moss and Erlandson 1992; Schaepe 2006). Common criteria for assessing defensibility rely on qualities of site location and enhancement, so sites on difficult-to-reach landforms with clear views and with architecture that restricts access are considered defensive, while those on flat plains with limited views and no restrictive architecture are not. Rarely are these criteria measured in a systematic way to evaluate how well these defensive sites protect those communities. With this in mind, Martindale and I developed an index of defensibility to create a comparative measure that quantifies landscape and architectural attributes (Martindale and Supernant 2009). I use this to test whether the rock features are defensive fortifications, as argued by Schaepe (2006). Defensibility, however, extends beyond the mere functional question of whether or not a wall or other such structure improves chances of surviving an attack. It also connects with identity, in that the perception of defensibility is often equated with strength and may be just as important in protecting a community as the defensive structure itself. (Johnson 2002)It also connects with landscape, which can have distinctive defensive qualities that are exploited and manipulated by people. Part of my argument in this thesis, therefore, is that we need to reconsider the concept of defensibility and look beyond practical issues of fortification and access, to conceive of the entire landscape as a defensive place.   15  Research Questions The Fraser Canyon rock features are a relatively new aspect of the archaeological record on the Northwest Coast and, unlike other archaeological features such as houses, do not have methods established for their study. Designing a research project around these features, therefore, starts from the ground up, given that quantitative data about their size, shape, and variation has only been collected on a small percentage of the rock features (Schaepe 2006). In this section, I outline my five research questions, moving from the specifics of the individual rock features to broader anthropological questions about meaning, landscapes and defensibility. What types of features are there? How do they relate to one another? What is their patterning on the landscape?  When I began my research, the full nature and extent of rock features present in the Canyon was unknown. Schaepe’s (2006) research provided an important first step in describing several types of rock constructions and proposing hypotheses as to their use, but at the time of his initial fieldwork, he did not have the opportunity to conduct a systematic survey of the area. The number of features, their spatial location, and their overall distribution, therefore, are central questions in this thesis. As far as we know, these features are limited to a seven kilometre stretch of the Fraser River, from Lady Franklin Rock north (upriver) to Sawmill Creek (Figure 1.5). I have limited my area of study to the extent of known features. Within this area, I conducted a ground survey to establish how many features there are and where they are located. Approximately 20 were known prior to the survey – I revisited most of these and identified others, resulting in a total of 82 identified rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon.   16   Figure 1.5. The Lower Fraser River Canyon.   17  In this thesis, I discuss in detail the physical attributes of a sample of these features and explore what these attributes indicate about the features. In addition, I used mapping technology to create detailed three-dimensional maps of sites where rock features cluster, adding these data to GIS that can be used to query the spatial relationships of sites and rock features. How rock features relate spatially to one another and the terrain in which they are found is important in reconstructing the cultural landscape. I look at the larger landscape on which these features are located to understand the relationship between sites. Finally, I conduct spatial analyses of three-dimensional site maps along with detailed information on dimensions, locations, and structures of the rock walls in order to answer the following questions. What were they built for? What were they used for? The rock likely performed specific functions – some were terraces that provided level ground in steep, rocky terrain, while others seem to be built for defense or as fishing platforms. Whether built for terracing, fishing, defense or some other reason, the use of rock features in the everyday lives of people living in this landscape is important to establish. Archaeological data from the features themselves, as well as associated materials, point to a variety of potential uses that may be correlated with historically and ethnographically known activities on the landscape. As durable forms of architecture that existed for centuries, these features may have been appropriated for various purposes over time. This illustrates a potential disjuncture from the purposeful action of a community to build a terrace on which to place a structure, and a later use, possibly several generations down the line, of this same feature as a base for a defensive wall. Additionally, rock features may potentially fall out of everyday use, but remain poignant on the landscape as monuments or markers of belonging. I explore various uses and consider the inextricable relationship between functional and symbolic elements of the rock features.   18  How were they built? How long did it take? How many people did it involve?  One key question about these rock wall features is how much labour was actually involved in their construction? Researchers have assumed that the construction of large scale architecture implies a great deal of labour and a social structure that could allow that labour to be organized (Ames 2001; Arnold 1993). No estimates about the type of labour, length of time, and amount of co-ordinated group activity, however, have yet been attempted for the Fraser Canyon rock features. My research addresses this issue by querying which features could have been built and maintained by a small group, and which ones required a larger scale effort to construct. I draw on Kolb’s (1997) correlation of different sizes of rock structures in Hawaii to different forms of labour, and apply a similar idea to the building of rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. I evaluate whether they were constructed in the same way or if they show variation in construction and arrangement, including rebuilding, maintenance and modification. Variations in the rock features point to several different methods of construction that relate to use, stability, and appearance of these structures.  When were they built? Was there more than one building event? A central question in most archaeological research is chronology, so establishing when these features were built is an important part of my endeavour. Were the rock features were all built at the same time or built over generations, centuries, or millennia? Each of these time scales can point to different uses or purposes through time. In addition to when they were built, I attempt to establish whether they were all used at the same time. One interpretation is that these rock features form a network of communication throughout the Lower Fraser River Canyon, where each feature was visible from other ones, allowing for signalling from one to another (Schaepe 2006). If this is plausible, I need to establish contemporaneity in their use. Schaepe (2006) has hypothesized that they were constructed as part of a late period shift in settlement, but evidence suggests that rock features might date back to 8150 BP (Mitchell and Pokotylo   19  1996). Dating these features is difficult because the features are almost always made completely out of stone and contain little organic material, such as charcoal or bone, for conventional dating methods. I discuss my attempts at dating in Chapter 4. Were these features defensive? What was the role of conflict in this area and how may it have affected the building of these features? The rock features have been interpreted as defensive features, built to protect villages from raiders. One challenge I faced was how to evaluate whether such features work at a physical level to provide adequate protection in the event of an attack. I applied the Defensive Index mentioned above (described in Chapter 8), to locations with rock features, as well as to “control areas” where rock features are absent, in order to quantify defensibility and evaluate the characteristics of defended sites. I also examined individual feature attributes to see if their structure points to a primary use as defensive features, based on criteria described in Chapter 6. If rock features proved to be defensive in the sense that they work to protect the community from attack, it was possible that they were built for this purpose. Conversely, if they were not defensive in a functional sense, they may have been built for another purpose. Even if they were not structurally built to physically protect members of these villages, they may have had a symbolic impact on the perception of the landscape by peaceful and aggressive visitors.  A Journey through the Landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon  In Chapter 2, I outline the foundation of my theoretical and methodological approach to the analysis of rock features as the result of purposeful landscape modification by ancient peoples that influenced the structure of society. I begin by illustrating why combining a landscape approach with agency theory is a provocative means to examine the impact that building practice has on social relationships. Next, I explore the intellectual foundations of the term “cultural landscape” in order to be explicit about my application of this often ambiguous term to the rock features of the   20  Lower Fraser River Canyon. Delving into the intellectual history of this set of ideas also makes apparent some of the underlying biases of the landscape concept and how it is currently used in archaeology (Bender 1993a). I take a similar approach to another term that has recently become part of the archaeological lexicon – agency. Returning to some of the foundational theorists, including Pierre Bourdieu (1977) and Anthony Giddens (1984), I discuss practice and structuration before outlining the advantages and pitfalls of studying agency in the past. One of the key elements of agency theory is the dialectic between action, agent and social structure, wherein the actions of individuals, such as building a rock wall, either enforces or transforms broader social institutions, perceptions, and identities. I then integrate landscapes and agents in a critical methodology that I apply to my analysis of rock features. Having outlined my theoretical and methodological approach, I describe, in Chapter 3, the various elements of the landscape that constitute the Lower Fraser River Canyon. I explore physical attributes, the history of the Canyon as constructed by archaeology, ethnographic reconstructions of culture, and the colonial encounter. By bringing together these different ways of viewing the landscape, I argue that we cannot understand the unusual archaeological features without all these other facets. I situate the reader in the complex, multi-dimensional nature of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, emphasising its centrality not only for local Aboriginal communities in the past and present, but also for the founding of British Columbia. I use landscape as a guiding theme in my discussion of the Canyon because it emphasises that no singular element defines this place – it is the inherent relationship between land, culture, history, and the process of assigning meaning that defines the Canyon and its associated rock features. After situating the reader in the Canyon, I discuss methods to study the rock features. Given their uniqueness, there are no widely applied forms of analysis for rock structures. Due to this lack of developed methods, I devised a system for measuring, recording and mapping the various rock constructions. In Chapter 4, I outline my   21  decision-making process and discuss the factors that ultimately impacted my choices about which features to study. I describe my sampling strategy, the attributes measured, and the mapping procedure. A sub-theme of this chapter is a reflexive consideration of the political context in which I undertook this research, where I describe some of the unexpected barriers I faced while trying to complete my work and the limitations that were subsequently imposed on the project’s scope. Many of these encounters led to my interests in the intersection between history, the process of creating community identities, and contemporary political struggles for recognition. In Chapter 5, I describe each individual rock feature in my sample and the sites where they cluster. As a new form of archaeological material that is not well known, I use graphics and photos to introduce the reader to the structure of the rock features, what they look like, and where they are situated on the ground. I discuss their relationship to one another in general terms and point out which ones are associated with known ancient village locations. The descriptive elements of this chapter form the basis for my subsequent analysis of attributes of the rock features in the following three chapters.  Chapter 6 presents Exploratory Data Analysis (EDA) to examine the rock feature attributes outlined in Chapter 4. This approach is useful to uncover patterns and anomalies in the level, shape and spread within the archaeological dataset. I use EDA to illuminate patterns in the variables such as length, area, volume, number of rocks, types of stacking, etc., by presenting summaries of each attribute, noting the frequency of discrete data and distribution of continuous data. In this chapter, I also discuss areas where the data do not fit expectations and are anomalous, indicating that the patterns need explanation. In Chapter 7, I address three central questions: what types of rock features are found in the Canyon, how much labour organization was required to build them, and their primary uses. I propose several means of grouping the rock feature data to answer   22  these questions and evaluate whether these categories explain some of the irregularity seen when exploring the data. I develop a typology to classify features into terraces or non-terraces, setting up certain patterns that are expected. I examine the dataset to see if these patterns are present, testing correlations for significance where possible. For labour investment, I divide the sample into size classes of small, medium, and large features and evaluate whether expected patterns are present. In addition, I explore whether size categories can be correlated with the labour investment of different social groups. Finally, I hypothesize three different categories of rock feature use, developed from ethnographic correlates of activities that would have taken place in the Canyon: fishing, defense, and living platforms. Some features do not fall into any of these proposed uses, based on an analysis of relevant attributes, so I investigate the potential meanings of these unclassified features, arguing that they may have served a symbolic role in marking territory and ownership. While Chapter 7 was concerned with the individual attributes of each rock feature, I zoom out in Chapter 8 to consider both rock feature sites and the overall landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon. I discuss the benefits and challenges of GIS analysis in understanding spatial patterns of past cultures, arguing that we need to connect abstract models of space to other forms of data. The Defensive Index is used to quantify commonly evoked archaeological criteria for defensibility. I measure the index for sites mapped in the project, including one site that has no intact cultural rock features. The site without rock features is a control sample, designed to test whether the index values capture both landscape characteristics and built enhancements. I discuss the results of the defensibility analysis for each site, noting what this means for the defensiveness of the Lower Fraser River Canyon. The second half of the chapter applies cumulative viewshed analysis to rock features and archaeological sites in the region. I test the hypothesis that villages sites, represented by locations where rock features cluster, were connected by line-of-sight (Schaepe 2006) and compare the overall visibility of villages sites and individual rock features. I then discuss the results of the   23  spatial analysis in light of questions of community, identity, and defensibility on the landscape. In Chapter 9, I explore the broader cultural and theoretical context of the rock feature analysis by relating the rock feature complex to other forms of the built environment of Coast Salish peoples, including plank houses, burial cairns/mounds, and defensive sites. I argue that the rock features, while different in form than some of the other types of buildings in the area, are part of the process of marking the landscape in meaningful ways. In addition, I connect the practice of building back to the critical methodology by evaluating whether these rock features can be considered the actions of agents in society that had a lasting impact on how identities were formed, contested, and marked.  I bring everything together in Chapter 10, and revisit the research questions outlined above to explore what the research has contributed to each, and consider the value of the theoretical approach. I discuss overall archaeological implications of the results of my research and how the rock features fit into what we already know about the Canyon. This leads me to consider how these important rock feature sites are implicated in the process of identity-making, both in the past and the present. In particular, I reflect on how some contemporary disputes over rights to fishing locations and resources of the Canyon, while different in mechanism and motivation, are focused on the very sites where durable remnants of the past remain prominent on the landscape. I conclude by outlining the next steps in research on the rock features, because after spending time on the ground, I realize we are only beginning to scratch the surface of these remarkable features.   24  2: LANDSCAPES AND AGENTS A Critical Methodology The rock features located in the Lower Fraser River Canyon provide an opportunity to query how cultural identities may shift when communities engage in large-scale landscape transformations. On the Northwest Coast, archaeological rock features such as those described here are rarely recorded and do not have a clear precedent. Other archaeological features, most notably the remains of plank and pit houses, have been directly correlated with the living activities of communities and have been the focus for studies of social structure, economy, and status differentiation (Ames et al. 1992; Coupland 1988; Grier 2001; Matson and Coupland 1995; Schaepe 2009). Models exist to understand how households fit into the day-to-day lives of ancient peoples. This is not the case for the rock features – to date, the only interpretation of these features, based on preliminary research, is that they are rock fortifications (Schaepe 2006). Given their newness in the study of Northwest Coast archaeology, I searched for a method to understand these features within the broader realm of archaeological theory. This led me to theories about the cultural landscape that have been primarily developed about monumental earthworks and stone alignments in the British Isles. As I explored the use of cultural landscapes in archaeology, I came to two conclusions – first, the use of landscape is often ambiguous, since few authors explicitly define the concept when they apply it (for exceptions, see Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Bender 1993a; Hirsch 1995). Second, the relationship between the physical modification of the landscape and changes in social structure, as impacted by the actions of agents, is rarely addressed.    25  In this chapter, I outline my theoretical approach to understanding built rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon by delving into a genealogy of the landscape concept. I do this to be explicit about the historical and theoretical underpinnings of what can otherwise be seen as a generalising tool, and to outline my approach to this commonly used yet sometimes confusing term. I then outline how I incorporate the dialectic between agent and structure into my analysis of landscapes by discussing the work of Bourdieu (1977) and Giddens (1984), focusing on how their social theories have been employed in archaeology. The questions I ask about past cultural landscapes are designed to address how agents and structure, engaged in the process of structuration, contributed to the constitution of those societies and the landscape that they created through action. Building durable rock features is an example of how people living in the Lower Fraser River Canyon landscape either enforced or transformed structure. I argue that a fruitful method of exploring the material patterns we see archaeologically at the scale of the landscape is to consider them as expressions of the dialectic between agents and structure.  One of the recent criticisms of applications of agency theory in archaeology is that we do so without any consideration of methodology, or “the chosen set of tools, scale of analysis and way of thinking about the data” (Dobres and Robb 2005:160). This is an important criticism, as methodology is a way of bridging the gap between theory and practice in archaeology. However, as Johnson (2006:123) notes, agency theory and archaeological methods are often incompatible. I argue that one area where there might be some compatibility is in combining agency theory with studies of cultural landscapes, an area that has greater methodological development in archaeology. Dobres and Robb (2005) also caution against attempting to fit agency into linear models of reasoning, defined as theory method (methodology) + data = interpretation/explanation. After reviewing the foundations of both landscapes and agency in archaeology, I describe why these ideas are an appropriate theoretical stance for the study of the rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon.   26  Landscapes Landscapes have diverse uses in archaeology and draw upon scholarship in a variety of fields. Here, I outline some of the genealogical history of ‘cultural landscape’ to situate my research on built rock features and argue for the critical application of this concept in archaeology. The landscape concept has a long history in archaeology as part of the way researchers analyze the relationship between sites on the physical landscape, but “it has only been in the past decade or so that landscape has emerged as an object of theoretical reflection within the discipline” (Thomas 2001:165). Archaeology has only recently adopted the concept of a cultural landscape from geography and applied it to studies of past societies, leading some to claim that landscape archaeology is still in its infancy (Fisher and Thurston 1999). The study of landscapes in archaeology traces its roots back to early settlement pattern analysis, because “as long as archaeologists have studied the human past, they have been interested in space, and, consequently, in landscapes” (Knapp and Ashmore 1999:1). Early attempts to define groups in the past involved an explicitly spatial component; for example, “culture area” implies a geographic boundary. Landscape archaeology developed with a strong British focus, which treated prehistoric landscapes as the sum of human construction and environmental contexts (Barrett 1999). The application of concepts of landscape in archaeology has shifted in the past few decades, and has increasingly relied upon cultural geography, anthropology and philosophy to help define the study of past landscapes from a cultural perspective (Bender 1993a; Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994). The diversity of approaches to landscapes in archaeology today is a product of its complex genealogical intellectual history. There are two recognized sources for the origin of the word ‘landscape’ in English, representing aspects of either the physical land (Landschaft) or a sense of perspective in painting (Landschap). The first term is German and was adopted in England during the Middle Ages to refer either to an area inhabited by a group of   27  people or to the land controlled by a lord, and simply represents the concept of “area” or “region” without any aesthetic or visual connotations (Cosgrove 1985). The usage of landscape to refer to property had nearly disappeared in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century when landschap, from Dutch, entered the English language, primarily through landscape painters (Hirsch 1995). Landschap and Landschaft were combined, and ‘landscape’ came “to refer to the appearance of an area, more particularly to the representation of scenery” (Duncan 2000:429).  Divergent Disciplines, Divergent Landscapes The term “cultural landscape” traces its roots to the intellectual framework of the burgeoning social sciences, specifically geography, at the turn of the nineteenth century. Carl Sauer, who was the first to employ cultural landscape as a category of analysis in English, wrote his seminal work in response to a debate between two major schools of thought – the first was the school of Anthropogeographie headed by Friedrich Ratzel in Germany, which gave the environment a primary role in shaping human experience, and the second was the geography that was developing in France under Paul Vidal de la Blache (Aplin 2007; Norton 1989). Buttimer (1971) notes that the Durkheim school of sociology developed at this time and influenced the debate, since Ratzel considered society from a biological standpoint and Durkheim considered society in terms of collective consciousness. Ratzel and his colleagues were interested in the ecological relationships between humans and their physical environment, a point of view that was not shared by French geographers who forcibly rejected environmental determinism (Aplin 2007; Norton 1989). Sauer, an American geographer, argued that the true realm of geographers was the cultural landscape, although he recognized the natural environment as a significant force in human culture (Cosgrove 2000b). His monograph, The Morphology of the Landscape, formed the basis for cultural landscape as an area of study within geography in North America.   28  Sauer sought to define the “nature of geography” (Sauer and Leighly 1963:313). He argued the three primary fields of inquiry in geography should be the study of the physical environment, the study of humans as subject to the physical environment, and the study of habitats of the earth (Sauer and Leighly 1963:316). He defined landscape as “a land shape, in which the process of shaping is by no means thought of as simply physical…it may be defined, therefore, as an area made up of a distinct association of forms, both physical and cultural” (Sauer and Leighly 1963:321, emphasis mine). Sauer’s explicit recognition of both the human and the natural aspect of the landscape was a major leap that was made in a dynamic intellectual context. In his presentation of the landscape as a land shape, Sauer connected the idea to its etymological roots as a way of viewing (Cosgrove 1985), although he distinguished between the landscape as “an actual scene viewed by an observer” and the broader idea of a general geographical landscape (Sauer and Leighly 1963:322). The natural landscape, according to Sauer, can be considered as the physical earth before it is touched by human action, and is to be known by the “totality of its forms,” including topography and climate (Sauer and Leighly 1963:337), as represented in Figure 2.1.  Figure 2.1. Natural landscape (after Sauer and Leighly 1963:337). The cultural landscape, on the other hand, is the transformation of the natural landscape by humans – since man “by his cultures… makes use of the natural forms, in many cases alters them, in some destroys them” (Sauer and Leighly 1963:341). The   29  cultural landscape must also be understood through its physical manifestations (Figure 2.2).  Figure 2.2. Cultural landscape (after Sauer and Leighly 1963:341). The natural landscape, therefore, was the medium for cultural factors to create cultural forms, and “supplies the materials out of which the cultural landscape is formed” (Sauer and Leighly 1963:343). One of the important features of Sauer’s presentation of the cultural landscape as the object of study for geography is his implicit assumption that a physical, natural landscape existed as a tablua rasa and that cultural landscape was where “culture” was imposed upon “nature” (Cosgrove 2000b). He emphasises that the visible forms of the landscape as modified by humans should be the objects of geographical study. These aspects of his paradigm came under fire during the ‘new geography” of the 1960s and the 1970s as well as during the post-modern critique of the 1980s and 1990s. Regardless of later challenges, The Morphology of the Landscape remains a brilliant synthesis of a number of ideas about culture, landscape, and geography that were developing at the time on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Archaeology developed through an increasing interest in biological and cultural origins of humankind in the second half of the twentieth century, along with the recognition of a deep antiquity of humankind (Trigger 1989). Ideas of diffusion and migration in culture change developed out of geography in Germany and were brought over to North America through the works of Franz Boas (Trigger 1989), who trained as   30  a physical geographer under Ratzel and turned to anthropology later in his career. Archaeologists in Britain in the early twentieth century worked jointly with geographers to develop distribution maps, whereby archaeological remains could be located in relation to geographic features (Anschuetz et al. 2001; Crawford 1922). These distribution maps worked within the prevailing ideas of environmental determinism and allowed early archaeologists to examine culture change in relation to environmental changes. As this technique became more sophisticated, archaeologists began to use geographical patterning of archaeological remains to understand concepts of ethnicity (Trigger 1989). It was during this period that archaeologists began to focus their analysis on defined areas, following the work of Pitt Rivers in England (Thomas 2001). Geographical interests on the part of archaeologists were also evident in North America, where fascination with the mounds of the southeastern United States was foundational to the development of systematic archaeological practices. As greater concern for chronology and culture history rose in the early twentieth century, the geographic distribution remained central, when migration and diffusion were the two primary means for understanding both change through time and space (Norton 1989; Trigger 1989). Unlike most geographers of the time, anthropologists and archaeologists considered diffusion and migration to be two distinct processes (Norton 1989). The genealogical connections between anthropology, archaeology and geography are foundational to all three disciplines, although anthropology and archaeology have generally borrowed more than they have given (Earle and Preucel 1987). The early periods of both geography and archaeology were characterized by the “natural science” approach that explicitly focused on classification and categorization, not interpretation (Wagstaff 1987). Although interested in human activity, neither discipline developed social theory, choosing instead to focus on physical evidence (Norton 1989; Wagstaff 1987). In the 1940s and 1950s, archaeologists began to move beyond simple artifact classification and historical reconstruction to the study of settlements and aspects of human patterns over the physical landscape. This shift was   31  tied into developments in both anthropology and geography. Sauer, at Berkeley, was intellectually close to Kroeber (1917), who was developing his ideas about the superorganic character of cultural development at the time. Kroeber’s ideas resonated in geography, especially his division “between social processes and biological or organic processes” (Norton 1989:15). Subsequent neo-evolutionary developments brought the idea of cultural ecology into anthropology (Steward 1936), where culture and environment were linked in a functional relationship. Human ecology was also being explored during the same period in cultural geography (Thornthwaite 1940), akin to but distinct from cultural ecological approaches in anthropology.  Archaeology adopted materialist concepts and applied them to the study of settlements (Trigger 1989). Steward (1937) engaged in archaeological research, using settlement patterns in the Southwest to discuss the relationships between culture and environment, an event which inspired Willey’s (1953) study of the Viru Valley in Peru, the first major work that can be classified as settlement archaeology. Willey moved beyond simple classification by discussing how “settlement patterns are… directly shaped by held cultural needs [and] offer a strategic point for the functional interpretation of archaeological cultures” (Willey 1953:1). Settlement pattern archaeology became widespread after this time, with a number of settlement surveys carried out in the 1960s and 1970s (Adams and Nissen 1972; Anschuetz et al. 2001) and became a favoured method by the New Archaeologists, discussed further below. In China, K.C. Chang (1958) expanded on these ideas by pioneering studies on different scales of analysis in settlement studies – the household, the local group, and the community. The importance of these ideas in this discussion is that they set the stage for the next major revolution in both disciplines – the rise of the “new” and the turn to positivism.    32  New Geography, New Archaeology: New Landscapes? In the 1960s, new approaches to landscape analysis arose in both geography and archaeology (Chang 1967; Wagstaff 1987). This particular time was one of increasing interest in the social sciences, following the tremendous growth of post-WWII university departments. Geography moved towards a deductive, positivist methodology, where specific hypotheses were formulated and tested through statistical analysis and other quantitative methods (Wagstaff 1987:27), leading this to be called the “quantitative revolution” (Butron 1963 in Earle and Preucel 1987:503). Cultural landscapes became secondary to the positivistic spatial analyses that were paramount during this time (Norton 1989), because the environment, not culture, was the focus. Both physical and human geographers downplayed the importance of history in their work, leading to what was perhaps its largest intellectual break from archaeology as a discipline. Tilley (1994), in the introduction to his phenomenological consideration of the idea of landscape, notes that during this period, both geographers and archaeologists dealt with abstract space, not human space – “space as container, surface and volume was substantial inasmuch as it existed in itself and for itself, external to and indifferent to human affairs” (Tilley 1994:12-13). This represented a schism from the Sauerian ideas of the cultural landscape. The ‘New Archaeology’ was born in 1959, with Caldwell’s article in Science that identified a shift in archaeology from questions of when and where – the focus of the culture history paradigm – to questions of “cultural processes and situations” and interpretation (Caldwell 1959:304). He cites examples of a growing concern for ecology and settlement patterns of indicative of this paradigm shift – landscape remains a central concern in archaeological research. This was followed three years later by Binford’s Archaeology as Anthropology (1962) where he presented the idea that culture should be studied through various systems – technological, social, and ideological. Material remains, according to Binford (1965:205), reflected all three cultural systems, and therefore the goal of archaeological inquiry was “to be understood in terms of   33  many causally relevant variables which may function independently or in varying combinations” by examining patterns of material culture. One of the major data sets against which to test these hypotheses and examine these patterns were regional analyses of settlement systems. Spatial analysis as a method for understanding past cultures continued to develop into the idea that came to be known as processual archaeology. In fact, much of Binford’s work was concerned with studying a concept very similar to Sauer’s cultural landscape, although with a particular focus on change, process and adaptation. As Anschuetz et al. (2001:171) observe, “[settlement] studies contribute varied insights into the diversity, the complexity, and the dynamic interdependence upon humans’ technological structures, their social, political and religious organizations, and the physical environments in which they live” – in other words, they consider cultural landscapes. The Sauerian-defined cultural landscape remained intact in cultural geography until the late 1970s, when the discipline began to experience “stirrings of dissatisfaction” (Wagstaff 1987:29). Wagstaff (1987:30), discussing both archaeology and geography’s involvement in the cultural landscape discourse, notes three major sources for this dissatisfaction – a realization of the weaknesses of statistics, a re-evaluation of positivism and the hypothetico-deductive method, and a recognition that the study of modern patterns was not diachronically valid. Explicitly discussing cultural geography as a sub-discipline, Norton (1989:42) made a break between pre-1970 and post-1970 in terms of methodology and the need to “reinstate human intentionality, humans and culture into geography” and into the landscape. This eventually led to the adoption of new ways of understanding the landscape, including Marxism (Olwig 2002; Smith 2003), structural geography and the study of social and symbolic landscapes, associated with the British school (Darvill 1999; Thomas 1993).  In archaeology, a similar although again slightly later development was taking place. Drawing from both the theoretical and methodological changes in geography, as   34  well as anthropology and sociology, scholars within the discipline began to question some of the foundations of processual archaeology (Earle and Preucel 1987; Hodder 1982). Dissatisfied with the study of cultures as adaptive systems, archaeologists began to look towards other theories to explain socio-cultural interaction, power relationships, inequality and human agency. As archaeologists began to look beyond processualism, a new space opened for cultural landscapes to be integrated into archaeological analysis, especially as this concept was being redeveloped in geography.  Landscapes Converged In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the social sciences as a whole were coming under the influence of postmodernism. Post-processual archaeology was the particular manifestation of “the appropriation of post-structural thought and critical theory by archaeologists” and the interaction of archaeologists with post-modernity (Patterson 1989:556). One of the major challenges of postprocessual archaeology in relation to the adoption of a cultural landscape as a unit of analysis was the critique of objectivity. History and culture were conceived of in broader terms, which allows for an exploration of the interrelationships between these two constructions (Patterson 1989:558). Interest in the human experience and subjectivity led some archaeologists to look beyond their discipline for new theories and ideas. Cultural geography began to evaluate the idea of landscape from a humanistic perspective, with the appearance of studies considering landscapes as politically, historically and socially constituted (Cosgrove 2000a). Livingstone (1992) challenged the dichotomy of nature and culture as epistemic categories. Other geographers began to realize that humans were active agents in the formation of both culture and nature. One of the major figures in this reconsideration of the Sauerian landscape was Cosgrove (1984, 1985), who recast the history of landscape in relationship to production and capitalism in Europe. Landscapes became politicized realms with human actors creating culture, place and self within humanized space (Tilley 1994). The fluid, dynamic and   35  subjective aspects of landscape negotiation and creation became the focus (Schein 1997). Cultural landscapes were no longer the result of culture working through the medium of nature to create forms – they were complex, flexible, and constructed through social and political interactions. At this intellectual juncture, with the reformulation of cultural landscape in geography and the post-processual critique in archaeology, archaeologists drew upon a long tradition of adopting ideas from their colleagues in geography. It was at this time that cultural landscape, in its new form, became integrated into archaeological research.  In the 1990s, a proliferation of landscape studies in archaeology appeared, with two of the most notable being the edited volume Landscape: Politics and Perspectives (Bender 1993a) and A Phenomenology of Landscape (Tilley 1994). Both of these are from Britain, where interest in new cultural landscapes was most readily adopted, due to a long history of collaboration between geographers and archaeologists. Bender’s (1993a) volume contains discussions of how landscapes are political, especially as related to memory and colonialism, with contributions from archaeologists, anthropologists and geographers. Although conceptually new, many of the units of analysis employed by the contributors to this volume have long histories in archaeology – spatial analysis (Bender 1993a), monuments (Tilley 1993), and the division between public and private space (Bodenhorn 1993). Tilley’s work draws on phenomenological constructions to analyse landscapes as subjects:  People and environment are constitutive components of the same world, which it is unhelpful to think of in terms of a binary nature/culture distinction. In the perception of the world and in the consumption of resources (utilitarian or symbolic) from that world of meanings embodied in environmental objects are drawn into the experiences of subjects. (Tilley 1994:23) Tilley (1994) uses the Heideggerian concept of “dwelling” to understand the human experience and transformation of space to place. The environment was still considered an important part of the study of landscapes in what has come to be known   36  as landscape archaeology (see below). Current work emphasises a variety of cultural landscape approaches such as monuments and ritual landscapes (Bender 1993a), mortuary analysis (Buikstra and Charles 1999), and the relationship between cultural identity and landscape (Fisher and Loren 2003; Maguire 2007; Straughn 2009).  The idea of a cultural landscape has been successful in these diverse disciplines because it bridges the nature-culture divide and provides a way to undermine this dichotomy (Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Layton and Ucko 1999). Its flexibility, ambiguity and inclusivity have allowed it to endure throughout the long history of archaeology. There is considerable diversity in how this concept is applied in archaeological studies today. In their review, Anschuetz et al. (2001:160-161) identify four foundational ideas for the “landscape paradigm”: (1) landscapes represent cultural systems interacting with natural environments; (2) landscapes are created as places through cultural activities, beliefs and values; (3) landscapes contain all human activity; and (4) landscapes are dynamic and represent the cognitive map of a community. Feinman (1999:685) presents a different yet related discussion about what he terms the “three tenets” of the landscape approach: (1) study of the natural environment guided by social science research questions; (2) recognition that the relationships between humans and their environment is historically situated and dynamic, shaped by human action and cultural perception; and (3) realization that the human environment is a product or construction of human behaviour. In the same section of Antiquity, Fisher and Thurston (1999:630) avoid a list of tenets or premises but instead emphasise the scope of what they term a “landscape archaeology” – which is “a broad, inclusive, holistic concept created intentionally to include humans, their anthropogenic ecosystem and the manner in which these landscapes are conceptualized, experienced and symbolized.” Knapp and Ashmore (1999:8) share a similar view in recognizing that “a landscape embodies more than a neutral, binary relationship between people and nature, along any single dimension… space is both a medium for and the outcome of human activity.” In discussing the usefulness of the ambiguity of the landscape, Godsen and Head   37  (1994:114) echo this idea, stating, “landscape is more than the stage setting for human action… landscapes are both created and creating.” Ayres and Mauricio (1999:298) note that “archaeological landscapes represent a distinct form of cultural landscape because they develop over long periods of time,” an idea also found in the work of Tim Ingold (1993:154), who emphasises the impossibility of separating the concept of landscape from that of time, instead noting that landscape is relational and experiential. A number of aspects of the concept of a cultural landscape are useful for archaeologists as a theoretical model for understanding past cultures. First, the idea of cultural landscape implies a cultural process (Hirsch 1995; Ingold 1993) and represents a dynamic and changing relationship either between experiences of place/space or humans/environment through time. A cultural landscape perspective allows humans to be active agents in their relationship with the physical environment, instead of passive bystanders reacting to changes. Instead of conceiving of the environment as determining, the landscape constrains and is constrained by the actions of agents who generate, and are generated by, interaction with structured landscapes. Some authors have attempted to explore this interaction through a phenomenological approach that considers dwelling in and moving through a landscape as foundational to what that landscape comes to mean at any moment (Ingold 1993; Tilley 1994). At its most extreme, this view postulates that there is no concrete reality beyond cultural experience.  Time and place are inherent in cultural landscapes, making them attractive to archaeologists concerned with change through time in a particular place or places. Another theme is of cultural landscape as constructed through human action, in which cultural landscapes are created primarily within the social world of a particular culture at a particular time. Perhaps the most compelling reason that archaeologists have been drawn to this concept is the fact that it is inherently holistic, encompassing many other types of archaeological data such as sites, households and artifacts.    38  Landscape has also been understood as a medium for the construction of the material aspects of cultural identity, inscribed through building practices, settlement patterns, mapping and naming. Knapp and Ashmore (1999) identify “landscapes as identity,” which recognize that people imbue physical places with symbolic meaning through collective group action. This action enhances the meaning of the physical landscape by paying “special attention” to particular landforms or locations through construction or modification. For example, locations that become used for defense by a group may receive “special attention,” being visibly prominent. Rock walls, forts, trench embankments and other fortifications also can be obtrusive modifications of the physical environment. In this way, defensive locations receive “special attention” and are a useful tool for archaeologists trying to understand processes of social identity through spatial cognition (Knapp and Ashmore 1999). These locations come to represent identity in a variety of ways, including representing boundaries or territories as well as ritual sites or ecological transitions (Knapp and Ashmore 1999).  Equally important in this particular context, is the notion that some landscapes are representative of a social or moral order. In this case, “the land itself, as socially constituted, plays a fundamental role in the ordering of cultural relations” (Knapp and Ashmore 1999:16) and can contain markers of social roles and identities. “Landscapes of transformation” are landscapes of resistance, conflict and contestation. Although Knapp and Ashmore (1999) discuss landscapes of transformation in the context of state-level societies and the current political atmosphere of globalization, this idea of landscapes as marked and boundaries drawn because of violent interaction is useful for understanding how identity, landscape and conflict intersected in the pre-colonial period of the Fraser Valley. However, it falls short of understanding the role of agency and structure, because landscapes do not just unfold through human experience – they are continuously created, reconstituted and disputed through the conscious and unconscious actions of people. As such, landscapes are a product of structuration, or the dialectic of agency and structure (Bourdieu 1977).   39  Agency Agency has alternately been equated with the individual; individually unique cognitive structures; resistance to social norms; resistance to power inequalities; the capacity for skilful social practice; freedom from structural constraints; and free will. Likewise, agency has been posited as rooted in purposeful/ intentional action; rational action; conscious practice; unconscious dispositions; and subjective experience. (Dornan 2002:304) Agency is a concept used with increasing frequency and rigour in archaeological analyses (Dobres and Robb 2000; Dornan 2002; Gardner 2004; Joyce and Lopiparo 2005; Pauketat and Alt 2005; Silliman 2001), yet its application to theory and practice is not always well articulated. In the past 20 years, archaeologists have begun to adopt agency theory, following the work of Bourdieu (1977) and Giddens (1984), as a theoretical framework to understand the process of identity formation and agency in the past. This focus on agency theory, according to Dobres and Robb (2005:159), has been “fraught with paradoxes.” Agency is now considered essential to understanding the past, but this theoretical shift has occurred without critical consideration of methodology. Instead, archaeologists have often answered questions about agents, structures and the role of the individual by applying methodologies developed for a very different approach to the past. Archaeology, as a discipline, has rarely generated theory from within (Johnson 2006) since many archaeologists apply concepts developed in other fields without full consideration of their intellectual basis. In order to move forward with critical methodologies of agency in archaeology, we must first return to the foundations of this idea. The relationship between humans and the societies in which they live has been a central question of social theory from the earliest Greek philosophers through to the twenty-first century. Structure, in classical social theory, was a set of rules forming a matrix which governed the behaviour of individuals in society (Durkheim 1926). Early sociologists, including Durkheim, attempted to explain the nature of social interaction through collective consciousness (Erickson and Murphy 2003). This led Durkheim’s   40  student, Marcel Mauss, to suggest that society was governed by elementary structures, whereby shared mental logics explained group behaviours (Knauft 1996). During the mid-twentieth century, social theorists were debating the nature of objectivist versus subjectivist perspectives. On the one hand, Levi-Straussian structuralism, part of the French tradition after Mauss, emphasised the deterministic nature of structures on human thought, while the phenomenologists and existentialists gave more significance to individual will and experience in society (Giddens 1984). Marxism, while objectivist, strongly critiqued the static nature of structure as formulated by French structuralism: Whereas Levi-Strauss’ structuralism emphasised synchrony, social stasis, and determinism by unconscious mental structures, Marxism and phenomenology emphasised history, social transformation and determinism by conscious subjectivity as mediated by material and economic forces. (Knauft 1996:112) In the 1970s, several scholars responded to the modernist and structuralist perspective that was dominant in social theory by questioning the foundations of how humans interact with each other and with the structures of society. One major contribution of this reconfiguring of the nature of society was to bridge the gap between the objective or deterministic view and the subjective or experiential view. Two figures in particular contributed to a new analysis of the nature of structure and individual freedom, leading to what is now known as practice or agency theory: Pierre Bourdieu and Anthony Giddens. Understanding how agency is now considered fundamental to the human condition as well as how the study of agents and structures is both compelling and challenging for archaeology requires a nuanced investigation of the works of these two theorists.  Bourdieu’s work has been hugely influential in the social sciences since he published Outline of a Theory of Practice in 1977 (Knauft 1996). Responding to the dominant paradigms of structuralism, functionalism and Marxism, Bourdieu (1977:3) set out to undermine the dichotomy between objectivist and phenomenological perspectives on the social world by evoking “dialectical relations between the objective   41  structures to which the objectivist mode of knowledge gives access and the structured dispositions within which those structures are actualised and which tend to produce them.” From this arises the theory of practice (generation of practice) and habitus, defined as “systems of durable, transposable dispositions, structured structures predisposed to function as structuring structures” (Bourdieu 1977:72). These structures, and the practices that create them, are not functional but are driven by agency, conceived as contextual and conceptual knowledge or choice as practiced by agents. Habitus is “the product of history and produces individual and collective practices” (Bourdieu 1977:82), illustrating that practice is historical. At times, the structures are made more real with the intervention of doxa defined through competing discourses of orthodoxy (censorship, rationalization) and heterodoxy (competing positions). Implicated in these discourses is symbolic capital - “a transformed and thereby disguised form of physical ‘economic’ capital” (Bourdieu 1977:183). The relationship between the individual and the community is an important element in conceptualizing practice theory. There appear to be two main reasons for the application of this theory to the archaeological record: (1) the inherent economic, symbolic and material aspects of practice, and (2) the conceptualization of the relationship between the individual, the collective and the structures which are both creating and created by those categories of people.  A related approach that has been even more influential in archaeology is Giddens’ (1984) theory of structuration. Giddens’ treatise on the constitution of society is based on the fundamental concept of the duality of structure, wherein structures only exist through the actions of agents. This represents a break from earlier texts where structure and agent were seen as separate, though deeply intertwined entities. Agency, according to Giddens (1984:9), does not refer to the intentions of agents but rather “their capability of doing those things in the first place.” Intended and unintended acts of agents have intended and unintended consequences. Intention, therefore, is separate from action, since unintended consequences of actions may lead to further unconscious   42  acts. This feedback cycle leads to the production of social systems through social practices that exhibit what Giddens (1984:17) terms “structural properties.” When these systems endure through time and space, they become institutions, and those institutions constrain the actions for agents in society. Structures, in Giddens’ conceptualization, are based on rules that constitute meaning and sanction modes of social conduct, and resources that can be drawn upon by agents “in the production and reproduction of social action [and] are at the same time the means of system reproduction” (Giddens 1984:19). The knowledgeability of agents is also key to the process of structuration – their “scope of control is limited to the immediate contexts of action and interaction” (Giddens 1984:11). His discussion of the recursive nature of the constitution of society includes a consideration of history, noting that history may be produced by intentional action but is not the intended result of that action, although actors do attempt to influence social systems either to maintain them or change them (Dobres and Robb 2005; Dornan 2002). For archaeologists, this way of conceptualizing society is attractive because it moves away from deterministic models and it considers agency to be both material and socially reproduced (Knauft 1996). The theories of these two scholars have been subject to a number of criticisms, many of which are relevant for archaeology. Knauft notes five areas of critique that apply to both Bourdieu and Giddens: (1) lack of true consideration of the creative impact of individual actors; (2) emphasis on stability instead of historical transformation; (3) under-appreciation of the significance of human motivation; (4) lack of consideration of a variety of types of inequality; and (5) overly abstract definition of structure (Knauft 1996). Many of the fundamental questions that archaeologists ask about change on a variety of temporal and spatial scales, therefore, are not easily addressed using these theories in their original form. Both structurationist theorists were engaging with capitalist, modernist, post-industrial society, and neither show any nuanced consideration of how this process might work in small-scale, non-industrial societies that may contain fewer institutions. For example, one of the areas that   43  Giddens’ theory of structuration has been critiqued specifically is the relationship between agency and power (Gardner 2004), an area of great interest to many archaeologists who study the rise of institutional inequality. Giddens’ original theory does not recognize that inequality within society, while created by the actions of agents, also influences the knowledgeability and impact of individuals upon structure. Gardner (2004) uses the example of a Roman emperor, an individual who had much greater access to power than the everyday Roman of the period. The actions of the emperor, however, were constrained by certain institutions as constituted by the actions of all members of the society. People with greater access to power also had greater individual ability to function as institutions. Examples such as these illustrate the pitfalls of applying “agency theory” without interrogating the most effective ways to use it to answer questions about past human societies: [W]e have to overturn our whole way of thinking about the past – as the past – and consider the ranges of possibilities open to people in their own time and indeed how wide or narrow they considered this range to be (Emirbayer and Mische 1998:985-992). Investigating past agency is thus partly about investigating the conditions for the kind of social engagement…given that this engagement involves action rather than causation. (Dornan 2002:331) The foundation for reconsidering the roles individuals play in the constitution of society has had major consequences for archaeology. Current applications of agency theory in archaeology vary, but Dornan (2002:309) identifies five major perspectives: (1) collective agency; (2) individual intentionality; (3) rational actors; (4) unintended consequences of struggle; and (5) practical rationality. Each of these draws upon various aspects of agency theory, but differs in consideration of the importance of the actor or whether we can, in fact, ever see the actions of particular agents in the archaeological record. Why agency is now seen by many scholars as important to archaeology is the fact the archaeological record does consist of material remnants of the actions of agents. Every artifact and feature we study is the product of the action of an individual or group of individuals in the past. Taken from an agency perspective, each   44  action contributed to the structure of that society, whether to enforce or transform those structures. We need to move beyond mere consideration of agents, however, to question how those actions contributed to the constitution of the society in which they lived. In this way, the archaeological search for agency is misleading, because structuration is present in every facet of the archaeological record that is produced by humans. According to structuration theory, structures and agents cannot exist without the other. Our challenge is to discern how we use archaeological data and analyses to answer questions about agency and structure in the past. Johnson (2010:244) argues that our methods and practices in archaeology are in fact contradictory to the necessary and central study of agency in the past. The way we approach data by clustering, grouping and categorizing time and space into discrete units limits our ability to discuss the everyday practices that define agency. He suggests that it may be productive to “examine the potential and constraints of specific cases where agency, structure and power intersect” (Johnson 2010:246). Therefore, our challenge is to find those situations and moments where we can access the duality of structure, where the process is made archaeologically visible on a great enough scale for us to see the actions of agents that created the structures which constrain further action. It is in these instances that we can understand the contextual meanings of the practical and reflective actions of agents with a given society (Dornan 2002; Joyce and Lopiparo 2005). Humans are agents, and when enough individuals are engaged with structure at a given scale, agency can become the collective action of a group towards shared goals. Much archaeological work on agency has focused on finding individual identities in the past (Hodder 2000) by reconstructing the lived lives of people. Each individual in any society is acting in dialectic with structures at different scales depending on a variety of identities such as class, gender, status, occupation, etc. Studying one side of the dialectic limits our ability to comprehend the particular properties of structure that impact agents in a given society (Dornan 2002). Another issue with attempting to find the   45  individual in the past is that archaeologists assume the concept of the individual self is universal as opposed to a western modernist construction (Ames 2005).  Joyce and Lopiparo (2005) suggest that an appropriate scale for agency is the landscape, which contains traces of repeated practices that were necessary for the reformation and transformation of structure in the past. Considering agency within the broad scale of a cultural landscape provides a framework to connect the abstract nature of theory to the material world. Landscapes are connected inherently to the physical land. No matter the social constraints that influence the choices of actors, they are always constrained by their physical bodies. Therefore, we cannot separate the actions of agents from their physical needs of food, warmth and water. Although I am interested in the complex nature of human interaction and the amazing variability in which people meet these basic needs, we cannot ignore these biomechanical limitations when discussing the choices made by agents. Connections between the abstract process of structuration and the physical world can be found in material culture studies, and are essential to the archaeological endeavour. One of the attractive aspects of agency theory for archaeology is that it recognises “material culture actually constitutes social relations and meaning making” (Dobres and Robb 2005:162). In the absence of written texts, our only window into the past thoughts and motivations of people is through the material traces of what they produced. Reasonable interpretations of the thought processes of individuals in the past are only made possible through an understanding of all the archaeological data available. Without a connection to the archaeological record, individual narratives are in danger of becoming a reflection of the dialectic of structure of the author. A cultural landscape perspective has the potential to ground agency without detracting from its explanatory power because it encompasses the implicit relationship between people and the places they inhabit.  Every action either reforms (reinforces) or transforms structure, while structures in turn constrain those actions. Not all, but most actions by agents produce material   46  traces, and the collective actions of agents create landscapes that reflect the structures of that society as constituted by repetition and innovation through time. Major changes in cultural landscapes may be representative of moments of transformation or rupture in the duality of structure wherein the everyday practices of agents have changed in response to an internal or external disruption. The process of structuration, although ongoing, is accelerated in this moment as drastic changes take place. These times of disruption and acceleration are fruitful for archaeologists because the material evidence shifts rapidly, such as a major change in settlement patterns, making the process archaeologically visible. This does not imply that structures and actions are static until disrupted. Rather, the pace of innovation or transformation is more pronounced at certain moments in history. A variety of factors may lead to these types of ruptures, including environmental factors, cultural contact and warfare. In the Lower Fraser River Canyon, therefore, the first act of building a rock feature may be representative of a moment where the process of structuration was accelerated. Agential Landscapes of the Lower Fraser River Canyon  In considering the cultural landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, I hypothesize that identity is socially constituted and constituting at different temporal and spatial scales and that landscapes are “active” locations where agents engage in ongoing multiple processes of identity formation, structuration and construction, whether intentional or not. The rock features, as an example of changes in the landscape that may be the legacy of changes in structure, would have been built by a group of agents with intent. It is doubtful that we will ever be able to access the individual motivations for constructing the features in the first place, partially due to the type and scale of data available to us. This type of feature is different from other forms of built features in the area in a number of ways, including but not limited to the materials used and the locations where they were placed. Such a disjuncture indicates a shift in the practices of individuals, which in turn impacted the structures that constrained them,   47  regardless of whether or not the actors intended to transform structure. The consequences of building features that would endure on the landscape changed how the landscape itself was perceived both by inhabitants and visitors. In this particular case, the cultural landscape would be reconstituted by the act of construction, potentially leading to a more permanent and powerful statement about the people who lived in this region, as materially manifest on the landscape when encountered by others.  I base my research on the premise that the Lower Fraser River Canyon has been inhabited for thousands of years, and that occupation has left a material legacy that we can access as archaeologists. The history of land use, aggregation and forms of co-operative and aggressive interactions made this a very socially active place. All of this interaction and inhabitation led to the creation of a cultural landscape through the process of structuration. In this landscape, different activities took place, one of which was building rock features. These features provide a window to access some of the diverse forms of interaction, conflict and mediation that occurred here in the past. Moments when these features were constructed may represent an increasing concern over ownership of and access to these locations or they may represent a reaction to increasing warfare. They represent a transformation of structure through the actions of agents in the changing landscape that may have led to further change, where the overt modification of the landscape influenced how cultural identities were defined and transformed. The most central question, therefore, is what role does the construction of permanent, monumental architecture have in the creation, transformation and enforcement of community identity on a contested cultural landscape? The remainder of this thesis will combine various forms of archaeological evidence to argue that the rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon present an excellent opportunity to consider how agency can have periods of acceleration that make it more visible in the material record, such as the building of permanent structures, and the landscape is a medium to explore the dialectical relationship of structured agency.    48  3: DEFINING THE LOWER FRASER RIVER CANYON: Introduction Although ethnographers and archaeologists have studied the Northwest Coast as a culture area extensively, the lower portion of the Fraser Canyon and upper Fraser Valley has not been as intensively studied (Lepofsky et al. 2000). Some of the earliest archaeological work in British Columbia took place in the Lower Fraser River Canyon in the 1950s and 1960s (Borden 1950b, 1957, 1961, 1968a; Mitchell 1963). In the past fifteen years, the upper Fraser Valley has been the focus of academic research, bringing some attention back to the area as an important cultural place (Lepofsky et al. 2000; Lepofsky et al. 2005; Lepofsky et al. 2009; Schaepe 2001b, 2006, 2009; Schaepe et al. 2006). The cultural sequence in the area indicates a long history of human occupation, dating from at least 9000 BP (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996). Schaepe (2006:21-22) notes that the Canyon “was…a significant locus of people and food, spirituality, trade and exchange, and interaction in the political economy” and it “deserves recognition as a central place in the...Coast Salish world.” Carlson (2007:148) goes so far as to claim that this area “was arguably the most valuable Aboriginal real estate on the Northwest Coast.” Many characteristics define the Canyon and I investigate this constellation of unique features by exploring physical, archaeological, cultural, and historical forms of landscape including. Conceiving of each of these features as a landscape allows me to emphasize how they are deeply interconnected on a broad scale. Terms such as nested, networked, interwoven, entangled – all imply that separate landscapes, but no individual threads in the fabric can be teased out – physical, cultural, historical and contemporary landscapes are an inherent part of one another and cannot be understood in isolation. I explore each of these landscapes below, from   49  the time before people were here through to the present, to show their relationships. While I discuss each of these below, I recognize that all of these so-called “landscapes” are implicated in the creation of all of the others, and that, ultimately, none can be considered as a discrete entity.  Physical Landscape The study partially defined by the physical characteristics of the region, as expressed in the name “Lower Fraser River Canyon” (Figure 1.5). Defining the geological and environmental characteristics is necessary to situate my archaeological research, especially as I contend that some of these very characteristics contributed to a distinct form of architectural expression through the building of rock walls out of loose granite. The Lower Fraser River Canyon was originally formed as part of the Canadian Cordillera between 47-35 million years ago. The entire Fraser Canyon was part of a slip fault line, a factor which contributes to its steep-sidedness (Clague 1989). During much of the late Pleistocene, the area was under the Cordilleran glacier, particularly during the last glacial maximum circa 17,000-14,000 BP (Clague 1989; Hebda 2007). The Fraser glacier began to retreat around 13,000 BP and the Lower Fraser River Canyon was ice-free by 11,000 BP (Clague et al. 1997; Mathewes and Rouse 1975). Deglaciation was rapidly followed by the development of lodgepole pine and alder forests (Schaepe 2001a).  Although the area was cooler and drier in the immediate post-glacial period, followed by a period of decreased precipitation and increased temperatures known as the xerothermic, much of the past 6000 years has been climatically stable (Mathewes and Rouse 1975). Current yearly precipitation (measured at Hope) averages 1630 mm of rainfall and 143.1 mm of snowfall with a mean January temperature of 1.1 degrees Celsius and a mean August temperature of 18.8 degrees Celsius (Canada 2010).    50  No data are available for the immediate Yale vicinity, but it is comparable Hope with slightly more extreme climate (hotter summers and greater snowfall in the winter). The Lower Fraser River Canyon is a transitional zone from the wetter and milder Coastal Western Hemlock zone (CWHZ) to the drier Douglas-fir Interior zone (DFIZ) (Mathewes and Rouse 1975; Pojar et al. 1987), so the region is somewhat more extreme than other areas of the Fraser Valley (Duff 1952). The development of a closed forest environment was hindered by the steep, unstable, rocky terrain and it appears that the whole area has always been a biogeoclimatic transitional zone (Mathewes and Rouse 1975). Although transitional, this area does fall within a sub-zone of the CWHZ, which is the most productive forest zone in Canada (Pojar et al. 1987). It is characterized by mixed western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla), western redcedar (Thuja plicata) and Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) forest with a preponderance of mosses. A variety of mosses and salal (Gaultheria shallon), vine maple (Acer circinatum), sword fern (Polystichum munitum) and other low shrubs are common. A large stand of Garry Oak (Quercus garryana) trees occur here, a variety of oak found on southeastern Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands (Fuchs 2001). The presence of this species points to a warm, dry, well-drained area, as Garry Oaks flourish in rocky, open landscapes and transitional forests (Fuchs 2001). Now part of an ecological reserve managed by the Yale First Nation, this stand of Garry Oaks also contains some of the largest archaeological features, including several rock features  The most important factor that defines the Lower Canyon is the Fraser River itself. With a drainage that spans nearly a quarter of the area of British Columbia, the Fraser River rushes up to 9000 m/s of water and sediment through the Canyon on its way to the Gulf of Georgia. As glaciers melted and the fissure of the Canyon became exposed, the first waters of what would become the Fraser began to flow toward the Gulf of Georgia, carrying glacial silt of what is now an extensive and highly populated delta. The river dominates the landscape today; the land is nearly impassable in places. Water and glaciers have eroded this area, creating a forbidding environment of craggy   51  vertical cliffs, cut through by fast-moving water. Bedrock in the region is granitic and this durable rock has fractured off of the steep sides of the canyon in angular pieces of various sizes. Some granitic outcrops and glacial erratics remain in the river itself, worn smooth from the river below the high water mark, and jagged where they thrust above the surface of the rushing water. These rocky islands create major obstructions for canoe travel, and the southern entrance to the Lower Fraser River Canyon is marked by one of the largest rock outcrops, known today as Lady Franklin Rock.   Figure 3.1.  Lady Franklin Rock (from Schaepe 2006:684). At high water in the early summer freshet, it is difficult for boats to travel past this point on the river. At high water in the late spring and early summer, the only option for travel into the Interior was narrow trails on precipitous slopes. When the Hudson’s Bay Company established Fort Langley, the Chief Factor Archibald McDonald noted that the Canyon was the insurmountable obstacle for river travel into the Interior, as Simon Fraser had discovered when he travelled the river that would bear his name (Fraser 2007). The narrow Canyon, combined with dangerous obstructions both above and below the surface, created treacherous eddies and currents.    52  The Fraser River, prior to the collapse of the fishery at several occasions over the past 100 years, contained the largest stocks of Pacific salmon of any river in the world (Northcote and Larkin 1989). Five species of salmon ran regularly in the river: spring/Chinook (Oncorhynchus tshawytscha), sockeye (Oncorhynchus nerka), coho (Oncorhynchus kisutch), pink (Oncorhynchus gorbuscha) and chum (Oncorhynchus keta) (Northcote and Atagi 1997). The main salmon runs began mid-summer and could run into late October, but the true height of the fishing season was in July and August when the spring and sockeye were running and the favourable wind was blowing. Spring salmon were the favoured species for wind drying, while sockeye were valued for their oil (Duff 1952).  These environmental and geological factors provide both constraints and a range of choices for the people who have lived in the Lower Fraser River Canyon for thousands of years. This is, however, only one part of the rich tapestry that constitutes the cultural landscape of this region. The physical characteristics were managed and defined as crucial to a certain way of life through a broader set of cultural criteria wherein specific meanings were given to this landscape. In the next section, I explore the remnants of past human action represented in the material record as studied by archaeologists. Archaeological Landscape From an archaeological perspective, the Lower Fraser River Canyon has not been the focus of intensive research since the 1970s (Lepofsky et al 2000). Academic research has focused on the politically complex fisher-gatherer-hunters who built large, multi-family plank houses, storing salmon and discarded tonnes of shell in extensive shell middens on the areas directly adjacent to the ocean in the Northwest Coast (Figure 3.2). While similar cultural patterns appear to have been in place in the Canyon, the relative lack of data meant more attention was spent on studying the richness of the ancient fauna and flora preserved in coastal middens. A number of reasons exist, both academic   53  and practical, why archaeologists have focused more on the coast and the Fraser River Valley than on the Canyon. For one, sites on the coast have excellent faunal preservation and can be highly visible along shorelines, making them easy to locate and rewarding to excavate. Another factor is the increasing industrial development on the Coast, particularly in the Lower Mainland and the Gulf Islands. To understand the archaeological history and significance of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, therefore, we must look beyond its borders to the Northwest Coast in general, and the Gulf of Georgia in particular. The Northwest Coast is defined as the area from Yakutat Bay in Alaska to Cape Mendocino in northern California (Figure 3.2), - boundaries which are drawn based on commonalities in language and culture (Suttles 1990). On the west, the resource-rich Pacific Ocean provides a convenient boundary; in the east, the extent of the culture area is most commonly marked by the Coast/Cascade mountain range. The area is bisected by the Canadian/U.S. border twice – both in the south and the north. This boundary has had a significant effect on the nature of research along the coast (Moss 2004). As home to peoples that did not have domesticated plants and animals and yet showed evidence of great wealth, high social stratification and permanent settlements, the Northwest Coast was an early anthropological puzzle that did not fit into attempts to classify ethnographic cultures into the evolutionary frameworks proposed by early archaeologists and anthropologists (Ames and Maschner 1999; Deur and Turner 2005). First impressions from Captain Cook’s published journals were that this area was a veritable Eden where food was so abundant that no one went hungry (Deur 2002). Due to a late history of direct contact with European explorers in comparison to much of the rest of North America, the Northwest Coast drew considerable attention from ethnologists who came to preserve these vanishing cultures before they were lost (Donald 2003). Consequently, the area has a rich ethnographic record, including lists of cultural traits, recorded oral histories and large collections of ethnographic material culture.   54   Figure 3.2. The Northwest Coast (from Donald 2003). This will be explored in greater detail in the next section, but it is important to understanding the archaeological landscape as many archaeological explanations have   55  relied heavily on these ethnographic reconstructions to explain cultural patterns in the past (Grier 2007; Schaepe 2009). Archaeological research on the Northwest Coast in the past 30 years has focused largely on the development of the pattern of cultures as reconstructed from ethnography, broken down into a number of traits that may be archaeologically visible, including surplus production, storage, sedentary or semi-sedentary cooperative housing, ascribed status, craft specialization, and wealth accumulation (Ames 1994; Matson and Coupland 1995). Models for the evolution of these patterns have been put forward by a number of researchers, but the major focus has been on the intensification of the salmon fishery (Ames 1994; Burley 1980; Cannon and Yang 2006; Cannon 1998; Carlson 1998; Fladmark 1975; Matson 1985) and resource production in response to environmental pressure or variation (Ames 1981; Clark 2000; Coupland 1985). Different mechanisms for the production of wealth and the development of status have been proposed, including resource production at the level of the household (Coupland 1985) and regional interaction and exchange (Ames 1981; Grier 2003). Recent research on the Northwest Coast continues to grapple with questions of cultural complexity (Ames 2001), environmental stress (Clark 2000; Lepofsky et al. 2005) and the use of marine resources (Orchard and Clark 2005). However, a growing number of researchers are exploring other approaches to understanding complexity in the region, involving diverse types of data such as oral traditions (Martindale and Marsden 2003), households (Grier 2001; Schaepe 2009), spatial models (Mackie 2003; Maschner 1996) and fortifications (Angelbeck 2009; Moss and Erlandson 1992). There are several smaller sub-regions identified within the broad field of Northwest Coast archaeology, of which the Gulf of Georgia (Figure 3.3) has been the most intensively studied (Ames and Maschner 1999). In his 1971 synthesis, Don Mitchell claims that the Gulf of Georgia is a distinct area based on geographic, ethnographic and archaeological characteristics.   56   Figure 3.3. Gulf of Georgia region - borders reconstructed from Mitchell (1971). Map adapted from Grier (2001). This leads him to make three propositions: “that the Gulf constitutes a distinctive natural area; that the area was occupied at time of contact by a population with a distinctive way of life; and that…archaeological evidence confirms the uniqueness of past cultures in the region” (1971:2). Geographically, the Gulf of Georgia is defined as the eastern coast of Vancouver Island from Bute Inlet to the Olympic Peninsula, extending to the mainland to include the Gulf Islands, the Fraser Delta and the Lower Fraser River Canyon (Mitchell 1990).  Much of the area was the traditional home of Northern and Central Coast Salish peoples, but Mitchell (1990:340) divides the “Northern and Southern subareas…as one unit, the Fraser Canyon as another.” He makes this claim based on differential preservation of faunal materials and major gaps in archaeological knowledge in the region, including the Canyon. Much of the rest of the lower Fraser River Valley has been a major focus of research throughout the past 30 years (Blake 2004; Burley 1979, 1980; Graesch 2007; LeClair 1976; Lenert 2007; Lepofsky et al. 2000; Lepofsky et al. 2005;   57  Lepofsky et al. 2009; Matson 1980-81; Matson et al. 1990; Schaepe 2006; Schaepe et al. 2006). Archaeological patterns from other areas of the upper Fraser Valley have been applied to the Lower Fraser River Canyon, but the only academic research to take place in the Canyon since the mid-1960s has been the work of David Schaepe and colleagues (Schaepe 2000, 2001b, 2006, 2009; Schaepe et al. 2006). Their work is the foundation for my dissertation research. Research in the Lower Fraser River Canyon began in the 1950s with the pioneering work of Charles Borden (Borden 1950a, 1950b, 1957, 1961, 1968a, 1968b, 1970, 1977) at the sites of DjRi-3 (Milliken) and DjRi-5 (Aselaw), discussed in detail below (Figure 3.4). He and his students established the first cultural sequence for the Canyon (reconstructed from Mitchell 1990 and presented in Table 3.1), demonstrating that occupation in the area dates back to at least 9000 BP (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996). Constructed from a handful of sites, this sequence nevertheless appears to be distinct from the downriver equivalents in a number of ways. The traits associated with each of these cultural sequences are reconstructed almost exclusively from lithic artifacts, as there is virtually no organic preservation besides large, charred seeds and pits.  Mitchell explains that: Its archaeological distinctiveness is attained largely by the presence of remains of semi-subterranean winter dwellings, by the absence of shell midden, and by the resulting near absence of bone and antler artifacts and faunal remains from the assemblages (Mitchell 1990:348). Early archaeological research in the Lower Fraser River Canyon focused on two sites: Milliken and Aselaw. Both locations were the focus of extensive archaeological excavation in the 1950s and 1960s but have not been revisited since.    58   Figure 3.4. Map showing the location of DjRi-3 and DjRi-5.   59  Table 3.1. Cultural Sequence in the Lower Fraser River Canyon (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996).  B.P. Culture history Technology 0 Canyon soft-stone carving, small bifacial points, drills, abraders, hand mauls 500 1000 1500 Skamel notched/stemmed points, drills, retouched/utilized flakes, celts, ground stone knives/saws, slate beads, 2000 2500 3000 Baldwin soft-stone carving industry, stemmed and unstemmed points, microblades (quartz), celts, ground slate knives 3500 4000 4500 Charles stemmed points, drills, ground and flaked slate points, ground slate knives 5000 5500 6000 6500 7000 Old Cordilleran leaf-shaped points, pebble tools, utilized flakes, hammerstones, ground stone fragments 7500 8000 8500 9000 The Milliken site (DjRi-3) was first visited by archaeologists in 1956, when Charles Borden accompanied August Milliken on a reconnaissance mission that resulted in the collection of some artifacts and carbon samples for dating from the exposed cut bank. During three seasons of field work (1959-1961), all occupation zones were explored, including the deepest horizons dating to at least 9000 BP (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996). The occupation layers were clearly marked by sterile sands and gravels, indicating that the site was occupied during a period when the Fraser River was flooding on a regular basis, even though “the lowest deposits of the site are now approximately 18 m above high water” (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996:65).   60  During the excavations, 10 major soil zones were excavated (A-J), detailing a long history of site use dating from 9000 to 2800 BP, after which the site was abandoned. Inferences about seasonal occupation and site use are based primarily on the presence of charred choke cherry pits, as this fruit matures in August and September (Borden 1975). This coincides with yearly salmon runs, although without faunal remains and other seasonal indicators, it is difficult to determine how and why people used this location. A large number of posthole features could indicate an early presence of drying racks, raising the possibility that the fishery in this stretch of the canyon has great antiquity. An early example of a rock feature was described as a “1.2 m long wall of rocks, from two to four tiers high” and was contained within a stratigraphic zone containing carbon samples dating to 8150 BP (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996:72). Other rock features are also alluded to, as “similar structures in the upper levels of the site seem to have served as retaining walls” (Mitchell and Pokotylo 1996:72). This could indicate a deep history of rock feature construction in the lower Fraser River Canyon. The archaeological record of the Canyon continues at the Aselaw locality (DjRi-5), 150 m downriver from Milliken. Excavated during 1959-1961, this village was occupied from around 5000 BP through the early post-contact period (Borden 1961; Mitchell 1963). This small village is located about 30-35 m above current river levels and approximately 130 m from the river’s edge (Mitchell 1963:41). An historic cemetery is adjacent to the site, a pattern which appears to be quite typical in the lower Canyon, as several other ancient village locations were used as cemeteries when people no longer used these locations. At DjRi-5, four house pit depressions remain intact, although the building of the Canadian National railway had a detrimental impact on several features and completely destroyed others (Mitchell 1963:46). Alongside the house depressions are four rock-lined pits that are not in direct association with any particular house but may have functioned as storage or cache pits.   61  Mitchell (1963) reported on the excavation of one of the house pits (HP1) during the Fraser Canyon Project in 1962-1962. His goal was to compare traits between coastal and interior peoples to determine people living in the Lower Fraser River Canyon show more affinity with the coast or the interior. He concluded, based on a comparison of ethnographic traits and the archaeological material from HP1 that both the Tait and the Lower Thompson are “interior-aligned Canyon cultures” showing considerable uniformity, although he noted that no ethnographic or archaeological traits were exclusive to the Lower Fraser River Canyon (Mitchell 1963:141). No subsequent excavations took place at any site in this stretch of the Canyon over the next 40 years. Much of the archaeological research in the Lower Fraser River Canyon in the second half of the twentieth century was motivated by surveys as part of impact assessments and salvage projects (Lepofsky et al. 2000:394), the result of which was a record of a large number of archaeological sites along this area of the Fraser River. Kidd’s 1963 survey focused on the east bank of the Fraser River that is only accessible by boat or train (Kidd 1968). His goal was to locate and record archaeological sites before development of housing and industry destroyed them. Kidd’s survey recorded several of the rock features explored in this thesis, yet he dismisses a large concentration of them on IR3 as the result of post-contact construction activity: Two rectangular rock-lined pits occur there, approximately 150 yards inland and 70 feet above the river…There is a gill-netting station on the river bank below the pits, and several stone walls possibly built by miners occur a few yards upstream…A few specimens (artifacts) were collected near the pits…DjRi 22 may have been a mining or railroad camp. It was apparently established on a pre-existing aboriginal site. (Kidd 1968) When addressing a series of rock features further upstream, he postulates that they could have been canoe runs. One of the platforms at the site labelled DjRi-22 by Kidd has been dated to the late pre-contact period, meaning that these stone walls were abandoned long before miners ever reached the area (Schaepe 2006). This persistent prejudice has led to these features being archaeologically ignored (Schaepe 2006).   62  Throughout the course of my research, however, I came across a brief report from 1970 by a former UBC student who had done a preliminary study on these features. He photographed, measured, and discussed some possible uses of rock features at several locations in the Canyon, clearly considering these to be important archaeological features worthy of greater study (Melhuish 1970). This student did not continue in archaeology, so research on the rock features did not get underway until the late 1990s (Schaepe 2000, 2001b, 2006). More recent research into these rock features has established that they are Aboriginal constructions that mark the landscape in monumental and resilient ways. My motivation for exploring rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon stems from preliminary work by Schaepe (2000, 2001b, 2006), who, in conjunction with members of the Stó:lō Nation, identified and classified four rock wall sites in a seven kilometre stretch of the Canyon above Yale. Schaepe has proposed, based on the known archaeological, ethnohistorical and oral data, that these sites constitute a “defensive network” (Schaepe 2006:41). These formations are generally located at late pre-contact/early post-contact village sites, and are thought to date to the Late Period (1500-250 BP). Based on archaeological, ethnographic, historical and oral historical work that he has completed in conjunction with the Stó:lō Nation, Schaepe (2006:51) concludes that the rock walls functioned as fortifications, and formed a line-of-sight defensive system. Schaepe (2006:671) does note the political role that these monumental fortifications played in promoting ownership and defining territory, arguing that they demonstrate an inter-village system of governance that worked to protect this valuable landscape. Schaepe noted that the sites require further study to address their temporal and spatial distribution, so this thesis is a follow-up and expansion of Schaepe’s important work. I evaluate his hypothesis in a later chapter by applying the defensive index and viewshed analysis to a sample of the rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon.   63  Overall, the archaeological landscape as embedded in the physical geography of the Lower Fraser River Canyon is rich but less studied than the adjacent Fraser River Valley and Gulf of Georgia. Although it has yielded sites of significance, there are several reasons why many researchers have chosen to focus elsewhere on the Northwest Coast, not the least of which is the somewhat acrimonious local politics that, as discussed below, have been developing over a long period. The contemporary political landscape is a direct product of the complex history of exploration, conquest and colonization. Cultural Landscape In this section, I consider how ethnographic reconstructions of culture have created a view of the Canyon as a central place among Coast Salish communities. I begin by addressing the complicated nature of cultural boundaries in the Coast Salish world. This has been a topic of recent study by Thom (2009) who identifies the paradox of territory within Coast Salish communities, as western concepts of fixed boundaries between communities are antithetical to many Coast Salish people. The act of drawing lines on a map does not make sense in a culture where identity was as much informed by kinship as it was by belonging to one particular place. Tensions between families and communities have been exacerbated by the necessity of claiming a territory that more often than not overlaps considerably with neighbours, family members and friends. The northern edge of the Lower Fraser River Canyon sits along a much more strictly defined boundary than many other areas of the Coast Salish world – that between the Coast Salish and the Nlaka’pamux or Interior Salish. Even today, members of the Yale community will not cross Sawmill Creek (see Figure 3.4), as it would infringe upon the territory of the Nlaka’pamux. Thus in one sense, the Lower Fraser River Canyon is well defined as the northeastern borderland of Coast Salish territory, whereas in another sense, it can be considered a central place in the Coast Salish world (Carlson 2007; Schaepe 2006). The southern boundary of the Lower Fraser River   64  Canyon, therefore, was subject to different forms of boundary-making than the northern portion. Another consideration is the relationship between the ethnographic and archaeological records. This has been the recent focus of critique, as archaeologists working on the Northwest Coast have often extended observed cultural patterns from the “ethnographic present” uncritically into the distant past (Grier 2007; Schaepe 2009). While the testing of ethnographically generated models with archaeological data can prove fruitful (Schaepe 2009), the ethnographic record is best conceived as an account of changes within indigenous cultures over the past 200 years, just as the archaeological record is an account of change over the past 10,000 years. I frame this discussion of the cultural landscape in terms of the social practices that informed the identity-making process of indigenous peoples in the time just after European contact and the first smallpox epidemic of 1782. While many social practices were in place in the Canyon, the most important feature evoked repeatedly by First Nations peoples is how access to the fishery is regulated. I conclude this section by discussing of the usefulness of ethnographic accounts of culture in understanding the role of built rock features in the process of identity formation and maintenance in the late pre-contact period of the Lower Fraser River Canyon. The question of who belongs in the Canyon has perhaps never had a simple answer. Ethnographic Reconstructions of Culture  [T]he indigenous people living in the lower Fraser watershed are generally known collectively as the “Stó:lō” or “River People.” Whether the term Stó:lō implies simple cultural similarity, social affiliation, or some degree of underlying political unity, however, is hotly debated. Some Aboriginal people regard the meaning behind the term Stó:lō as a construct of the western intellectual tradition. Others go so far as to dismiss the notion of a Stó:lō collective identity as a duplicitous fiction created by nefarious academics and Canadian politicians to facilitate the erasure of more traditional   65  tribal and settlement-based forms of identification and political authority. (Carlson 2003:6) For the people who lived in the Lower Fraser River Canyon for thousands of years, the river was the primary means of transportation, communication and sustenance. It was a central part of the lives of people from all around the Coast Salish world (Carlson 2001c). The Lower Fraser River Canyon has been portrayed as the traditional territory of the Stó:lō people, part of the larger Coast Salish speaking world, although the area of study is currently disputed between members of the Stó:lō Nation and the Yale First Nation. This is partially a product of the history of research; therefore, the following should in no way be considered a definitive history of cultural practices in this region. In this section, I discuss the work of several ethnographers whose focus was on the Coast Salish in a broad sense as well as the Stó:lō in particular. The term Stó:lō literally means “river” in Halq’emélem, the upriver dialect of the Halkomelem Coast Salish language family, but is used in anthropology to refer to “a collective of indigenous Halkomelem-speaking peoples” who inhabit the entire lower Fraser River watershed (Schaepe 2009:330). In the contemporary political landscape of this region, however, the term Stó:lō, as illustrated in the quote above, is a highly contentious term.5 A recent focus of research (Carlson 2010; Schaepe 2009) has been on the origins of collective political identity that has come to be represented by supra-tribal organizations such as the Stó:lō Nation and Stó:lō Tribal Council6                                                 5 I use the term Stó:lō here as it has been the term employed by ethnographers, anthropologists, archaeologists and the communities they work with to refer to the people who lived in the Canyon prior to their relocation to downriver reserves. This collective identity is strenuously objected to by one of the communities I have collaborated with on this project who still live in the Canyon today. . While recent archaeological research by Schaepe (2009) suggests that a supra-tribal collective political and economic community may have arisen in the area by 550 BP, a historical analysis by 6 The Stó:lō Nation and Stó:lō Tribal Council are institutions who represent a collective of several First Nations in the Upper Fraser River Valley and surrounding areas. For more information on the Stó:lō Nation, please see: http://www.stolonation.bc.ca/, and for more information on the Stó:lō Tribal Council, please see: http://www.stolotribalcouncil.ca/.   66  Carlson (2003) shows how this collective, supra-tribal political identity is partially a product of indigenous agency in response to devastating colonial oppression and disenfranchisement. The term political is important here, because strong inter-community connections existed in social, familial and economic realms prior to the interference of colonial forces in indigenous lifeways. Whether or not true political unity existed prior to contact is still a major point of debate.  The portion of the river, named the “Rapids” or the “Falls” by some of the earliest European settlers at Fort Langley (MacLachlan 1998), was an area where several thousand people aggregated from all over the Gulf of Georgia for as many as two months each summer at the height of the fishing season. Strong currents proved to be a major challenge for salmon returning to their spawning grounds on the upriver tributaries of the Fraser, allowing people to catch resting salmon. People would come from as far away as Vancouver Island in order to fish in the Lower Fraser River Canyon, as it was the ideal location to catch tens of thousands of salmon from the greatest salmon river in the world and wind-dry them for preservation through the winter months. The best fishing spots were highly prized locations adjacent to back- eddies, the ownership of which was negotiated through family and kin relationships. Although salmon played a crucial role in providing food to last through the winter, the landscape provided other forms of nutrition, as plant-gathering and hunting formed important elements of the subsistence pattern. Ethnographic accounts record people in this region maintaining berry patches at high elevations through selective burning (Duff 1952). Terrestrial mammals such as black bear, deer and mountain goat were taken for meat and secondary products. Several key elements of culture tie the landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon to the process of identity making: (1) ownership and protection of resource locations; (2) kinship relations that permit access to resource locations; and (3) intercommunity interaction through the seasonal aggregation of people from many   67  places in the Coast Salish world. Identities are scalar and interconnected, since ownership and protection of resource locations was the primary concern of people who lived at a series of permanent settlements within the Canyon. Access based on kinship was with family members and in-laws living along the Fraser River from the Canyon to the Delta, and other access could be negotiated through tribute and trade with members of communities across the Strait of Georgia to the islands. The cultural landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, therefore, has broader connections throughout the Coast Salish world. Any person beyond this scope, unconnected by kin, was an outsider or an enemy. A constant tension between co-operation and conflict existed in terms of who had rights to access fishing locations, occasionally resulting in open hostilities, a situation which emphasizes the significance of the landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon for the Coast Salish of the Gulf of Georgia.  Whether or not Coast Salish society was comprised of class distinctions has been a matter of some ethnographic debate. Suttles (1987:12) suggested that Coast Salish communities were comprised of a large class of high status peoples, with a few leaders, and a smaller proportion of the society comprised of “worthless people.” Below this was a small class of slaves, comprising the bottom of what Suttles terms “inverted pear” (Suttles 1958:14) social stratification. A large upper class within Coast Salish society has implications for labour organization and coercion; it is less likely that a high class person could mobilize labour from other high status people. Social organization of this form is based on Suttles’ ethnographic reconstructions of culture and may not reflect pre-contact society. In fact, Schaepe (2009:258-260) argues that the social structure in the late period (550 cal BP -100 cal BP) might be an inversion of Suttles’ inverted pear, with a smaller group of individuals having high status and living in large houses. Lower class people formed the largest portion of society in Schaepe’s model. If this model is a more accurate representation of past social organization, then it is possible that high status people could have controlled labour from lower strata in society, both from the   68  lower class and from slaves. The nature of class distinctions among societies along the lower Fraser River, therefore, is still being investigated. Ownership of Resource Locations Prior to the migrations of the nineteenth century, the “owners” of canyon fishing sites tended to live in one of the several adjacent settlements. Ownership, expressed though the regulation of extended family members’ access, was the prerogative of men, although the right was sometimes inherited through a mother’s line. The system of property transfer was the potlatch naming ceremony. (Carlson 2007:157) The canyon was a desirable place to catch and preserve salmon, so access to the area was sought after by people living all along the Fraser River and into the Gulf of Georgia. Therefore, those communities who controlled that access were in a position of organizational power (Wolf 1990:586) over their neighbours, with a greater ability to affect the lives of other people (for a detailed discussion, see Angelbeck 2009:19-20). The steep and rocky nature of the Lower Fraser River Canyon limited the number of locations with good access to a back eddy or otherwise desirable fishing spot. Extended families owned such locations (Suttles 1960:320; Thom 2009) and they were usually managed by a prominent male member of the family, known in Upriver Halkomelem as siyá:m. Ownership consisted of several privileges and responsibilities and included the right to deny access and the obligation to share both within and between communities. As Carlson noted, the “use of dip nets, platforms and dry racks was regulated by family leaders, who ensured that all people received sufficient winter supplies while granting higher-status relatives preferential access” (Carlson 2001a). Access to fishing spots was enforced by those living in nearby settlements and could be refused to distant affinal kin or to people who could not demonstrate kin relationships (Thom 2009:185).7                                                 7 This practice continues today, as histories of family ownership are evoked as part of contemporary disputes around ancestral fishing locations in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. See Carlson ( 2007) for a discussion.   69  However, tensions often arose when one family did not recognize another family’s rights of ownership, and if these disputes went unresolved, people sometimes experienced shortages in necessary resources (Carlson 2007:159-161). In ethnographic accounts, it appears that the more desirable the location, the more necessary it was to define which family had rights in order to that place to reduce conflict (Carlson 2001a). Familial rights to these spots were maintained by transferring of ancestral names and prerogatives to one’s descendants at potlatches. Members of high-status families would come from all over the Coast Salish world to witness and clarify collective family ownership through these ceremonies (Carlson 2007). When a leading member assumed a name that harked back to the beginning of the world when the ancestors of the group first appeared on the spot, this not only demonstrated the validity of the group’s title but perhaps also announced in effect ‘this is the man in charge of our resources’ (Suttles 1960). A famous potlatch was held in 1890 to transfer hereditary rights to a Canyon fishing location. (Carlson 2007:159). Suxyel, a well-known leader of a prominent family living at the site of Aselaw, decided to move out of the Canyon to more arable land further downriver. As a necessary consequence of this move, the elders of the family required that his name and associated rights to the family fishing location be transferred to a member of the younger generation, in this case his youngest son who carried great potential for spiritual power. A potlatch was held in Yale which included guests from as far away as Vancouver Island and Powell River who witnessed the transfer and ensured the hereditary name, along with all associated privileges and responsibilities, remained part of the family line (Carlson 2007). Intercommunity Interaction and Access to Resource Locations While people who lived at locations in the Lower Fraser River Canyon were responsible for regulating access to valuable fishing spots, their extended kin, connected either by birth or marriage, were also entitled to share in the benefits. Advantageous   70  marriages were often arranged to ensure access to valuable property among high-status families, since “knowing who your relatives were and being able to demonstrate family relationships was … of great economic importance” (Carlson 2001a:27). If a family from further downriver could show either blood or in-law relationships with a family in the Canyon, they had the right to partake in the summer fishery (Carlson 2007). Most people who lived along the river could trace some form of connection to a family-owned fishing station in the Lower Fraser River Canyon and claim the right to use it (Duff 1952). However, since “coastal and valley people had greater incentive to visit the canyon than their relations had to visit them,” the Lower Fraser River Canyon was an important central hub of interaction, allowing the people who lived there to hold positions of power (Carlson 2001a:27). This is illustrated by the fact that one of the most highly respected leaders of the Stó:lō world, Liquitem, lived at Yale during the late nineteenth century (Duff 1952; Smith 1949).  Suttles (1960) argued that sharing access was a mechanism to cope with the variability and seasonality of resources, creating possibilities for getting rid of excess of food resources from one location (i.e. salmon) and replacing it with different resources (i.e. berries). However, sharing access also formed networks of places that people could access through both ancestral rights and marriage connections (Thom 2009:186). These networks were important among the Coast Salish, but could shift and change quite readily through generations. The fluidity of kin relations was partly constrained by families’ attempts to create and maintain marriage ties to other high-status families. For example, access may have been regulated with greater care during the summer months of July and August, as this was the ideal time for wind-drying salmon (Carlson 2001c). With an aggregation of several thousand people in a seven kilometre stretch of river, location ownership may have been required to be clearly expressed and maintained. It was during this time that family connections could become mobilized and, in some cases, disputed. The physical presence of a permanent feature on that landscape could have lent greater power to a family’s right to control access to that particular location.   71  Co-operation and Conflict The significance of the Lower Fraser River Canyon in the cultural landscape of the Coast Salish can be illustrated further by exploring the cultural tension between the value placed on non-violent conflict resolution and the ambivalent status of warriors (for a discussion, see Angelbeck 2009:109-113). Kinship and marriage were means to obtain access to valuable fishing locations without actually residing year round in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. Among these relations, potlatches appear to have been the main mechanism to establish rights and title to these fishing spots. When disputes arose, a family would engage in a public display of ancestral connection in order to silence any dissenting voices. As Carlson (2007:157) notes, “tensions between different social and economic classes among the Coast Salish” were a result of “internal indigenous efforts at boundary maintenance.” Most Coast Salish communities were structured on class lines, where the majority of the population were “worthy” people who had demonstrated connection to ancestors, knowledge and moral training, a smaller portion of the community were free but “worthless” people, either tainted by the stigma of slave ancestry or having lost/forgotten their own connections to history, and the smallest portion were slaves, considered non-human property of members of the highest class (Carlson 2007; Suttles 1958). Cultural value was placed on wisdom, ability, industry, generosity, humility and pacifism, so leaders of the highest ranking families were people who displayed these qualities and earned the respect of other members of society (Duff 1952; Suttles 1958). Tensions between members of socio-economic classes occasionally resulted in the worthless or low-class members of the village moving away to establish their own settlements (Carlson 2007) but could also be mediated by the high status and morally superior leaders (Duff 1952; Suttles 1958).  Two levels of conflict threatened the villages of the Lower Fraser River Canyon that could not be mediated away and often resulted in violence: feuds and raids for wealth (Schaepe 2006), so “most villages of any size had at least one fighting man who assumed leadership of village defence or of war-parties” (Duff 1952:81). These warriors   72  had supernatural powers but were also considered somewhat dangerous (Angelbeck 2009); they played a central role when villages were under threat. Intercommunity conflict among the Coast Salish has been the focus of recent research (Angelbeck 2009; Schaepe 2000), partially in response to a persistent perception that Coast Salish people were passive defenders against violent intruders such as the Lekwiltok from Northern Vancouver Island. Angelbeck argues that this stems from a limited window into Coast Salish history, one blurred by the effects of disease and impacts of European firearms (Angelbeck 2007:261). An interpretation of the significance of these rock feature sites is that they acted as part of a defensive network, co-ordinated and managed by a corporate family group political structure which served to regulate access to the entire Lower Fraser River Canyon (Schaepe 2006). A collective Canyon identity, therefore, may have been best expressed during times of stress, particularly warfare. The rock wall features, if serving a primarily defensive purpose, may have been material expressions of that collective identity. The remains of these patterns, both cultural and material, were significantly disrupted by the arrival of disease, followed by the first encounters with European explorers, fur traders, and eventually the establishment of the colony of British Columbia. Colonial Landscape  This section discusses the first encounters between First Nations peoples and the invading explorers from Europe. The term history has been used in archaeology as a contrast to the term prehistory. Inherent in this usage is a privileging of written history over other forms of historical reckoning and ways of knowing. I consciously avoid the term prehistory throughout this thesis, but find the term colonial landscape useful for detailing the impacts that European contact had on the other forms of landscape defined in this chapter. In this section, I also present some local First Nations’ histories of contact to illustrate how the arrival of Europeans on their land influenced the relationship between settlers and First Nations groups for the next century.   73  First Contact Compared to the rest of what is now defined as North America, the Northwest Coast in general had a late history of European colonization. The first recorded visits by Europeans to this region date to the mid-late eighteenth century, when Russian and Spanish explorers encountered Tlingit, Haida and Nuu-chah-nulth peoples along the outer coast (Carlson 1990a). One of the consequences of these visits, particularly Cook’s 1778 “third voyage of discovery” (Carlson 1990b:70), was the recognition of the value of sea otter pelts in the growing fur trade to Asia and Europe. When this was made public, merchants were drawn to the region in great numbers. Throughout the 1780s and 1790s, Spanish, British and French explorers mapped large portions of the coast, establishing both positive and negative relationships with local First Nations. Although no permanent forts or trading posts were established until 1799, the introduction of European trade goods had a near immediate impact on the traditional political structures of First Nations (Martindale and Jurakic 2006). Exacerbating this disruption was a smallpox epidemic hypothesized to have travelled via inland trade routes and possibly decimated the population of the coast in 1782 (Harris 1994). The potential major loss of life is notable in several ways: (1) it renders much early ethnographic work problematic; (2) it makes estimating pre-contact population challenging; and (3) it means that peoples of the Lower Fraser River Canyon felt the impact of European contact at least a decade or more before they ever saw a European. Not only did this epidemic take the lives of a large portion of the population8Much of the early exploration did not push up the river valleys, but in the 1790s and early 1800s, there was an increasing desire to find the famed “Northwest Passage,”  (Harris 1994), it also left the structure of society in disarray, as the inherited rights to names, crests and positions of power were undermined because entire lineages may have been wiped out.                                                   8 Estimates about the actual percentage of the population that died from smallpox is debated, ranging up to 90% (Harris 1994).   74  a navigable route that would connect the east with the west. Several expeditions were mounted, and the first European to arrive at the Coast overland was Alexander Mackenzie, who followed the Bella Coola River to the ocean (Suttles 1990). This was followed by the descent of the Columbia River by Lewis and Clark in 1805-1806. Simon Fraser, of the North West Fur Company, was attempting to find the origin of the Columbia River when he embarked on his journey of 1808. The river Fraser followed to the sea was not the Columbia, much to his disappointment; it was a river now known by his name. His journey from the Interior to the Coast is the first written account that refers to the Lower Fraser River Canyon. His journal survived and provides us with a perspective on the attitudes of European explorers toward First Nations people at that time. Tuesday, June 28, 1808:  Continued and crossed a small river on a wooden bridge. Here the main river tumbles from rock to rock between precipices with great violence… This nation is different in language and manners from the other nations we had passed… Both sexes are stoutly made, and some of the men are handsome; but I cannot say so much for the women, who seem to be slaves, for in course of their dances, I remarked that the men were pillaging them from one another. At the bad rock [Lady Franklin Rock], a little distance above the village, where the rapids terminate, the Natives informed us, that white people like us came there from below; and they shewed [sic] us indented marks which the white people made upon the rocks, but which, bye the bye, seemed to us to be natural marks. (Fraser 2007:118-120) Here Simon Fraser is crossing a boundary from Interior to Coastal people as defined by the small creek he crossed, thought to be Siwash or Sawmill Creek. He and his crew could not navigate the river through this section of the Canyon, because the river was in freshet and highly dangerous. Of all the areas of the river, this was one of the most physically challenging, since Fraser and his crew were required to portage by   75  scaling steep cliffs – “we had to pass many difficult rocks, defiles and precipices” (Fraser 2007:136). Simon Fraser first observed plank houses during this part of his journey: “an excellent house 46 by 23 feet and constructed like American plank houses” and that “on the opposite side of the river, there is a considerable village with houses similar to the one upon this side” (Fraser 2007:119). While there are several archaeological sites that may correspond with this village, all of these locations may have contained rock features, although these were not mentioned in Fraser’s journal.  The “natural marks” shown Fraser were the remnants of a major battle between two local mythical figures. The fact that Simon Fraser did not recognize the marks meant he did not belong there, contrary to the initial impression of the people was that he was the Transformer returned to make the world right once more (Carlson 2001c). As word of Simon Fraser travelled down the river to the Coast, his reception became less and less cordial, until he encountered open hostility from the Musqueam (Carlson 2007:126). From a First Nations perspective, this visit was troubling: A long time ago when tribes had left winter villages to go to Yale for summer for salmon, news came from above from Big Canyon that men of a different race were coming. The people were troubled. It was thought that they must be the people spoken of in the old stories. They were getting scared. They thought that because they were the people spoken of in the old stories by their grandparents, when they appeared they would help the good people and be their friends, but if bad they [would turn] them into stone, or animals or birds…The chief sent messengers to [meet] the strangers at big Canyon and to invite them to come down…When the party got to Yale all the people were crowded the [better] to receive them and gave them all kinds of food. When the Yale people saw them they remembered that some time before a visitor to them from the Columbia River country had described the way of the white people and they then found that they were the same, and they were easy in their mind – (Chief Peter Ayessick of Hope (1890s), quoted in Carlson 2001c:84)   76  One of the consequences of Fraser’s journey was the realization that the river was not the easily navigable trade route that the North West Fur Company had hoped. Instead, it was treacherous and impassable, so other routes into the Interior had to be established. A second descent of the river in 1828 by George Simpson confirmed this verdict (Fraser 2007). Although he travelled in the fall when the river was lower, he nevertheless found the journey terrifying and concluded that, “I should consider the passage down, to be certain Death, in nine attempts out of ten” (Simpson in Fraser 2007:50). The Fraser River was not used as a European trade route of any significance until the building of the Cariboo wagon road in 1862 (Harris 1998). In the meantime, several other events had an impact on the historical landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, notably the founding of Hudson’s Bay forts and the Fraser River Gold Rush. Fort Langley The policies of the fur companies based in what was to become Canada were to limit settlers in fur country, as employees who wished to settle “were considered threats to the trade” (MacLachlan 1998:6). For the forty years or so after the establishment of the fur trade, therefore, there were no large settlements of Europeans anywhere on the Coast. The Hudson’s Bay Company, seeking to control the British rights to trade for rich furs in the region, worked to establish a headquarters north of the 49th parallel and launched several expeditions to scout an appropriate location (MacLachlan 1998). Following the success of Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, the decision was made to establish a similar presence on the Fraser River. By the summer of 1827, plans for Fort Langley were well underway, and the process of colonization began to accelerate. As was practice at the time, the Chief Factor kept a daily log book of the activities of the Fort, including the comings and goings of local Indians. The connection between Fort Langley and the Lower Fraser River Canyon is found in these daily logs, particularly when the salmon were running in the summer:    77  1827: Chief Factor George Barnston Thursday, August 2: The arrival of this fish is hailed by the natives with joy and festivity. At this time they are excellent, but only to be had at the Rapids above, where in the course of the season great quantities of them are taken by the natives and dried for winter provisions. (MacLachlan 1998:31) Monday, August 20: A number of Cowitchens passed with their families and moveables on their way up to kill Salmon at the Rapids, where they are to remain some time collecting a Stock of Dried Provisions for winter (MacLachlan 1998:33) Saturday, August 25: Families from the Sanch Village at Point Roberts have been passing in continued succession during the day all bound for the Salmon fishery. (MacLachlan 1998:34) 1828 Thursday July 17: Rain. Indians passing in great numbers up to the fisheries. (68) Saturday July 19: 250 Cowitchens passed up. (MacLachlan 1998:69) Tuesday August 12: About 100 canoes of different tribes went up with their families. (MacLachlan 1998:71) Friday September 12: 30 canoes passed down bag and baggage from the fisheries for their wintering grounds. (MacLachlan 1998:72) Monday September 15: 35 canoes of Cowitchins passed down. (MacLachlan 1998:72) Friday September 19: 47 canoes passed down today (MacLachlan 1998:72) These journal entries document the active late summer fishery in the Lower Fraser River Canyon, when communities from all over the Coast Salish world would aggregate to harvest and dry salmon for their. Although the absolute antiquity of this seasonal pattern is uncertain, oral histories and archaeological evidence suggest it was established prior to these European accounts.  Fort Langley had great historical significance beyond what was recorded in the journals of the Chief Factors. Suttles (1998:207) observes that “the changes were largely quantitative and significant mainly in what they foreshadowed of qualitative changes   78  that lay ahead.” The permanent presence of European traders on the Fraser River had immediate impacts on several communities, including the Kwantlen, who moved closer to the Fort to act as intermediaries in trade and to put themselves in a position of power vis-a-vis other groups (Suttles 1998). European trade goods had been part of the economy for at least 40 years prior to the founding of Fort Langley, but the Fort’s presence would have accelerated trade and provided new opportunities to gain power. The increased use of trade goods had an impact on local production of certain tools, particularly those which could be replaced with metal (Suttles 1998). Aboriginal leaders were not all treated equally, since most Factors were more willing to bestow favours and trade with certain individuals at the expense of others. The Fort personnel did not become directly involved in the internal politics and practices of local Salish peoples unless they affected the safety or livelihood of the Fort; nevertheless, they responded to any disobedience with physical violence that foreshadowed the dominance that was to come. The Fraser River Gold Rush in 1858 was the next major event that contributed to the shift from exploration to colonization and settlement of the Lower Fraser River Canyon. The Fraser River Gold Rush “A faint cry was heard from afar – first low and uncertain, like a mysterious whisper, then full and sonorous, like the book of glad tidings from the mouth of a cannon, the inspiring cry of Frazer River! Here was gold sure enough! A river of gold!” (Browne 1872:314) Xwelitem, that’s what the Indians call the white man, because in them days those white people travelling on the way to the gold rush, they were starving. Xwelitem, that means starving. Well, the Indians began to feed them, feed them till they get alright. – (Dan Milo quoted in Carlson 2001c:85) In 1858, the word of gold on the Fraser River spread down the west coast to the disheartened miners in California. While eventually it was considered a dud of a gold rush, the huge influx of Americans and other miners to the Lower Fraser River Canyon   79  had widespread impacts, both immediate and long term, on the history of the area. Previous policy of the British government was to exploit the resources and the people without establishing permanent settlements; trading posts were established at Hope and Yale in the late 1840s with the intent of creating better trade routes to the Interior. Fort Yale was only open for two seasons – 1848 and 1849 – until it was closed. In the summer of 1858, Fort Yale reopened when it became the epicentre of the largest population near the Pacific north of California. The catalyst for the early part of the Fraser Gold Rush was a packet of gold sent to San Francisco from Fort Victoria, likely “leaked” on purpose under the watchful eye of New Caledonian governor James Douglas, who believed a gold rush would be a “modest economic stimulus” (Hauka 2003:22) in a colony experiencing a severe depression. In spring 1858, a small group of Americans struck gold on Hill’s Bar, just downriver from the modern town of Yale, in what was to become the most productive claim of the entire rush. Once news had spread about gold on the Fraser, small Fort Victoria was quickly overrun by several thousand Americans bound for the Lower Fraser River Canyon. Up to 30,000 miners took part in the rush that was concentrated between Yale and Lytton (Hauka 2003). Some of the encounters between miners and First Nations people turned violent, especially with American attitudes of superiority and disdain toward Aboriginal peoples (Hauka 2003). The establishment of the colony of British Columbia was in a large part a response to growing unrest and tension between American miners and local First Nations, particularly the Nlaka’pamux (Harris 1998; Hauka 2003). Once they realized the value of gold, many First Nations people asserted their rights to their land in more forceful ways than prior to the gold rush.  The majority of the miners set out from Victoria in April, May, and June of 1858, at the absolute height of the freshet. Most of the productive bars for gold panning were under several feet of fast moving, treacherous water, so the miners stationed themselves around Fort Yale, anxiously awaiting the late summer and fall drop in water levels. This   80  created a dangerous and volatile situation that often erupted into violence, both among miners and between miners and First Nations.  At first the Stó:lō and Nlaka’pamux of the canyon entered into a wary economic relationship with the newcomers. The Natives supplied guides, canoes, food and women in return for trade goods and, occasionally, men. But as the non-Natives began to vastly outnumber the aboriginal people of the canyon, tensions rose and disputes became more frequent. The miners put pressure on the Nlaka’pamux and Stó:lō to provide camping space, firewood and fodder for their animals., The Nlaka’pamux and the Stó:lō watched as the miners literally destroyed their land. (Hauka 2003:78) The crux of the conflict occurred in late summer when the rape of a Nlaka’pamux girl sparked an immediate and bloody retaliation by her family, wherein the headless bodies of the rapists were thrown into the river to wash up at an eddy still known as Deadman’s Eddy. For a few months, numerous casualties occurred on both sides before Governor Douglas arrived on the scene to assert British rule over the territory in response to what he saw as an American attempt to claim sovereignty. Two months later, in November, he declared British sovereignty over the newest colony of the British Empire: British Columbia.  The gold rush marks the birth of the land question at Yale—a time when western legal structures for the division and sale of land were first put into place, redefining how land and resources were controlled and accessed (Laforet 1974). For the Coast Salish living along the river, it represented the beginning of the shift from an almost exclusively subsistence-based economy to a wage-based economy, a change which had a negative impact on the annual cycle and disrupted existing cultural practices. While information from this time period about the daily practices of First Nations peoples in the Canyon is almost non-existent beyond sensationalist media accounts of the violence between First Nations and miners, it appears that while the fishery may have been temporarily disrupted, the social and political organization within First Nation communities remained somewhat intact (Laforet 1974). The major change that occurred   81  during the latter part of the nineteenth century was the movement of local First Nations out of the Canyon and down into the Fraser Valley, sometimes by choice and sometimes by colonial design, in order to practice agriculture (Carlson 2001c; Laforet 1974). Many of the mining techniques used, particularly placer mining, required digging open-pits and moving great quantities of material from the edges of the river and disturbing the landscape. The miners created some rock features of their own by piling up rocks to make sluices near the river’s edge. It is impossible to estimate the impact this had on the archaeological record, as so much ancient history was torn up in search of tiny flakes of gold. As will be explained in Chapter 5, the rock features produced by miners have distinctively different characteristics when compared to Aboriginal rock constructions. Nevertheless, the gold rush had a destructive impact on the landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon, heralding the beginning of a long history of colonial projects that transformed the landscape. Wagon Roads, Railways and Highways After gold fever had died down and the flood of miners had moved upriver to follow the promise of easier access to untold riches on the upper reaches of the Fraser River, the impact of the gold rush on the physical landscape and the cultural makeup of the Lower Fraser River Canyon began to be felt. With the establishment of the colony of British Columbia, the colonial machine got underway, modifying the landscape in more invasive ways to develop connections between Coast and the Interior. As demand increased for goods to be transported to the interior, Governor Douglas ordered the construction of a wagon road along the west bank of the Fraser to replace the unreliable mule road (Barman 1996). In order to lower the price of supplies to the interior, goods were transported by steamboat to Yale then loaded onto wagons to make the 400 mile trip from Yale all the way to Barkerville (Laforet 1974). At a cost of over one million dollars, the project was the first major undertaking of the new colony.   82  Yale served as head of navigation for over 20 years, remaining an important hub of the colony because much of the freight heading to the Interior had to pass through the town. During this time, Aboriginal people remained in separate settlements outside the town of Yale, while seeking economic opportunities in farming and agriculture. Governor Douglas and his colonial administration were realized that the interaction between First Nations communities and an increasingly large settler population was causing tension that needed to be regulated. The government decided to established reserves to protect the interests, including fishing rights, of First Nations people. In 1876, the Joint Indian Reserve Commission was founded. By 1878, only one member of this commission remained, Gilbert Sproat, who was tasked with solving the Indian Land Question (Carlson 2007). He visited Yale in order to assign reserve lands, but was initially confounded with the question of how the land should be divided up, when he immediately was informed about the unique nature of the Lower Fraser River Canyon within the broader Coast Salish world (Carlson 2007). In response to his discussions with prominent members of local First Nations families, he recommended that the entire stretch of river above Yale to Sawmill Creek be set aside as a reserve: The right of these and other Indians who have resorted to the Yale fisheries from time immemorial to have access to, and to encamp upon the banks of the Fraser River for the purpose of carrying on their salmon fisheries in their old way on both sides of the Fraser River for five miles up from Yale is confirmed. (Sproat in Carlson 2007:156) Sproat retired abruptly from the commission and it took 30 more years before official reserves were registered in the Canyon. In the meantime, the Canadian Pacific Railroad was built between 1880 and 1885, cutting through the west bank of the Fraser, disturbing ancient village sites and burial grounds (Laforet 1974). The railway destroyed the Cariboo Wagon Road, leading to the construction of a new roadway in 1922. The highway was further enhanced in the 1950s, later to be superseded by the Trans-Canada highway in the early 1960s. All of these projects continued the   83  destruction, begun during the gold rush, of cultural and archaeological sites, villages, and sacred locations in the Canyon.  Spatial Patterns of Identity, Permanence and Control of Access  The origins of the control of fishing spots and the transfer of hereditary rights are difficult to trace into ancient history. The marking of a spot through a permanent construction, such as a rock wall or platform, may be an indicator of a need to define ownership in the face of increasing demand and pressure for access. When a family invests time and energy into building a rock terrace at a fishing spot, they were enacting agency in a way that etched their claim onto the landscape and enforced their right to that location. Cultural patterns are inscribed onto the physical landscape through the act of building. The rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon are one of several types of construction, so I use archaeological data to explore the spatial pattern of settlement on the various landscapes of the Canyon in the following chapters.   84  4: ACQUIRING DATA: METHODS OF FIELD COLLECTION Introduction In Chapter 3, I explored the various landscapes of the Lower Fraser River Canyon to demonstrate the potential significance of the construction of rock features in past cultural practices of First Nations people. These features are a physical remnant of past occupation in the landscape and their spatial patterns and characteristics can be measured and described. The spatial relationship between the rock features may represent an aspect of the cultural landscape modified by active agents that changed the perception of visitors to this area in times of intensive seasonal aggregation. To evaluate the impact that the building of rock features had on the ways that local peoples marked and enforced their claim to lands in the Canyon, I require details on where rock features are located, how they were built, when they were built and what they were used for. In this chapter, I outline the methods used to create a database to query spatial relationships among rock walls and terraces in the Lower Fraser River Canyon. I describe my survey, recording, and mapping procedures in detail. I highlight in this chapter how contemporary disputes influenced data collection. This is a situation often encountered by archaeologists when working with indigenous communities, but the impact of these disputes on the research is rarely discussed. I worked in an area where two communities are making claims to the territory, where I had negotiate with both to gain permission to fieldwork. Throughout the chapter, I include sections in italics that detail the impact that contemporary intercommunity politics had on my field research.    85  Background to the Project The question of past community organization and identity was the recent focus of a major collaborative research project between the Stó:lō Nation, the University of British Columbia and Simon Fraser University. The main goal of this multi-year, SSHRC funded project was “the study of Stó:lō social interaction and group identity in the Fraser Valley” with a focus on a better understanding of the relationship between Stó:lō households, settlements and village-level organization in the late precontact/early contact period (Schaepe 2006:3). The project mapped and collected archaeological samples from eight village sites in the upper Fraser Valley (Schaepe et al. 2006:4). My own research was sparked by my participation as a volunteer for the project when I helped map and record several rock features at one site in the Canyon. In discussions with my colleagues, it became clear that additional work was required to learn more about the age, location, function, and social roles of the rock features. I also knew that given ongoing tensions between members of the Shxw’ow’hamel First Nation, employees of the Stó:lō Research and Resource Management Centre, and members of the Yale First Nation, it would be difficult for members to undertake the research themselves. I welcomed the opportunity to work with all of the people with ancient and contemporary connections to the Canyon, as I began to appreciate the archaeological richness of the area and realized that there were so many interesting questions to ask. As a PhD student, I was also looking forward to the chance to conduct fieldwork alongside members of descendant communities and develop collaborative relationships. I applied for permission to conduct research in the Lower Fraser River Canyon from the Archaeology Branch9, the Yale First Nation, and the Stó:lō Research and Resource Management Centre10                                                 9 Permit No. 2008-0257.  . I visited the Yale and Shxw’ow’hamel First Nations, and presented my research plan for their feedback and approval. Several interesting points of conflict arose during the process of asking for permission. Within the contemporary land claim process established by the Canadian and British Columbian 10 Stó:lō Investigation Permit #2007-32.    86  governments to allow communities to gain recognition of their rights and title to territory, naming becomes a powerful political tool to show a deep connection through time to certain spots. In the Lower Fraser River Canyon, sites are connected to valuable fishing locations. Stó:lō names were alienating to the Yale First Nation, when some members of that community felt as though their history was being erased or ignored. This was brought to my attention during an initial meeting with members at the Yale First Nation band office. I had brought a three-dimensional map of a site with me to show my plans for mapping. The map itself was labelled using the Halkomelem place name Xelhálh, identified by members of Stó:lō communities, referring to DjRi-14, but the person to whom I showed the map had a strong negative reaction to the name. I was informed that these names were dismissing the Yale First Nation claims to these territories and that the names did not represent how Yale viewed the landscape. Members of Yale preferred I use the Borden designation to represent sites in the Canyon. While I recognize the Stó:lō have names of many places in the Canyon, I generally refer to sites using Borden designations, since they are not as politically divisive as Halkomelem names. Stó:lō place names for the locations mentioned in the text can be found in Appendix 1. Borden designations, however, are a colonial legacy which displaces indigenous naming practices, so using them is not an ideal solution.  Project Goals The fieldwork focused on recording the spatial location of all the rock features between Yale and Sawmill Creek. I developed a set of objectives for fieldwork: (1) survey to determine the scope and extent of rock features; (2) select a sample of rock features for detailed recording; (3) map all rock features; (4) conduct subsurface testing; (5) complete defensive measurements; and (6) collect samples for possible dating. As with any fieldwork project, these objectives changed as I encountered the unexpected. The following sections are an account of the research design and my decision-making process.   87  Data Collection Survey Design My first goal was to conduct a survey of the area from Lady Franklin Rock to Sawmill Creek on both the east and west bank of the Fraser River, from the current railway down to the high water level, covering an area in excess of 1 km2 (Figure 4.1). The Canadian Pacific Railway runs along the west bank of the Fraser River through this area, while the Canadian National Railway runs along the east bank. Three factors influenced the decision to limit the survey to the area between Lady Franklin Rock and Sawmill Creek: (1) no rock features had ever been recorded below Lady Franklin Rock; (2) the ethnographic significance of this area, coupled with the cultural boundary near Sawmill Creek between Coast and Interior Salish; and (3) the limited time and resources available. There were two locations along the eastern bank where the survey stretched above the railway. Although other surveys had been done in this area, some of the rock features had been dismissed as products of either mining or railway activity and therefore not considered a part of the archaeological landscape (Kidd 1968:229). The majority of the features recorded prior to my survey were located at or adjacent to known village locations.  Much of the area surveyed consisted of steep rocky bluffs, since these rock features seem to occur with greater frequency atop these bluffs, all of which are within 50 m of the Fraser River. Previous research by Schaepe (2006) indicated that these features were located on bluffs for defensive purposes. Another potential reason for their location is the availability of material. Many of these natural rocky bluffs are breaking apart in an angular fashion and provide good material to stack into stable rock features. While surveying, several factors limited our ability evaluate the extent of the rock features on the west bank of the Fraser River, where the highway and the railway disrupted huge portions the area.    88   Figure 4.1. The Lower Fraser Canyon, showing area surveyed.   89    First, the building of this section of the Canadian Pacific Railway from Yale to Kamloops Lake in 1879 destroyed large portions of the area where rock features may have been located, including parts of ancient villages. The east bank of the Fraser has been less impacted by post-contact settlement and construction, so while the underbrush was just as dense, there was a greater possibly of seeing patterns in the distribution of rock features. The remaining landform was not only treacherous, but also thickly covered. At several points we were forced to follow established trails and could not systematically walk the steep and dangerous slope.  Many rock features were highly visible but some were obscured by moss and undergrowth. We flagged anything that resembled a rock feature during the survey. Nevertheless, we continued to find rock features throughout the remaining fieldwork, indicating that the survey procedure may have missed some features. When found, new features were flagged and included in the overall count of rock features. In addition, two features were found below the town of Yale, adjacent to DjRi-49 (Emory Creek) by Larry Hope, a member of the Yale First Nation working with us. Thus, rock features are not limited to the area above Lady Franklin Rock. Future survey should target the river bank below Lady Franklin Rock toward the town of Hope. Survey Procedure The main survey method consisted of a two to four person team systematically walking over the designated survey area. In many areas, the forest was dense and difficult to traverse. Features were located visually, a process hampered by thick moss on large portions of the forest floor and low brush that impeded movement as well as visual survey (Figure 4.2). Mosses obscure the structure of rock features, as in several cases, features initially identified as cultural were discovered to be natural formations once the moss had been cleared. One significant question during the survey was how to tell natural from cultural features based on visual cues. Natural formations were distinguished from cultural features based on several criteria, including a lack of   90  organized stacking patterns, presence of bedrock that is cracking (Figure 4.3), and lack of evidence for purposeful construction. Cultural rock features have characteristics such as cap stones and chinking, whereas natural rock features are jumbled with no clear pattern. Many features are clearly cultural based on non-random stacking patterns and construction attributes (Figure 4.3). The question of natural vs. cultural features became particularly relevant when I spent two days mapping an area that appeared to have several rock features during survey. My field crew and I had spent over a week surveying before we identified these features, so we were familiar with several types of rock constructions, but my field notes reflect that I was unsure even during our initial survey as to whether or not these “features” were in fact constructed by people. Part of the reason for my uncertainty was the presence of rock formations that were natural in the area (Figure 4.3) that could have been mistaken for constructions if viewed from the river. Further complicating the process of determining the origin of the features was the location itself – it seemed similar to other locations that contained rock features, following the overall pattern of sites where I would expect rock features to be built.  Figure 4.2: Vegetation cover obscuring rock features.   91   The mapped area is adjacent to a known late-period village, provides good views up and down river, and had readily available building material. This raised the question of whether this location could be defensive without any modification. When located, each feature was flagged and labelled sequentially using temporary numbers (e.g. RF-T01), and where possible, a GPS reading was taken using a hand-held Garmin GPSMAP 60cs, although GPS readings were not always reliable, discussed further below. Basic data from each wall was collected, including length, width, and height. These initial data allowed for the selection of a sample of rock features to map and record extensively once survey was complete.  In the course of the survey and subsequent research, 91 features were located (see Appendix 2 for a listing of all rock features), 9 of which were later downgraded to natural features, leaving a total of 82 built rock features in the area. I estimate that we achieved 70-80 percent coverage of the survey area, considering the limitations of safety and terrain (Figure 4.1.). Areas where 100 percent survey coverage was achieved are indicated in Figure 4.1. The areas with partial survey coverage need to be revisited in the future to ensure that all rock features in those areas have been located. Based on the distribution of intact features, there would have been a larger complex of rock features in the past, prior to the major impacts on the landscape on both banks of the Fraser River.   Figure 4.3. Natural (left) and cultural (right) rock features.   92  In his initial exploratory research on the rock features, Schaepe (2006:681-682) identified four types of rock features from a limited sample: (1) freestanding, loose masonry, coursed rock walls; (2) loose masonry, coursed rock retaining walls/terrace facing; (3) loose masonry, boulder–piled platforms; and (4) freestanding, positioned boulder alignments. These types form a basis to identify features in the survey and were subsequently expanded to include the full range of feature types observed. The majority of the features were terraces or platforms consisting of a low retaining wall with a flat area extending on the top. Freestanding walls do exist but are rare; however, it is possible that some features that now appear as terraces were once walls. With no fill, rock walls would be more susceptible to collapse. Unfortunately, since the majority of the features are in rocky areas or on loose rocky slopes, it is often difficult to determine the extent of collapse of a given feature without further excavation.  Excavation, while the backbone of much archaeological research, is destructive and invasive. On more than one occasion throughout my years of research in the Fraser Valley, members of local First Nations expressed concern about how excavation disturbs the ground in invasive ways, I was asked by a First Nations community to limit excavation to small test-pits on top of or adjacent to rock features, even though excavation could contribute a great deal to our archaeological understanding of these features. Where features had collapsed, I was able to collect information about construction patterns, but enhancing knowledge about the below-ground data is an important to help establish their temporal context. I was able to make observations using non-invasive methods while respecting the protocols established by First Nations communities. Some observations can be made about the rock features using the results of the intensive survey. Although features cluster at or near village locations, they are also present throughout the landscape. Many features would not necessarily work to help protect the village or community from attack, nor optimize inter-visibility. The majority   93  of these constructions are terraces, not free-standing walls that would be expected if their primary function was to fortify village locations.  Sampling the Rock Features The survey results indicated many more rock features throughout this landscape previously recorded, and the range of features was much greater than anticipated. A sample was selected based on: (1) accessibility of rock features; (2) feature type; (3) clustering of features; and (4) suitability of features for mapping. Areas with more than one rock feature, relatively easy access from the river, a variety of feature types, and access to known ground points, were favoured. My plan was to sample the range of known feature types while maximizing the possibility of high precision digital mapping. In total, I recorded qualitative and quantitative attributes on 37% (n=30) of known cultural rock features (Figure 4.4 and Table 4.1). Eight of the 30 features sampled were not mapped with the total station, due to their relative isolation. The 22 mapped and eight unmapped features are described in Chapter 5. The sample was judgmental and is not statistically representative of the archaeological population of rock features. As described in Chapter 6 and Chapter 7, the rock features in the sample do illuminate some patterns about how these features were used and how they represent major modifications to the landscape.  Our results from the survey show a concentration of more than 30 rock features at or adjacent to one well-known archaeological site: DjRi-14, known in Halkomelem as Xelhálh or “hurt people.” This location, adjacent to Lady Franklin Rock at the entrance to the Canyon, is far richer in rock features than any other locations and provides examples of many different types, making it an ideal focus for intensive research. My original intention was to include a number of features from this site in this project, particularly because a partial map had already been produced during previous research (Schaepe et al. 2006).   94   Figure 4.4. Sampled rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon.   95  Table 4.1. Sampled Rock Features. Feature Site Feature Type Mapped RF-T01 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T02 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T03 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T04 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T05 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T06 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T07 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform Yes RF-T10 DjRi-2 (N) Retaining Wall No RF-T11 DjRi-2 (N) Retaining Wall No RF-T14 Unknown Terrace/platform No RF-T16 DjRi-45 Wall No RF-T17 DjRi-45 Semi-circular stone enclosure No RF-T18a DjRi-46 Wall Yes RF-T18b DjRi-46 Wall Yes RF-T21 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform No RF-T29 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform No RF-T35 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform No RF-T63 DjRi-13 Linear stone alignment Yes RF-T64 DjRi-13 Retaining Wall Yes RF-T66 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T68 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T69 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T73a DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T73b DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T74 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T75 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T76 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes RF-T85a DjRi-46 Wall Yes RF-T85b DjRi-46 Wall Yes RF-T89 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Yes  While I was in the field, members of a large survey for a new BC Hydro transmission line through the area had discovered human remains eroding out of a slope on this site. DjRi-14 is situated upon Kulthlath IR3, under the jurisdiction of the Shxw’ow’hamel First Nation, whose main community is now located downriver from Hope. Because IR3 is the only reserve above Yale that does not belong to the Yale First Nation, members at Yale had petitioned the Federal government via the small claims commission to transfer jurisdiction of the reserve to them.   96  When human remains are found, the first step is to evaluate whether it was the result of a recent homicide. The RCMP, members of the SRRMC and the Yale First Nation converged at this spot to determine whether these were ancient remains, and if so, what was to be done with them. The day of this meeting was one of the days I had planned to map the site and record rock features. Due to the tense situation after the encounter, I was asked by one side not to include this site in this project until it had been resolved. Out of respect for the wishes of those involved, the only data from DjRi-14 included here was collected during prior projects (Schaepe 2006) and one subsequent site visit. Since this time, the reserve was confirmed as belonging to the Shxw’ow’hamel First Nation (Freeman 2009). Recording the Rock Features To standardize analysis of the rock features, I relied upon some of the work by Mathews (2006) on rock cairn features at Rocky Point, supplemented with examples of recording of other types of stone features or terraces in other areas of the world (Johansen 2008). Figure 4.5 is the form used to record all features in the sample, but four attributes were added after the forms were printed: rows, courses, stacking and chinking. In the following section I briefly explain how I collected these data. Feature Details Feature ID Number  Each rock feature was assigned a temporary number in the order in which it was located during survey, beginning with RF-T01, and the feature was flagged with the number. When features were located after the survey was complete, they were flagged and assigned numbers at the end of the sequence.    97   Figure 4.5. Field form used to record rock features.   98  For each rock feature in the sample, I established a datum point, usually at the highest spot on one end of the feature in order to facilitate measurements. In most cases, a GPS point was taken at datum, but when the rock feature was part of a site map, this was updated by taking a point with the total station. Borden Designation  Many rock features in the sample are located at or near previously identified archaeological sites with Borden numbers11Feature Type . Where the Borden designation was determined, the information was included on the form to facilitate identification of the location. In some cases, a Borden designation could not be determined, or did not exist. In these cases, the field was left blank. I classified the features into three main types during survey: wall, terrace/platform, and linear alignment. This allowed me to select a sample that included as many different types of features as possible. Walls consist of a single line of rocks with more than one course, and can either be freestanding or backed by a slope. Terraces and platforms are rock features with one or more courses, sometimes joined to make a corner, but always creating a flat surface on top. Linear rock alignments are single lines of rocks aligned along the edges of bluffs or cliffs. I will expand type definitions in Chapter 7. Provenience For each feature, the coordinates and elevation were recorded with a hand-held Garmin GPS unit unless the feature was part of a site mapped with the total station, in which case only the datum was located using the GPS. For the majority of the features,                                                  11 Borden numbers are a Canada-wide system for identifying archaeological sites based on 1:50,000 map sheets. Each map sheet is assigned two capital letters and two lower case letters (i.e. XxXx). When archaeological sites are located, the provincial or territorial archaeology office assigns each site a number based on the order in which sites are found.   99  only the top of the feature was recorded, because recording the top and bottom was redundant. The GPS error was less than ± 10 m in almost all cases where GPS reception was possible. Direction Facing/Aspect I wanted to capture the direction each feature faces in order to evaluate how many faced downriver, across the river, upriver, or away from the river. This allowed me to ask how many features had a downriver view that may have been necessary to recognized raiders coming to attack. Measuring the direction also provided data to test for a relationship between feature type and aspect. I took a general orientation with a compass at 18° declination, typically rounded to the nearest cardinal direction, and noted whether it faced upriver, downriver, across the river, away from the river, or a combination of these.  Feature Attributes Length  All of the size measurements (length, width, height) were taken so I could evaluate the relationship between these dimensions, feature types, and feature use. Length represents the longest axis of the feature. In most cases, this was measured using a flexible 50 m tape held level, and recorded in metres to the nearest centimetre (e.g. 5.14 m). Some features lack clear boundaries. Where it was difficult to determine the exact edge, we estimated the maximum length. Width  Width measures the short axis. In some cases, such as terrace features, only one or two rows were visible, so this measurement has to be considered approximate. For terraces, we measured the extent of the visible rows and the full extent of the terrace. This was confirmed by a test excavation on one terrace and soil probing of several others that indicated the terraces were built with stone. Similar to length, this was   100  estimated to capture maximum width and taken using a 50 m flexible tape measure held level and measured to centimetre accuracy. Where the face of the feature sloped (either inwards or outwards), width measure included the slope. Height  Height measures the maximum vertical rise of the feature. Most features have a vertical face, making the measurement of height straightforward, but in several cases, the highest point of the feature was not directly on the face due to collapse or slump. In these cases, a horizontal measurement and a slope measurement were taken to find out the maximum vertical rise. In both cases, a 50 m flexible tape was used and measurement was to the nearest centimetre. Primary Materials This is an estimate of the types of rocks that constituted the majority of the rock feature, based on a visual assessment (i.e. large angular boulders, rounded cobbles, etc.). This summarized several other fields to allow for general comparisons between different rock features. While this was a useful field tool to distinguish between rock features based on rock type, other categories such as clast and sphericity (discussed below) were more informative during the analysis.   Sphericity The rocks used to create these features differ in angularity. To discuss the types of material used to build the features and evaluate if different forms of rocks were used to construct different feature types, I needed to capture their sphericity. Sphericity/roundness is a method to measure how round a rock is on a scale from well rounded (high sphericity) to very angular (low sphericity). A visual scale developed by Powers (1953) captures both the sphericity and the roundness of sediments, as sphericity relates to volume and roundedness to the occurrence of angles. A rock can contain many angles but still have high sphericity, while a rock can be rounded with low sphericity (Figure 4.6).    101  This 12 point scale runs from well-rounded; high sphericity to very-angular; low sphericity (Table 4.2). When one level of the scale was insufficient to capture the range of sphericity in the feature, based on a visual assessment, more numbers were included in the order of majority. For example, when we examined a feature, we estimated from a cursory count that approximately 70% of the rocks were 5 on the scale and 30% of the rocks were 10, both numbers would be recorded on the form as such: 5, 10.    Table 4.2. Sphericity Scale after (Powers 1953). Code Measure 1 Well-rounded, high sphericity 2 Rounded, high sphericity 3 Sub-rounded, high sphericity 4 Sub-angular, high sphericity 5 Angular, high sphericity 6 Very-angular, high sphericity 7 Well-rounded, low sphericity 8 Rounded, low sphericity 9 Sub-rounded, low sphericity 10 Sub-angular, low sphericity 11 Angular, low sphericity 12 Very-angular, low sphericity Figure 4.6. Roundness and Sphericity (Wikipedia.org).   102  Number of Rocks The number of rocks in each rock feature relates to construction patterns. One assumption that I had made is that larger features would likely have the largest number of rocks, but as I discuss in Chapter 7, this is directly related to the size of the rocks in the feature. The number was estimated in most cases by multiplying the number of rocks from the maximum vertical axis with the number of rocks in the maximum horizontal axis. As this method is imprecise, I created a five level scale that has ranges of rocks rather than a precise estimate: (1) <20 rocks; (2) 20-49 rocks; (3) 50-99 rocks; (4) 100-199 rocks; and (5) 200+ rocks. We tested this measurement scale by counting the number of rocks visible in three different features, all of which measured within the range we estimated.  Clast Clast is a geological measurement of the size of rock particles, from silt to boulder. Size of rocks is important to understanding construction patterns. This field captures variation in sizes of rocks used in various feature types to see if size of rock used relates to how the features were used. Since the primary materials of the rock features are no smaller than cobbles, I adapted a scale beginning with cobbles (1) and progressing up the size range, ending in large boulders (16) (Mathews 2006). Cobbles are rocks less than 200 mm in diameter, boulders range between 200 mm and 1 m in diameter, while large boulders have a diameter of greater than 1 m. The intermediate levels of the scale developed by Mathews are ordered according to the proportion of rocks of a particular size in the feature. This eliminates the need to record more than one level of the scale on the feature form. Infill This is an estimate of the soil to rock ratio with three categories: yes, no and partial. I included this field to evaluate whether features are constructed mostly of stone or if there was soil involved, a factor that contributes to my analysis of construction. When a   103  large amount of soil has filled in the gaps between rocks, the infill would be measured as yes. If part of the feature has some soil or the whole feature contains some soil, an estimate of the percentage of the feature that shows evidence of infill was recorded. If the rocks are stacked with no soil visible, then infill was recorded as no. This variable serves to indicate whether soil was used in construction and/or if rock features were built in soil-rich or soil-poor environments.  Table 4.3. Clast Scale (after Mathews 2006). Code Clast 1 Mostly cobbles (>200 mm) 2 Mostly cobbles, some boulders (<200 mm) 3 Mostly cobbles, some boulders, some large boulders (<1 m) 4 Mostly cobbles, some large boulders 5 Some cobbles, some boulders 6 Some cobbles, some boulders, some large boulders 7 Mostly boulders, some cobbles 8 Mostly boulders, some cobbles, some large boulders 9 Mostly boulders, some large boulders 10 Some boulders, some cobbles, some large boulders 11 Some boulders, some large boulders 12 All boulders 13 Mostly large boulders, some cobbles 14 Mostly large boulders, some cobbles, some boulders 15 Mostly large boulders, some boulders 16 All large boulders Freestanding A rock feature was recorded as freestanding in all cases where the entire feature was not backed by bedrock, additional rocks, or fill. The rock face had to rise above the surface of the ground behind it. The process of measurement followed the same style as infill: yes, no and partial. If part of the rock feature is freestanding, this was measured as a percentage. This category is important for defensibility.  In general, defensive fortifications are somewhat freestanding, as this provides an area to hide behind in times of attack. Whether the rock features in the Canyon are freestanding, therefore, is an important attribute to measure.    104  Vegetation The main purpose of recording the amount of vegetation present on the face and surface of features was to estimate the accuracy of other measurements. Where vegetation was heavy, parts of the feature were obscured. For the majority of the sampled features, vegetation, including moss, small brush, and saplings, was removed if possible to facilitate other forms of measurement such as the number of rocks, type of stacking, clast, and sphericity. Once cleared, the amount of vegetative cover on the top and face of the features was recorded. Intactness The majority of features display obvious signs of disturbance, including the remains of modern garbage, displacement of rocks on top of features, and portions that have slumped down. The scale of undisturbed, partially disturbed, disturbed and indeterminate worked well. Where the overall size and shape of the feature appeared to be altered due to natural or cultural transforms, the feature was considered disturbed. While an important characteristic of rock features, estimating intactness is quite challenging because I had to estimate how much the feature has been disturbed without knowing the original extent.  Associated Materials This category recorded any materials found in association with the feature, including artifacts, historical refuse and modern garbage. We collected artifacts on the surface in danger of being lost if left exposed to the elements. Otherwise, if materials were situated in areas not likely to be disturbed, they were left in situ. Historical and modern materials (i.e. glass, metal, refuse) were noted in this category to indicate a continued use of locations. When features were located at village sites or directly adjacent to other rock features, those associated features were noted.    105  Courses Courses are rows of stone in dry-set masonry (Harris 1983), where the stones are offset as the feature is stacked (Figure 4.7).   The number of courses can increase stability and lessen the tendency of the rock face to collapse. Almost all rock features in the sample show coursing in their construction, but the number of courses visible was variable. Coursing indicates construction patterns, rebuilding activities, and additions to original walls. I measured courses by counting the number visible on the face of rock features. Where coursing was not present, such as in linear boulder alignments, I measured courses as zero.  Stacking A variable that was not included on the initial form but became relevant once I had begun the recording process was how tightly rocks were stacked to fit together. After recording several features, I realized that there was a range of stacking, from very tightly stacked (i.e. virtually no space between rocks) and loosely stacked (i.e. visible Figure 4.7. Coursed rock features with medium-loose stacking (left) and tight stacking (right).   106  space between rocks). I formulated a scale to represent tightness of stacking: (1) loose; (2) med-loose (see Figure 4.7); (3) medium; (4) med-tight; and (5) tight (see Figure 4.7). This was measured for each feature by a visual assessment of the overall space between the rocks in the feature. This attribute is useful in evaluating whether certain types of features were more or less tightly stacked; indicating if stacking was an important criterion in construction methods. Chinking Chinking occurs when smaller rocks are used to either hold up a larger rock or fill in gaps in a wall. The insertion of smaller rocks into gaps increases stability of the features and often serves to flatten the overall look of the face. This is one of several measures to show that these were purposely constructed rock features, not random natural occurrences. Chinking was measured on a simple presence/absence scale because there was not a lot of variation in types of chinking throughout rock features in the sample. If any chinking was visible in the face of the feature, chinking was recorded as present. Mapping the Rock Features Once the sample was established and features recorded, the next task was to prepare the site for detailed three-dimensional topographic mapping, focusing on the areas surrounding the sampled rock features. One project goal was to create a GIS, or Geographic Information System, for the Lower Fraser River Canyon using available data, supplemented with detailed three-dimensional topographic data of selected areas. While archaeologists are increasingly using digital mapping technologies, a GIS in this context is best conceived of as “a suite of tools that help people interact (Wildesen and Witherspoon 1978) and understand spatial information” as well as a method to make sense of spatial and temporal relationships between “natural and anthropogenic phenomena” (Conolly and Lake 2006:11). GIS presents a method to ask questions and test hypotheses about the production of space in the past. To produce a GIS, I collected   107  all accessible map data for the region, including high-resolution topographic maps, aerial photographs, satellite imagery, known archaeological sites, and previous maps of the area.   Collecting this type of detailed ground surface data provides high-quality spatial information on which GIS analyses can be run to compare various rock feature locations within the Lower Fraser River Canyon. 3D maps serve as a useful tool for visualizing the ground surface without the extensive forest cover that exists in some areas today. My original intention was to include detailed three-dimensional maps of the rock feature faces; however, the detail of the vertical nature of these features was difficult using technology that cannot capture overhang.  My goal was to create a geographically accurate map, so known coordinates were needed to tell the total station where it was located in space prior to mapping. Each site was walked first to determine the ideal location to establish a base station to maximize coverage of the rock features using the minimum number of stations. Once a suitable location was found, a handheld GPS unit (Garmin GPSMAP 60CS) was placed on the ground to obtain readings in UTM (Universal Transverse Mercator) coordinates for a minimum of one hour in order to minimize error. For all maps, a GPS point with reception from at least six satellites was used for the base station, with an error of no more than ± 7 m. While higher precision would have been desirable to ensure greater accuracy, several limitations prevented the gathering of these, the most important of which is a high probability of multipath error. This occurs when incoming satellite signals bounce off surrounding vertical surfaces such as canyon walls or large trees. Open areas as far away from steep bluffs as possible were chosen as base station locations to minimize the chance of multipath error. In most cases, a back site was established by sighting a point due north at a spot as far away from the site as possible, with the bearing established by a digital compass and confirmed by a handheld magnetic compass. This provided the total station with an orientation but required   108  post-processing using known ground points in order to ensure geographic accuracy. In all but one case (DjRi-2N), when imported into ArcMap 9.3, the maps as produced were close to their ground locations and were able to be corrected. Once a base station and backsight were established for the total station, mapping points were shot using a hand-held prism at approximately 1 m intervals to capture basic surface topography. Wherever possible, points were taken at the high water mark to establish site boundaries, and where this was not feasible due to safety concerns, points were obtained for the high-water mark from a previously acquired digital elevation model from GeoBase Canada (Canada 2008). For the rock features, measurements were taken at smaller intervals, usually at the boundaries of individual rocks. Other features near the rock features, such as house pits, were also mapped. Additional stations were set up as necessary from the first station and a traverse was closed at each location with accuracy of 2.0 cm or less for all three dimensions.  Six locations with 22 rock features were mapped using these methods (Figure 4.8). While mapping, one location was found not to contain any culturally constructed rock features. This map serves as a control sample against which to test aspects of defensibility of the other locations that do contain rock features—as will be discussed in Chapter 7. The mapped rock features clustered in five site locations: DjRi-2(N), DjRi-2(S), DjRi-46, DjRi-13 and DjRi-62, discussed in detail in the next chapter. Several features (RF-T10, RF-T11, RF-T14, RF-T16, and RF-T17) did not fall within these clusters.  Dating the Rock Features Several of my research questions hinge on whether or not the rock features of the Lower Fraser River Canyon were built and used around the same time. To establish when the features were built, I explored several potential means of dating the rock features, including Optically Stimulated Luminescence, lichenometry, and dendrochronology.   109   Figure 4.8. Sites mapped in the field.   110  I attempted to collect materials in good archaeological contexts for radiocarbon dating by putting in a 50 cm X 50 cm test excavation unit on the top of the terrace above RF-T01 and RF-T02, but I encountered the surface of the rock terrace about 40 cm below the surface. Acquiring material for radiocarbon dating, therefore, would require larger excavations. Optically Stimulated Luminescence dating measures the decay of the signature left by light on crystalline structures of quartz and feldspar (Feathers et al. 2006; Greilich et al. 2005). Samples can be collected from sediment in buried fluvial deposits or the underside of stones in ancient structures, taken back to a lab, and analysed to estimate when the grains in the sediment or in the stone were last exposed to light. Applied primarily to geoarchaeological samples of buried fluvial sediments (Feathers et al. 2006; Fuchs and Wagner 2005; Vafiadou et al. 2007), archaeologists have recently applied this method to stone structures in Peru and Germany (Greilich et al. 2005) with some success. Two issues prevented me from attempting this type of dating: first, the sampling method involves collecting materials under the cover of darkness, using specialized equipment. The steep nature of the landscape made collecting samples difficult. In addition, after discussing the methods with a local luminescence lab at the University of the Fraser Valley, I was warned that the method was not very effective in dating the actual surfaces of rocks but was much more reliable for buried sediments. These sediments required excavation to collect and were beyond the scope of the project. A second method for dating the construction of the rock features was to measure the growth of species of lichen to estimate when they would have started growing. Most rock features have one or more species of lichen growing on their surface and some show 50-70% of the surface with lichen growth. This does not work for all types of lichen, and a visit by a geographer who specializes in dendrochronology and forest   111  ecology confirmed that none of the species growing on the features were ideal candidates for lichenometry (Maertens 2009). Ultimately, the method that proved most feasible and informative was dendrochronology, whereby we removed cores from living trees growing on top of various rock features. Dendrochronology is an established method of dating in archaeology (Baillie 1982; Kuniholm 2001; Schweingruber 1988) and has been applied to ancient wood, charcoal, and modern samples to calibrate the radiocarbon curve. The basic principal behind dendrochronology is measuring the growth patterns in trees, where a tree-ring is added every growing season (Baillie 1995). Trees encode variation in moisture and temperature, affecting the size of the growth ring. Due to differences in sizes of rings, trees from the same area can be correlated, where dry years can be matched up in different trees with overlapping ages (Wigley et al. 1987). This has allowed archaeologists to reconstruct sequences into the distant past. For my purposes, however, I was interested in dating the ages of living trees, working under the assumption that when rock features were used, they would not have had trees growing out of them. The trees, therefore, would have establishment dates that occur after the features were abandoned. This method had already been used to date the stump of a Douglas Fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) growing out of the top of a rock feature at DjRi-14, resulting in a date of establishment between 1780 and 1790 (Schaepe et al. 2006).  Dating Procedure With the assistance of Tom Maertens of the Department of Geography at the University of British Columbia, I collected 18 samples from Douglas Fir trees at three sites: DjRi-2(S), DjRi-62 and DjR-14 (Table 4.4). For samples at DjRi-2(S) and DjRi-62, a minimum of five trees of similar diameters were sampled. This allows for comparison between trees at the site and to test if more than one tree was established at a similar time. Samples were taken from trees growing on top of terrace features (Table 4.4). Each   112  sample was collected, mounted, sanded and then the rings for each sample were counted twice. Table 4.4. Dendrochronology Dating Results. TCS Site Sample Count Estimated age DBH DCH CH Species RF 1 DjRi-62-01 1935 1919 51.6 61.7 48 Douglas Fir RF-T74 2 DjRi-62-02 1972 1947 42 47.7 50 Douglas Fir RF-T74 3 DjRi-62-03 1935 1915 55.7 63.6 42 Douglas Fir RF-T75 4 DjRi-62-04 1931 1919 48 56.58 43 Douglas Fir RF-T75 5 DjRi-62-05 1933 1919 49 56.2 52 Douglas Fir RF-T75 6 DjRi-62-06 1943 1923 36.6 43 38 Douglas Fir RF-T75 7 DjRi-62-07 1938 older than 1938 60.2 67.5 39 Douglas Fir RF-T75 8 DjRi-2S-01 1940 1915 70 79.2 35 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 9 DjRi-2S-02 1949 1933 65.5 80.4 42 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 10 DjRi-2S-03a 1928 1913 61.5 70.4 32 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 11 DjRi-2S-03b 1945 older than 1935 61.5 70.4 35 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 12 DjRi-2S-04 1920 1905 65.5 76.6 38 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 13 DjRi-2S-05 1926 1915 59 65.6 41 Douglas Fir RF-T01/RF-T02 14 DjRi-2S-06 1948 older than 1938 76.4 91.2 37 Douglas Fir Rim of house pit 15 DjRi-14-01 1863 older than 1853 154 144.5 47 Douglas Fir Front of bluff 16 DjRi-14-02 1816 1790s 118 107.5 42 Douglas Fir RF-T21 17 DjRi-14-04 1810 1790s 92 102 34 Douglas Fir RF-T35 Due to the size of the rings on the samples, no magnification was required for the visual count. Several yearly rings were correlated on different samples, including 2007, which appeared on all samples as a small ring when compared to other years. In addition, we collected a sample from a smaller Douglas Fir that had been cut down during clearing of rock features, taking sections of the tree at ground level and 40 cm above ground level. This provided an estimate of how long it would take for the tree to reach 40 cm in height and resulted in a ten-year difference in rings. For all trees in the sample, it is estimated that it would have taken ten years ± five years to reach coring height, considering the variation in coring height from 32-52 cm. In most cases, the core missed the pith, or centre, of the tree. Where the sample was considered to be close to the pith, an estimate on the missing years was made, based on the curvature of the   113  rings. Where curvature was not visible, no estimate was made and the sample was only marked as older than the count by a minimum of ten years growth. Dating Results As seen in Table 4.4, the samples from DjRi-62 and DjRi-2(S) have estimated establishment dates between 1905 and the mid-1930s. Established about a century after European contact, the trees at these sites do not contribute to our understanding of when the features were abandoned. It is possible that the building of highways and railways through these areas meant older trees were cut down, while the Fraser River flood of 1894 could have also washed out some of the original growth. Even without older trees, the similarity of these features to other features in the sample with earlier dates, coupled with the presence of lithic flakes and heat-altered rock, indicates that they are ancient constructions.  At DjRi-14, the situation is different because the top of the large bluff that constitutes the northern portion of the site has not been subject to significant disturbance. The trees growing on rock features at this site date from the late 1700s, matching up with dates reported by Schaepe (2006). Neither sample with counts in the 1810s (DjRi-14-02 and DjRi-14-04) reached pith, although the rings showed some curvature. Thus, with the addition of some years that are not captured on the sample, along with the ten years of growth to reach the coring height, a reasonable estimate for the establishment of these trees is 1790-1795. This is more than a decade before Simon Fraser’s journey through this region, indicating that these rock features had been abandoned before he reached the area.  Discussion Collecting data from rock features in the Lower Fraser River Canyon without extensive excavation involved an adaptation of methods used for other types of features elsewhere on the Northwest Coast. I surveyed the region between Lady Franklin Rock   114  and Sawmill Creek, and locating a total of 91 rock features, 82 of which were determined to have a cultural origin. A sample to record and map in detail was selected, based partially on the range of types and locations of features, but also influenced by contemporary community politics. Throughout the chapter, I detailed several moments where my research came up against the concerns of local peoples, and the results of those encounters. My project may have been quite different if these incidences had not occurred, a point which emphasises the need for archaeologists to be explicit, where possible, about their engagement with the concerns of indigenous communities.    115  5: ANALYSING THE ROCK FEATURES I described the attributes and the mapping procedure used to create the maps that form the basis of my spatial analyses. The quality of the data can be impacted by the types of methods chosen, so the way I collected data was designed to address the research questions at the centre of the dissertation. In the process of establishing an archaeological data set on which to perform quantitative analysis, many more types of features in a wider variety of topographic locations were recorded, indicating that we are just beginning to comprehend the range of uses for rock structures in the Coast Salish world. I detail the sampled features and the associated archaeological sites in the following chapter before moving on to my analyses in Chapter 6 and Chapter 7.Describing the Rock Features and Sites Before presenting the results of my analysis in Chapters 6, 7, and 8, using the data collected via methods described in the previous chapter, I first provide here an overview of all the sampled rock features and sites mapped in the project. This serves to situate the various rock features and sites on the landscape of the Lower Fraser River Canyon. Many features are located on known archaeological sites, some of which were the focus of past research. Each of these sites is depicted and described in detail, accompanied by a map of the general site location (Figure 5.1). Features not on previously recorded archaeological sites are not part of the detailed site maps created in the course of the project and are discussed in the final section of the chapter. DjRi-2(S) and DjRi-2(N) Known by the Stó:lō Halkomelem speakers as Í:yem, this archaeological site was first recorded by Duff (1952) and was surface collected from 1956-1970, according to the site form on record with the provincial Archaeology Branch.    116   Figure 5.1. Rock features and mapped sites.   117  About 200 meters up a paved side road upriver from Yale sits a cemetery on the river side12                                                 12 The cemetery used to have a white fence and a large cross marking the people who had been reburied there after the railway displaced burials. The fence and memorial were removed from the area by the Yale First Nation in October 2008 (http://www.mail-archive.com/natnews-north@yahoogroups.com/msg06737.html). , providing permanent testimony to the importance of this area through time, because this was built at a village site where people may have been buried for thousands of years. The cemetery marks the beginning of the site of DjRi-2, much of which was destroyed with the building of the railway. The site remains, patchy now, along much of the next 600 meters to the north. Two portions of the site contain eight rock features, considered in this project as DjRi-2(N) and (S). About 200 meters north of the cemetery, a small path leads down the forested slope of road construction fill, east toward the water and DjRi-2(S) (Figure 5.2). A house pit lies a few meters north of the trail, partially impacted by the roadway but still largely intact, the remains of what was recorded by Duff (1952) as an important late precontact period village. A large rocky bluff extends along the northern portion of the site, creating a natural boundary between this area of the site and DjRi-2(N). As the trail continues, it crosses the top of a flat area with a short but sharp drop, slightly out of place on the natural slope. When explored further, the drop is a five metre long face of a rock terrace: RF-T01 (Figure 5.3). Four metres to the south is another terrace face, RF-T02, 6.2 m in length, oriented perpendicular to RF-T01 (Figure 5.4). The area between these two features is filled with a jumble of large rocks and cultural material, including heat-altered rock and flaked lithic debris. These two features were likely once connected, but the middle section has slumped down. If the area between was a rock feature in the past, RF-T01 and RF-T02 would have been part of a larger, ‘L’ shaped terrace (Figure 5.2). The area atop the terrace is flat and may have been a spot where a rectangular plank house was built. Situated about 25 m above mean river level, the terraces provide a broad downriver view.   118   Figure 5.2. Sketch map of DjRi-2(S).   119   Figure 5.3. RF-T01 - A portion of the terrace feature located at DjRi-2S. The area above the rock feature is flat and the down river portion (seen at the left in this photo) has slumped away. Lithic materials (flakes) were found in this feature.  Figure 5.4. RF-T02 - A portion of the terrace feature located at DjRi-2S. This feature runs perpendicular to RF-T01 and is less clearly stacked. The eastern edge (seen at right in this photo) is formed by a large piece of bedrock.  120  A third, much smaller rock terrace, RF-T03, lies 20 m southeast of the first two, only 5 m above the high water line (Figure 5.5). This feature is only 1 m high and 3 m long and sits at the base of a slope, creating only a small flat area on top. A modern trail runs upriver across the top of RF-T01 and along the front edge of the steep, rocky bluff to an active drying rack area. The area of the intact site area covers slightly more than 1000 m2, just a small portion of what was likely a large village site prior to the road and railway construction.   Figure 5.5. RF-T03 - This feature is down slope from RF-T01 and RF-T02. It is small and heavily disturbed, but some stacking can be seen. The down river edge (seen at left in this photo) has a rock containing a water worn bowl-shaped depression. While the rock bluff can be crossed to reach the northern portion of the site, the trail is steep and difficult to traverse. A more navigable but overgrown path leads behind the rock bluff to meet DjRi-2(N) (Figure 5.6), but the easiest access today is via a small one lane road. About 100 m further past DjRi-2(S), there is a pull-off that looks as if it were designed as a parking spot for at least two modern vehicles.    121   Figure 5.6. Sketch map of DjRi-2 (N). This area tops a steep slope to the north that leads directly down to a back eddy in the river and contains four mapped rock features, separated by a bluff with a gap (Figure 5.7). A small distinct trail leads off of the pull-out, angling to the south toward a portion of ground that is quite flat relative to the surrounding topography. The trail   122  traverses ground at the base of another rock terrace: RF-T05 (Figure 5.8). Made from larger rocks than the features at DjRi-2(S), this feature also creates a wide, flat terrace, but the view faces upriver, not down. The rest of the area between RF-T05 and the mean water level, approximately 30 metres below, is a gradual slope, making this feature distinctive. RF-T04, on the other hand, blends into the slope about 10 m down from RF-T05 (Figure 5.9). Constructed out of smaller rounded cobbles, where the other features in the area are built out of large angular boulders, RF-T04 has collapsed to the point where it is difficult to distinguish its original shape and size. One unique aspect of this site is the long rock bluff that divides it in two with one gap at the centre (Figure 5.7). The rest of the bluff is steep sided and smooth, making it difficult to traverse. At some time long ago, water or ice carved a breach in the bedrock that constitutes this rocky bluff.   Figure 5.7. Gap between the two sides of the bluff at DjRi-2(N). This gap restricts access to the upriver portion of the site.  123   Figure 5.8. RF-T05 - A terrace feature just down from the road at DjRi-2N. This feature shows chinking and some use of “cap” stones to create a flat surface stretching over 9 m atop the feature.          Figure 5.9. RF-T04 - Two views of the upper portion of RF-T04, a small terrace. This feature is a combination of angular boulders and river cobbles. The feature slopes some distance toward the river. RF-T05 is visible in the background of the photos.   124   Figure 5.10. RF-T06 - Small terrace feature topped with a large cap stone. Several small stones are holding the cap stone flat. The feature has slumped down slope considerably. Now just over two and a half meters at its widest point (Figure 5.7), this opening provides the opportunity to control and monitor movement between RF-T05 and the group of features RF-T06 (Figure 5.10) and RF-T07 (Figure 5.11), located 20 m downriver.  It begins at the termination of RF-T05 and provides access for perhaps two people walking abreast, with an excellent view downriver as one travels from RF-T05 through this gap. The sides are imposing, 3 m high granitic bedrock and are worn smooth from the passage of water (Figure 5.9). Once through, there is a narrow pathway curving west to the other set of rock features. These three features run along the edge of a flat area which ends in a steep 20 meter drop to the river. In this case, it appears that the features were built up between areas of bedrock, filling in gaps to make a terrace. Bedrock outcrops are visible between these features today. Overall, DjRi-2(N) covers a 2000 m2 area, with five rock features defining two distinct terraces.   125   Figure 5.11. RF-T07 - Another small terrace feature just down river from RF-T06 (to the right in this photo). This feature is stacked between two pieces of bedrock and is therefore quite narrow. DjRi-46 Another 1.7 km upriver from DjRi-2, on the west bank of the Fraser, is DjRi-46 (Figure 5.12), another village site partially destroyed by construction. Known to the Stó:lō as Lexwts’ó:kw’em, this location was first recorded in 1974 and was revisited in the late 1990s and early 2000s (Schaepe 2001b). Accessing this site requires parking near the railway and passing across a modern fishing camp. About 150 meters from this fishing camp, a 40 m sheer rock bluff overlooks the Fraser. To the west, a series of cache pits and house pits lie protected behind the massive outcrop, marking an ancient settlement area. Primary river access to the village would be via two canoe landing locations just down slope from the site.    126   Figure 5.12. Sketch map of DjRi-46.   127  Two rock features in four segments13Built from large, angular boulders, these features enhance the natural features in the area, although they have collapsed considerably since first built. We found that one rock feature, previously thought to be cultural, was a bedrock outcrop (Schaepe 2001b:52). One striking feature of this site is the excellent view it affords downriver, especially once the vegetation has been cleared away. : RF-T18a, T18b, T85a, and T85b, are located right at this point of access to the village (Figure 5.12 –Figure 5.16). This entire area was heavily overgrown, but the features became clear as small vegetation was removed. The features sit at the top of a gradual slope down to the Fraser, and while RF-T18 was built at the edge of a terrace, the others were constructed along the slope below, making it unlikely that they would have been used for living purposes, since the area behind is on a gradual slope, not suitable for building structures.   Figure 5.13. RF-T18a - This feature was once more freestanding and sits 10 m upriver from RF-T18b. It overlooks a steep drop and contains some large boulders.                                                   13 Rock features which appear to have been connected in the past, but have now partially collapsed, were recorded with the same feature number with each section is distinguished by a lower-case letter (e.g., RF-T18a, RF-T18b, etc.)   128   Figure 5.14. RF-T18b - This is a jumbled feature 10 m downriver from RF-T18a. It appears likely that these features were once joined.  Figure 5.15. RF-T85a - This feature is located down slope from RF-T18 and it is jumbled. Some intact stacking patterns remain.   129   Figure 5.16. RF-T85b - This feature is near RF-T85a, suggesting that they were once a single feature blocking access to the site above. DjRi-14 Although not mapped herein, this site has 30-plus rock features, only three of which were recorded using the methods described above. The site has been the focus of past research (Schaepe et al. 2006) and is one of the better explored sites in the Canyon, known as Xelhálh in Halkomelem (Figure 5.17). Located just upriver from the town of Yale on the southeast corner of the Fraser where the river curves from its northern direction is Lady Franklin Rock. A large island in the middle of the river, this rocky outcrop causes the river to split and flow around it, creating treacherous currents and large swells. At high water in June and July, the swells can reach upward of six feet high and the waters become impassable by canoe. Right below Lady Franklin Rock is a bay of relatively still water, providing a place to land a canoe for a portage around the difficult waters ahead.    130   Figure 5.17. Map of the DjRi-14 locality.   131  On a 10 m high terrace above the bay is an ancient village with many house pits, cache pits and the possible remains of plank houses. As with other sites in the Canyon, a cemetery lies within the site boundary and was used until the 1930s. The northern end of the site consists of a steep rock bluff, climbing another 40 m in height. At first glance, this appears to be the site boundary, but a pathway leads up the bluff. Upon reaching the top, rock features are visible on the surface atop the bluff and stretching along the northeastern face. Consisting primarily of terraces, these features are 1-3 m in height. The three features described here are RF-T21 (Figure 5.18), near the south-western edge of the bluff facing downriver; RF-T29 (Figure 5.19), at the top of the path leading from the housepit village; and RF-T35(Figure 5.20), situated along the north-eastern slope.  Figure 5.18. RF-T21 - This feature was recorded in winter and did not get cleared as extensively as some others, so its shape is somewhat unclear. It does form a clear terrace edge but is primarily constructed out of smaller angular boulders. The terraces range from 7-11 m in length and modify slopes to create flat areas. At the base of the bluff, near the high water mark, sits a rock feature in several sections, stretching for 200 m (Schaepe 2006:684) along the eastern bank facing Lady Franklin Rock, marking the location in a very visible way.   132   Figure 5.19. RF-T29 - This is a terrace feature situated between two large bedrock outcrops atop the bluff at DjRi-14.  Figure 5.20. RF-T35 - This is another terrace feature. It is down slope on the upriver side of the bluff of DjRi-14 and is quite tightly stacked with smaller stones than other terraces. The tree stump on top of this feature has been dated to the 1790s.  133  DjRi-13 Continuing along the east bank of the Fraser River, about 1 km upriver from the rapids at Lady Franklin Rock, lays a shallow sandy bay, exposed at low water, containing a back eddy formed by a large rock outcrop. This marks the edge of DjRi-13, known in English as the Mike Victor site and in Halkomelem as Q’aleliktel (Figure 5.21). Described by Duff (1952), this site was revisited in the 1980s as part of a heritage assessment for a proposed twin-tracking project by CN Rail. The east side of the sandy bay is filled in with debris from the construction of the CN railway that creates a steep, loose rocky slope about 25 m high. To the north stand a series of bluffs stretching upriver, cut through by modern activity, and leaving three large, unorganized, linear rock piles, shown in Figure 5.22These piles sit between two rocky hills and consist of smallish, rounded boulders with no appearance of deliberate stacking in contrast to other rock features built using large, angular boulders with clear construction patterns and chinking. Atop the southern of the two bluffs at this location are two rock features facing downriver with an excellent view (Figure 5.23 and Figure 5.24). The larger of the two, RF-T63, is similar to other rock features in aspect and location, but differs in that it consists of only nine large boulders stretching across 9 m, with a few smaller cobbles for chinking or stabilization, in a linear formation following the edge of a steep drop to the river (Figure 5.24). Just 5 m to the southeast and down slope from RF-T63, is RF-T64, a 3 m long feature with clear stacking on top of the underlying bedrock (Figure 5.23). While smaller than RF-T63, it shares a similar unobstructed view downriver and was likely part of what was a larger feature in the past.  The northern bluff marks the beginning of a bedrock outcrop that continues another 800 meters along the east bank of the Fraser River. Three rock features sit on top of this bluff, two facing either down river or across the river, RF-T66 (Figure 5.25) and RF-T68 (Figure 5.26), with the third facing inland towards the east, RF-T69 (Figure 5.27).    134   Figure 5.21. Sketch map of DjRi-13.   135   Figure 5.22. Linear rock piles at DjRi-13  Figure 5.23. RF-T64 - This feature is 5 m down river and down slope from RF-T63. It is quite jumbled but there appears to be some deliberate stacking patterns within the feature.   136   Figure 5.24. RF-T63 - This is a linear boulder alignment placed at the top of a sheer bluff leading down toward the water. There is an excellent view down river from this location and it is the only completely freestanding feature in the entire sample.  Figure 5.25. RF-T66 - This feature consists of a jumble of small boulders and very large angular boulders, but the strategic placement of chinks indicates purposeful construction. The top is flat and there may be additional remnants of a similar feature at the back of the bluff.  137   Figure 5.26. RF-T68 - This feature is situated atop a third bluff at DjRi-13 and faces down river. This is the feature first photographed in the 1887 (Schaepe 2006) and is a large terrace, creating a flat area behind.  Figure 5.27. RF-T69 - Facing away from the river, this feature is another long terrace, although a major portion of the face of the terrace is buried in sediment.  138  RF-T66 is the southernmost feature, situated along the edge of the bluff on the river side of a small knoll and providing a view both across and down river. While somewhat jumbled today, this 5.7 m long feature may have been part of a rock alignment that circled the entire southern portion of this knoll in the past. It is flush with the top of the rocky knoll, creating an extension that stretches toward the river. RF-T68 is 15 m north of RF-T66 and faces downriver while at the same time affording a view upriver. It marks the front of an 8.5 m long, linear terrace that stands about 1.5 m high, creating a flat, stable ground surface, suitable for building. As described by Schaepe (2001b:53), this rock feature is visible in a photo from the area in 1887. RF-T69, 15 m east of RF-T68, is also a terrace, the face of which is partially obscured by soil and vegetation. Constructed of smaller rocks than RF-T68, RF-T69 creates a sharp 1 m drop that would otherwise not exist in this location. The area behind this feature is also flat and rectangular, suggesting that a structure could have been built on top of it. Another important aspect of RF-T69 is the presence of a large Douglas Fir tree (with a diameter greater than 1 m) growing right through the terrace wall and destroying part of its edge. Although this tree has not yet been cored to determine its tree ring age, due to issues with a lack of similar sizes of trees nearby to confirm the sample, the size of the tree may suggest the terrace was constructed before the European colonization of the Canyon began. DjRi-62 Behind the mining piles at DjRi-13 is an unusually flat area, modified in the 1950s by heavy equipment to provide access to the historic cemetery some 400 m to the north and the base for a cable car that used to stretch across the river. It appears that this area is a continuation of DjRi-13, but recorded officially as DjRi-62 during of the twin-tracking project in the 1980s. Today, there is a small trail leading from the flat area behind DjRi-13 into the dense underbrush of the forest.    139   Figure 5.28. Sketch map of DjRi-62.   140  As one follows the trail away from the river, it leads between two bluffs that eventually block the view of both the river and the railway. Continuing along the trail, the forest thickens and the light dims, until about 200 m back from the water’s edge, there is a sharp rise in the otherwise flat ground. The bluffs tower some 15 m above this flat surface with the westernmost bluff creating a small rock shelter (Figure 5.28). Initially, the thick brush and moss obscured what were some of the most impressive rock features: RF-T73a (Figure 5.29) and RF-T73b (Figure 5.30), which together creates a two-sided terrace feature covering about 170 m2. Unlike all other terrace features we recorded in the survey, it is L-shaped: RF-T73a 11 m runs east-west, while RF-T73b runs 17 m north-south, meeting in the southwest corner. Both terraces show some evidence of collapse, exposing the internal structure of small angular stones capped with large, flat, angular boulders—some as much as 1.5 m across. At the northern end of RF-T73b sits a very large boulder, just 4 m north of which is the beginning of another long terrace feature: RF-T74 (Figure 5.31). At 18 m long, it is the longest feature in the sample, even though it rises, at most, 1 m above the ground surface on which it sits. It is similar in construction to RF-T73, where large cap stones help to create level ground. To the east of this feature, rising above the area defined by RF-T74 is RF-T75, a tall, clearly stacked rock feature that appears to serve more as a retaining wall than a terrace (Figure 5.32). RF-T75 sits near the base of the eastern portion of the bluff separating the site from the CN rail line, and creates a level ground surface—though not as extensive as RF-T73 and RF-T74. Part of this feature has collapsed, likely caused by a tree-fall, while several large trees still grow atop it. The lower part of the feature is covered in soil and heat-altered rock. The stacking pattern mirrors other terraces in the area, although the rocks, on average, appear to be larger and heavier. A further 15 m to the north of RF-T75 is another rectangular feature, RF-T89, measuring 8 m in length by 5 m in width, showing less clear stacking patterns than the surrounding features.    141   Figure 5.29. RF-T73a - This is the south edge of an L-shaped feature. The corner of the ‘L’ is located at the left end of this photo. Large angular rocks are strategically placed on the top of the feature to create a flat surface. At some point in the past, the middle portion of the feature collapsed.  Figure 5.30. RF-T73b: This is the west edge of an L-shaped feature. The corner of the ‘L’ is located at the right end of this photo. Large angular rocks are strategically placed on the top of the feature to create a flat surface but some have slid down off the top.     142   Figure 5.31. RF-T74 - This feature is just north of RF-T73. It is the longest feature in the sample at 18+ m. As with other features at this site, the top of the feature is a large, flat area.  Figure 5.32. RF-T75 - This is a terrace feature - the flat surface on top is emphasised by the trees growing out of the top. The feature has clear stacking with some evidence of chinking and a preference for large boulders.  143  Just five metres above this feature is a formation of large, flat rocks, ranging from 0.5 m to 1 m in length, placed on edge to form a rectangle. When located, this feature seemed to be fairly intact, with perhaps 20-30 rocks standing. However, upon our return to record the area, a tree had fallen on part of the feature, making it difficult to record. Although is not part of the sample of rock features studied in this thesis, it is an interesting case that warrants future research. Down slope from RF-T74 is a small path to the bank of the Fraser River. At the base of the path we found one of the most striking features in our entire sample: RF-T76 (Figure 5.34). Standing with a maximum height of nearly 3 m, it is capped with immense rocks, the largest of which measures 2.5 m by 1.5 m by 1 m, with an estimated weight of approximately 10 tonnes (based on a density of 2.7 tonnes per m3).  Others are similar in size, indicating that a great deal of labour was required to construct RF-T76. Its overall shape resembles a wedge, with the shallowest part at the northern end and the deepest part to the south, filling in and levelling a slope in the underlying bedrock. The view from the top of the terrace looks both across and upriver, though the same view can be had from the surrounding bluffs. There is a small flat area atop the feature, but due to a lack of soil to fill in the cracks between rocks and increase stability, it does not appear an ideal location for building—perhaps soil used as fill has eroded away since the structure was built. DjRi-62 is the site of monumental construction on an unprecedented scale for the Canyon. Unmapped Features Several rock features in the sample do not cluster around the above mapped sites (Figure 5.35). These rock features are either isolated, such as RF-T14, or occur in pairs, such as RF-T10/RF-T11 and RF-T16/RF-T17.    144   Figure 5.33. RF-T89 - This feature lies about 25 m upriver from RF-T75 and is a low L-shaped terrace that stands at maximum about half a metre above the ground surface. The feature is quite flat on top but partially buried in soil.  Figure 5.34. RF-T76 - This feature is down slope from RF-T73, T74 and T75. It is constructed out of some of the largest rocks in the entire sample, weighing upward of 10 tonnes. The feature is almost 3 m high and shows clear stacking patterns.    145   Figure 5.35. Location of unmapped rock features included in the sample.   146  Unlike many other features in the sample, this rock structure does not create a flat surface on top; instead, it forms the base of a slope. The bottom layer of the structure is a bedrock outcrop topped by five courses of stone, well-stacked and with little apparent slump. A small trail runs to the north of the feature, up slope, and toward a second rock feature: RF-T11 (Figure 5.36). Standing 2 m high, this feature is littered with modern refuse, and the trail has cut through the centre. The top is flat, but the area behind continues to slope upward. These features, along with RF-T12 just upriver (not included in the sample), appear to be a part of a modification of this slope, the purpose of which remains a mystery.  RF-T14 Another 70 m upriver from RF-T10 and RF-T11, a small creek drains from the surrounding mountains, passing under the old highway on its way to the Fraser River. Heavy moss grows along the rocks that line the creek, but right near where the small creek meets the Fraser is a notably vertical surface. Situated at the base of a 25 m tall sheer rock face is a tightly packed terrace feature, revealed after pulling away thick, mossy growth. The cliff forms the downriver boundary of the feature, while the creek drainage marks the upriver boundary. Nearly 2 m high, RF-T14 (Figure 5.37) is distinctive as it is constructed out of a large number of very tightly packed small Figure 5.36. RF-T10 and RF-T11, situated on a rocky slope with considerable modern detritus.   147  boulders and cobbles. The feature forms an ‘L’ shape, with two intact sides, one facing upriver and the other facing across the river. A cobble chopper was located near the base of the river side of the feature, suggesting that it may be of precontact antiquity, but its construction materials smaller and it is more tightly stacked than other rock features in the sample.  Figure 5.37. A portion of RF-T14. This is a small, unusually situated rock feature. A similar rock feature is on the other side of the creek from this location, but this whole area needs to be mapped to understand the relationships between these features. RF-T16/RF-T17  Half a kilometre upriver from DjRi-46 is another high rock bluff. From the railway, a clear path leads to an area with a cabin and dry rack, marking the fishing location used in the summer by the Pettis family from Seabird Island, who were kind enough to share food and wind dried salmon with us when we were working there. The trail continues along the downriver stretch of the bluff, creating a means to bring salmon up from the river. About halfway down the slope is a low rock feature: RF-T16 (Figure 5.38). Partially buried in soil, this feature has been there since before the Pettis’ built their fish camp over 35 years ago and creates a small terrace .5 m high and 2.75 m long. The rocks used to construct this feature are similar to other features in shape but   148  are on a smaller scale. Just down slope from RF-T16, a cobble chopper was found, indicating ancient activity on the site. At the base of the trail, adjacent to the high water line, sits a rock pile made out of a jumbled combination of angular boulders and large river cobbles.   Figure 5.38. RF-T16, situated on a trail leading down from a modern fish camp, but buried in soil and associated with ancient cultural materials. This was constructed by the Pettis family to create a safe place for the children to swim when the water is high. Another 10 m downriver is RF-T17 (Figure 5.39), not built by the family, consisting of three sides that create an almost semi-circular shape. A large boulder forms the south east corner, and a buried boulder forms a portion of the western wall. RF-T17 consists of three walls with stacked rounded small boulders and large cobbles, while the centre is open and sandy. Both the shape and the construction material of this feature are not like other features in the sample. The rocks are rounded and the feature creates an empty space in the middle. While the use of RF-T17 is unclear, it was suggested that it was related to fishing, perhaps designed to create a trap (discussed in Chapter 7). Historic metal was found nearby, along with a sling stone, indicating both ancient and historic activity.    149   Figure 5.39. South wall of RF-T17. This feature also has a north wall and a west wall, but they are considerably more disturbed than the south wall. The eastern edge is open to the river.  Having described the rock feature and sites in a qualitative fashion, I spend the next two chapters engaging in various forms of quantitative analysis to evaluate what the attributes and spatial relationships of the rock features can indicate about ancient landscape modification, ownership, and the process of defining identities.    150  6: EXPLORING PATTERNS IN THE ROCK FEATURE DATA: SUMMARIZING THE VARIABLES Introduction I turn my attention to summary measures of the attributes of the sample in this chapter. Using an Exploratory Data Analysis (EDA), I examine the attributes described in Chapter 4. Exploratory Data Analysis is a method developed to explore data using descriptive statistics and emphasises recognizing patterns by examining visual representations of data (Tukey 1977). The main goal of this chapter is to present summary data and describe overall patterns in rock feature attributes based on the sample at hand; Chapter 7 explores possibilities for why these patterns may exist. I use descriptive data from this chapter in my discussion of the rock features in the next chapter, where I present groupings based on construction patterns and use of rock features that may explain some of the differences between rock features. The exploration of differences and patterns within these data has the potential to contribute to the overall project of understanding how rock features may mark agency and identities on the landscape by establishing possible purposes for their construction.  Exploratory Data Analysis EDA is…a flexible, data-centred approach which is open to alternative models of relationships and alternative scales for expressing variables, and which emphasizes visual representations of data and resistant statistics (Hartwig and Dearing 1991:12-13) As no systematic consideration of the entire range of rock features had been attempted previously, I designed my quantitative analysis to be exploratory in nature – I did not initially set out to formally test pre-defined hypotheses. Instead, I undertook an exploratory analysis of the sample of rock features recorded. EDA is used to suggest   151  patterning in the data that may generate hypotheses to ultimately test with confirmatory statistics. EDA is an approach to analysis that uses a set of techniques to graphically examine and manipulate data in order to expose underlying structure, assumptions and anomalies (Tukey 1977). Graphical exploration of data is effective “when it forces us to notice what we never expected to see” (Tukey 1977:vi) and point out the places where what we see can be misleading. Viewing and manipulating the data may uncover patterns that help to define feature types and uses that I would not have seen otherwise. EDA is based on the assumption that “the more we know about the data, the more effectively it can be used to develop, test and refine theory” (Hartwig and Dearing 1991:9). Four themes are important in EDA: (1) resistance, or insensitivity to localized small changes in data; (2) residuals, or what remains after a model has been fit to the data; (3) re-expression, or the transformation of the scale of the data to simplify analysis; and (4) revelation, or the use of visual displays to reveal patterns in the data (Hoaglin et al. 1983). This approach is a good first step to describe possible relationships between categories of archaeological data, particularly with a type of feature that is poorly understood. In addition, taking an exploratory approach to the data illustrates areas of analysis that I may not have otherwise considered, both in the transformation of individual variables and in areas of comparison and correlation between variables. A recent application of an EDA approach to data in the Lower Fraser River examined changes in house size and shape through time inferred from EDA, along with what this can illustrate about social and political organization (Schaepe 2009). In this study, I fuse frequencies, bar-charts, stem-and-leaf plots and boxplots. These provide visual displays of both discrete (i.e. presence/absence or rank-order) and continuous (i.e. length) variables to check for errors, assess where data are “smooth” – showing regularity in the underlying structure of the data – or “rough” – deviations from the smooth data showing no pattern (Hartwig and Dearing 1991). For continuous data, stem-and-leaf plots show the shape of the distribution and spread, whereas a   152  boxplot can also show symmetry as well as skewness. Much of the data are nominal14 or ordinal15Rock Feature Data  measurements, so I also use tabulation of individual and multiple categories to explore patterns within the quantitative data. These summary measures show where there are patterns and deviations, leading me to look more closely at rough areas to see if either transformations or grouping the data into batches is required. Attributes were recorded for the 30 sampled rock features, located throughout the Lower Fraser River Canyon, adjacent to Late Period (550-100 BP) villages and situated near non-village locations. Table 6.1 summarizes these basic data. All recorded information on all rock features in the sample can be found in Appendix 3. Three sets of features sampled are directly related to each other: RF-T18a/RF-T18b, RF-T73a/RF-T73b and RF-T85a/RF-T85b. My labelling method was designed to capture the relationship between two portions of what is hypothesised to have been, or still is, one rock feature. These features were recorded individually within the sample and assigned their own labels, although they are related. Because of the methods by which the data were collected, I left these features in their individual parts for the exploratory analysis. As disparate types of data were acquired from the rock features, some coding was necessary to prepare the data for statistical analysis, so the measurement scale of each variable was defined and an appropriate code assigned.16                                                 14 Nominal scale data, meaning “in name only,” is a type of data to which a numerical value may be assigned (i.e. 1, 2, 3) to distinguish between categories, but there is no ordering to the scale. ( After coding, I generated numeric and graphic summaries of the data using SPSS 16.0. For each variable, I discuss Fletcher and Lock 2005) 15 Ordinal scale data are also categorical, but the numbers assigned represent a scale (i.e. low, medium, high). Continuous variables can be grouped to create ordinal categories. (Fletcher and Lock 2005) 16 Details of and rationale for coding are located in Appendix 4   153  patterns, outliers, and elements of the data summaries and present some of the overall trends as a first step before defining feature typologies in the next chapter. Table 6.1. Summary of Sampled Rock Features Indicating Site Name and Feature Type. Feature Number Site (Borden) Feature Type RF-T01 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform RF-T02 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform RF-T03 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform RF-T04 DjRi-2(S) Terrace/platform RF-T05 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform RF-T06 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform RF-T07 DjRi-2 (N) Terrace/platform RF-T10 Unknown Retaining Wall RF-T11 Unknown Retaining Wall RF-T14 Unknown Terrace/platform RF-T16 Unknown Wall RF-T17 Unknown Semi-circular stone enclosure RF-T18a DjRi-46 Wall RF-T18b DjRi-46 Wall RF-T21 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform RF-T29 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform RF-T35 DjRi-14 Terrace/platform RF-T63 DjRi-13 Linear stone alignment RF-T64 DjRi-13 Retaining Wall RF-T66 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform RF-T68 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform RF-T69 DjRi-13 Terrace/platform RF-T73a DjRi-62 Terrace/platform RF-T73b DjRi-62 Terrace/platform RF-T74 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform RF-T75 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform RF-T76 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform RF-T85a DjRi-46 Wall RF-T85b DjRi-46 Wall RF-T89 DjRi-62 Terrace/platform Discrete Variables The majority of the rock feature attributes recorded were categorical, designed to capture the presence/absence of materials and characteristics, or placing features into   154  categories such as shape. Some attributes (e.g. relative number of rocks, infill) are ordinal measurements. Here, I present frequency tables to summarise each variable in the database and briefly describe patterning in the data. This portion of the chapter is primarily descriptive, although I note where there is a distinct trend or features that do not fit in the overall patterns.  Rock Feature Type In the field, I used three working types to create a categorical variable. Two types were added in the field to distinguish certain features encountered during survey, resulting in five categories: (1) terrace/platforms, linear or rectangular features creating artificial flat areas, corresponding to the extent of the feature; (2) walls, or linear features with some evidence of being freestanding; (3) retaining walls, linear features backed by slopes; (4) linear stone alignments, features consisting of one course of boulders; and (5) semi-circular stone enclosures, multi-sided features creating an open area in the centre. Within the sample of 30 features, 20 (67 percent) were classified as terraces (Table 6.2).  Table 6.2. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Types. Feature Type Frequency Percent Terrace 20 66.7 Wall 5 16.7 Retaining Wall 3 10.0 Linear Boulder Alignment 1 3.3 Stone Enclosure 1 3.3 Total 30 100.0 Two categories had only one feature in them, limiting the amount of analysis that can be performed on these data. Therefore, from the various types noted, I developed a new categorical variable: terrace and non-terrace. This allowed me to compare characteristics of terrace features against non-terrace features to explore other elements of features that might support my field designation. I discuss the implications of this new variable in relationship to other feature typologies developed in the next chapter.   155  River View Most features (n=22, 73 percent) had some form of river view (Table 6.3). Table 6.4 shows that 30 percent (n=9) of all features had an exclusively downriver view, while only 13 percent of features (n=4) had an exclusively upriver view. When combining categories, more features had some form of view downriver (40 percent, n=12) than some form of upriver view (23 percent, n=7). Table 6.3. Frequency Distribution of River View of Rock Features. River View? Frequency Percent No 8 26.7 Yes 22 73.3 Total 30 100.0  Table 6.4. Frequency Distribution of River View by Direction of the View. Direction of River View Frequency Percent None 8 26.7 Upriver 4 13.3 Downriver 9 30.0 Across River 3 10.0 Up and Across River 3 10.0 Down and Across River 3 10.0 Total 30 100.0 Primary Materials The most common primary material, found in 47 percent (n=13) of all features, was angular boulders ranging between 20-50 cm in diameter (Table 6.5). Overall, 93 percent (n=27) of the features were constructed out of angular boulders of various sizes, illustrating these may have been a preferred building material. Angular boulders are found in abundance in areas adjacent to rock features, but rounded stones are also common, suggesting that builders intentionally selected angular boulders. Two features (RF-T16 and RF-T04) were constructed out of rounded boulders. RF-T16 is a unique feature in a number of ways because it was the only stone enclosure in the sample (see Ch. 5 for a detailed description).    156  Table 6.5. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Primary Materials. Primary Material Frequency Percent Angular Boulders 14 46.6 Large Angular Boulders 6 20.0 V. Large Angular Boulders 8 26.7 Rounded boulders 2 6.7 Total 30 100.0 Number of Rocks For each rock feature, I estimated the number of rocks. Table 6.6 indicates that 43 percent of features (n=13) had between 50-99 rocks as part of the visible construction. Portions of rock features still covered in soil or vegetation were not included in this count, so for terrace features, the count was an underestimate of the full extent. The two features at the upper end of the scale, built out of 200+ rock features, were RF-T14 and RF-T04, both terrace features with volumes on the smaller end of the scale. This suggests there may be a relationship between clast and number of rocks, as discussed in the next chapter. Table 6.6. Frequency Distribution of Number of Rocks in Rock Features.  Number of Rocks Frequency Percent <20 4 13.3 20-49 6 20.0 50-99 13 43.3 100-200 5 16.7 200+ 2 6.7 Total 30 100.0 Clast Most features contained mainly boulders (n=26, 87 percent), and features that were not a majority of boulders were equal amounts of boulders and cobbles (n=4, 13 percent) (Table 6.7). This indicates that boulders were the preferred material for constructing all rock features, with 50 percent of features (n=15) in categories that were majority boulders or large boulders. As seen in Table 6.7, only two features lacked cobbles, because cobbles are often used for chinking, as discussed below.   157  Table 6.7. Frequency Distribution of Rock Feature Clast. Clast Frequency Percent Some cobbles, some boulders 3 10.0 Some cobbles, some boulders, some large boulders 1 3.3 Mostly boulders, some cobbles 4 13.3 Mostly boulders, some cobbles, some large boulders 7 23.3 Some boulders, some cobbles, some large boulders 4 13.3 Some boulders, some large boulders 1 3.3 Mostly large boulders, some cobbles 1 3.3 Mostly large boulders, some cobbles, some boulders 8 26.7 All large boulders 1 3.3 Total 30 100.0 Sphericity Table 6.8 shows the frequency of the primary sphericity, and  Table 6.9 shows the frequency of secondary sphericity. Only one rock feature (RF-T07) did not have a secondary sphericity recorded, so the percentages in Table 6.9 are based on 29 features. Frequencies in both tables show that 28 features had a primary angular shape (93 percent), while an equal number of features (n=28) had a secondary angular shape (93 percent). For roundedness, there was a slight emphasis on low sphericity, with 16 (53 percent) features with primary sphericity and 21 (72 percent) with a secondary sphericity showing low sphericity, which indicates rocks are more flat than round overall.  Table 6.8. Frequency Distribution of Primary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features. Sphericity Frequency Percent Rounded, high sphericity 1 3.3 Sub-rounded, high sphericity 1 3.3 Angular, high sphericity 11 36.7 Very-angular, high sphericity 1 3.3 Sub-angular, low sphericity 7 23.3 Angular, low sphericity 7 23.3 Very-angular, low sphericity 2 6.7 Total 30 100.0     158  Table 6.9. Frequency Distribution of Secondary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features. Secondary Sphericity Frequency Percent Sub-angular, high sphericity 1 3.5 Angular, high sphericity 6 20.7 Very-angular, high sphericity 1 3.5 Well-rounded, low sphericity 1 3.5 Sub-rounded, low sphericity 1 3.5 Sub-angular, low sphericity 4 13.8 Angular, low sphericity 9 31.0 Very-angular, low sphericity 6 20.7 Total 29 100 In a cross tabulation, the large number of empty cells precludes any confirmatory tests (Table 6.10), but a few patterns emerge. All of the features that have a primary sphericity of 5 - angular, high sphericity had a secondary sphericity of 10 - sub-angular, low sphericity, 11 - angular, low sphericity, or 12 - very-angular, low sphericity. Features were built out of a combination of angular rocks, both rounded and flat. In addition, features with a primary sphericity of 12 - very-angular, low sphericity had a secondary sphericity of 5 – angular, high sphericity or 6 – very-angular, high sphericity, again suggesting that angularity was an important consideration when selecting rocks with which to build features. Table 6.10. Cross-tabulation of Primary and Secondary Sphericity of Rocks in Rock Features.   Secondary Sphericity Total Sphericity 4 5 6 7 9 10 11 12 2 Count - - - 1 - - - - 1 % - - - 100% - - - - 100% 3 Count - - - - 1 - - - 1 % - - - - 100% - - - 100% 5 Count - - - - - 3 6 2 11 % - - - - - 27.3% 54.5% 18.2% 100% 6 Count - - - - - - - 1 1 % - - - - - - - 100% 100% 10 Count 1 2 - - - - 3 1 7 % 14.3% 28.6% - - - - 42.9% 14.3% 100% 11 Count - 3 - - - 1 - 2 6 % - 50% - - - 16.7% - 33.3% 100% 12 Count - 1 1 - - - - - 2 % - 50% 50% - - - - - 100% Total Count 1 6 1 1 1 4 9 6 29 % 3.4% 20.7% 3.4% 3.4% 3.4% 13.8% 31.0% 20.7% 100%   159  Freestanding The results are summarized in Table 6.11. Of features showing some evidence of being freestanding, only two features (7 percent) were more than 50 percent freestanding. The one completely freestanding today feature is RF-T64, the only linear boulder alignment in the sample. Whether or not a feature is freestanding helps determine whether these features could have served as defensive features, because if there was no space to stand or crouch behind the feature, it would not protect people from oncoming attackers unless enhanced by other materials such as wood. Table 6.11. Frequency Distribution of Freestanding Features. Freestanding Frequency Percent Yes 1 3.3 No 23 76.7 Partial (<50%) 5 16.7 Partial (50%+) 1 3.3 Total 30 100.0 Infill Infill categories were designed (see Table 6.12) to capture the variation while accounting for the possibility of some error in my estimated percentage. Within the sample of rock features, 60 percent (n=18) were completely infilled, where the surface of the feature was filled in with soil and/or rock. When we probed the subsurface of several features, we encountered additional rock, so the infill is usually a combination of rock with soil. Only five features (17 percent) had less than 25% infill. This variable also may be related to types of features and feature use, discussed below, because terraces are more likely to have a high level of infill, while walls are more likely to have less infill.  Table 6.12. Frequency Distribution of Infill of Rock Features. Infill Frequency Percent 0-25% 5 16.7 26-50% 2 6.7 51-75% 3 10.0 76-99% 2 6.7 100% 18 60.0 Total 30 100.0   160  Intactness As seen in Table 6.13, 80 percent of features (n=24) showed evidence of disturbance by either natural or cultural activity, with areas of feature collapse or slumping. Only two features, RF-T64 and RF-T29, did not show evidence of disturbance, while four features– RF-T03, RF-T04, RF-T11, and RF-T18b were substantially disturbed. In these cases, the extent of disturbance may affect my ability to interpret other attributes, such as whether or not features are freestanding. Table 6.13. Frequency Distribution of Intactness of Rock Features. Intact Frequency Percent Undisturbed 2 6.7 Partially Disturbed 24 80.0 Disturbed 4 13.3 Total 30 100.0 Chinking A large majority of features (n=24, 80 percent) showed chinking (Table 6.14), where small stones created stability and filled in gaps between larger stones. Only 6 features (20 percent) lacked evidence of this technique. This variable may be related to clast, since many rocks used for chinking were cobble sized. I explore whether the presence/absence of chinking relates to differences in construction patterns or feature types in the next chapter.  Table 6.14. Frequency Distribution of Chinking in Rock Features. Chinking Frequency Percent No 6 20.0 Yes 24 80.0 Total 30 100.0 Stacking Table 6.15 shows no dominant category for stacking, although most fell within medium-loose to medium-tight (n=25, 83percent). The one feature high on the scale was RF-T14, with virtually no space between rocks in this feature (Figure 6.1). Stacking may be related to size of the overall feature, as well as sphericity. Angular boulders, for example, may be easier to stack strategically so less space is visible between rocks.    161  Table 6.15. Frequency Distribution of Stacking in Rock Features. Stacking Frequency Percent Loose 4 13.3 Medium-loose 6 20.0 Medium 10 33.3 Medium-tight 9 30.0 Tight 1 3.3 Total 30 100.0  Figure 6.1. Tightly stacked rock feature - RF-T14. Artifacts/ Fire-Altered Rock A total of 12 features (40 percent) have associated artifacts in the form of chipped, ground, or pecked lithic materials (Table 6.16). I recorded historical artifacts under a separate category to distinguish features with only pre-contact cultural material from those with only historical material. I discuss the relationship between ancient and historic materials in a later section. Most artifacts were located within the face of the feature, uncovered during our clearing, or directly on the surface of the feature itself. Eight lithic flakes found in a test excavation at RF-T02. Associating FAR with ancient cultural activity is more difficult than pre-contact artifacts, considering that historic or modern activity could lead to FAR on the surface of features.   162  Table 6.16. Frequency Distribution of Artifacts on Rock Features. Artifacts Frequency Percent No 18 60.0 Yes 12 40.0 Total 30 100.0 The presence of FAR within the feature can point to possible uses, so I recorded it when the FAR was not just on the surface, but also coming out of the feature itself. Eight features (27 percent) had FAR present (Table 6.17). I compare the features with FAR to those with artifacts when I discuss overall relationships between variables in the next chapter. Table 6.17. Frequency distribution of Fire-altered Rock on Rock Features. Fire-altered Rock Frequency Percent No 22 73.3 Yes 8 26.7 Total 30 100.0 Historic Material In addition to ancient cultural material, I recorded features with historical material. This was distinguished from beer bottles, cans, and other refuse. Historical materials were determined by the amount of discolouration on metal objects and the shape, colour, and visible wear on glass objects. As with artifacts and FAR, this is based on surface materials observed during the clearing of features, so excavation of the features may change this frequency. The majority of rock features (60 percent, n=18) were not directly associated with historical material (see Table 6.18).  Table 6.18. Frequency Distribution of Historical Materials on Rock Features. Historic Materials Frequency Percent Absent 18 60.0 Present 12 40.0 Total 30 100.0 Continuous Variables Some rock feature attributes are measured on a continuous ratio scale, including feature length, width, height, courses, metres above river level, and aspect. From these   163  variables, I created two additional variables to measure rock feature dimensions: area in m2, a product of length x width, and volume in m3, a product of length x width x height. Unless otherwise noted, all of the original variables were measured to the cm (i.e. 2.56 m). In this section, I present summaries of the continuous variables using stem-and-leaf plots and boxplots. The measures of centre and spread for each variable are presented in Table 6.19. I discuss the general trends, including measures of level and spread, within each variable and note where the data are rough. In Table 6.20, I present five number summaries for all five continuous variables, which I will reference when discussing the shape and spread of the distributions below. These data show some patterns that suggest possible groupings of the rock features based on their dimensions, which I explore further in the next chapter. Table 6.19. Summary Measures of Level and Spread for Continuous Variables.  Length (m) Width (m) Height (m) Area (m2) Volume (m3) Mean 8.73 5.81 1.70 58.68 107.58 Median 8.50 2.61 1.71 26.04 53.07 Range 16.42 18.80 2.49 283.99 381.13 IQ Range 6.15 7.32 0.89 85.08 189.05 SD 4.38 5.25 0.69 70.4 122.47  Table 6.20. Five-number Summaries for Continuous Variables.   Length (m) Width (m) Height (m) Area (m2) Volume (m3) Upper Hinge 11.52 9.2 2.1 94.86 201.9 Upper IQR 3.02 6.59 0.39 68.82 148.83 Median 8.50 2.61 1.71 26.04 53.07 Lower IQR 3.19 0.73 0.51 16.26 40.22 Lower Hinge 5.31 1.88 1.2 9.78 12.85 Length Lengths of rock features range from 2.54 m to 18.87 m. Figure 6.2 shows two clusters, one near the low end of the scale, and the other at 8-11 m. No extreme values were noted. The boxplot (Figure 6.3) lacks outliers or far outliers, although the upper   164  whisker is longer than at the lower one, indicating substantial spread around the centre and a positive skew. Stem (1.0) Leaf 2 57 3 2335 4 8 5 58 6 38 7 6 8 0455 9 134 10 579 11 477 12  13 5 14 3 15  16  17 25 18 9 Figure 6.2. Stem-and-leaf plot of rock feature length. The median value falls in the centre of the interquartile range indicates that the centre of the distribution does not show a positive skew, so the distribution is being affected by a few large values. The stem-and-leaf and boxplots give us some sense of the shape, but to supplement the visual display, I looked at the level and spread of the distribution based on measures such as the mean, median, standard deviation and inter-quartile range.  For rock feature length, the mean value is 8.73 m, while the median is 8.50 m and standard deviation is 4.38 m. The mean and median values are similar, with the mean slightly higher. The mean is not overly affected by the higher values, so can be considered a good measure of the centre for the distribution of rock feature length. In addition, the more resistant median and inter-quartile r