Open Collections

UBC Theses and Dissertations

UBC Theses Logo

UBC Theses and Dissertations

Ancient values, new technology : emerging methods for integrating cultural values in forest management Lewis, John Llewellyn 2000

Your browser doesn't seem to have a PDF viewer, please download the PDF to view this item.

Item Metadata


831-ubc_2001-0060.pdf [ 18.01MB ]
JSON: 831-1.0099543.json
JSON-LD: 831-1.0099543-ld.json
RDF/XML (Pretty): 831-1.0099543-rdf.xml
RDF/JSON: 831-1.0099543-rdf.json
Turtle: 831-1.0099543-turtle.txt
N-Triples: 831-1.0099543-rdf-ntriples.txt
Original Record: 831-1.0099543-source.json
Full Text

Full Text

ANCIENT VALUES, NEW TECHNOLOGY Emerging Methods for Integrating Cultural Values in Forest Management by John Llewellyn Lewis B.A. (Honours), Queen's University, 1990 M.PI., Queen's University, 1996 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT O F T H E R E Q U I R E M E N T S FOR T H E D E G R E E O F M A S T E R O F S C I E N C E in T H E F A C U L T Y O F G R A D U A T E STUDIES (Department of Forestry) We accept this thesis as conforming to the^required staqdafdr T H E UNIVERSITY O F BRITISH COLUMBIA December, 2000 © John L. Lewis, 2000 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the head of my department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. Department of \ ~ o The University of British Columbia Vancouver, Canada Date / D * ^ y s> ' <=S?OtSV II Abstract Although the planning techniques employed by foresters have grown increasingly sophisticated in recent years, the task of accommodating cultural values in resource management plans has become more, rather than less, problematic. This problem is particularly evident in resource management issues involving First Nation cultural values. In recent years, disputes over places such as Gustafsen Lake, Ipperwash, and Meares Island have found their way into the Canadian public's consciousness. At the heart of these controversies, there have been complaints involving not only unceded territory, but also the greater issue of culturally significant lands. Conflicts over culturally significant lands are so pervasive because resource management processes ignore cultural values often due to the fact that they are so difficult to incorporate within conventional modes of land management. This thesis reports on an initiative with the Cheam First Nation to explore their cultural perceptions of the land, and to identify the ways in which cultural uses of place are affected by resource management. In addition to documenting the land-based cultural values that involve identity in social groups, modes of material sustenance and spiritual activities, I have found that resource development activities contribute directly to the undermining of Native cultural values because they are so directly tied to the land and concepts of place. Moreover, I have made the unprecedented finding that effective cross-cultural communication between First Nations and resource managers can be impaired by placing land-use information in standard cartographic format. Three-dimensional visual models of the landscape are the most effective means of eliciting community reactions to management plans across several dimensions including cultural uses, aesthetics and spiritual values. In the concluding chapter, I have formulated a set of recommendations which posit that, if resource planning is to be functional in the realm of forest management and cultural preservation, then aboriginal communities that are affected by forestry decisions should possess an opportunity to participate in resource decision-making. However, to be effective, shared decision-making in forest management requires new and relatively untested tools for cross-cultural communication -e.g. a socio-cultural planning framework, landscape visualisation, etc. - that can facilitate the incorporation of cultural values into standard forest management methodologies. Table of Contents Abstract ii List of Tables vii List of Figures viii Acknowledgements ix Chapter 1 - Introduction & Overview 1 1.1 Cultural Narratives and Expressions of Sacredness 1 1.2 Cultural Landscapes 3 1.3 Cultural Landscapes and the Potential for Misunderstanding 5 1.4 Planning for Cultural Values: Research Objectives 8 1.5 Organisation and Content of the Thesis 13 Chapter 2 - Literature Review 16 2.1 Introduction 16 2.2 The Cultural Significance of Place 17 2.2.1 Culture 17 2.2.2 Cultural Uses and Perceptions of Space 21 2.3 Place Making and Oral History: Sto:lo Conceptions of Place Meaning 25 2.3.1 Xa:ls and the Moral Landscape of the Fraser Valley 25 2.3.2 Inscribed Meanings: Possible Implications 29 2.4 Place Meaning Through Labour 30 2.4.1 Work as a Place Making Activity 31 2.4.2 Synthesis of Ideas: Place Making as a Transactional Experience 36 2.5 Place Images: Mapping in Indigenous Cultures 39 2.5.1 Mapping Place Experience: Examples of Indigenous Cartography 41 Sticks & Shells - Micronesian Sea Charts 41 Mapping in Indigenous North America - Beothuk Maps 43 2.5.2 Maps that Roar - Contemporary Aboriginal Maps of Place 46 2.5.3 Emerging Trends in Indigenous Mapping & Resource Planning 51 2.6 Chapter Summary 56 Chapter 3 - Cultural & Historical Background 58 3.1 Introduction 58 3.2 The Landscape & Changing Land-Use in the Fraser Valley 59 3.2.1 The Physical Setting 59 3.2.2 European Settlement and the Indian Reserve System 65 3.2.3 European Settlement and Conflicts with Sto:lo Spiritual Practice 69 3.3 Sto:lo Culture and Spirituality Revisited 73 3.3.1 Xa:ls and the Creation of Sacred Places: Monumental Landscapes 73 3.3.2 The Cultural Dimension of Forest Resources 77 iv Case Study- The Hidden Dimension of Sacred Lands 80 3.4 Sto:lo Cultural Places 82 3.4.1 Transformer Sites 83 3.4.2 Spirit Residences 84 3.4.3 Ceremonial Areas 85 3.4.4 Traditional Landmarks 86 3.4.5 Questing Areas 86 3.4.6 Legendary Places 87 3.4.7 Burial Places 87 3.4.8 Traditional Resource Areas 88 3.5 Chapter Summary 89 Chapter 4 - Research Design & Methodology (I) 91 Qualitative Ethnographic Research 4.1 Introduction 91 4.2 Research Approach 91 4.2.1 Suitability of Qualitative Ethnographic Research 91 4.2.2 Some Ethical Issues 95 The Researcher-Researched Relationship 95 The Position of the Researcher 96 4.3 Research Design 97 4.3.1 Sampling I - Rationale for Working with the Cheam First Nation 97 4.3.2 Sampling II - Participant Selection: Issues of Entry and Rapport 98 4.3.3 Data Collection 100 Direct Observation 101 The Interview Process 102 4.3.4 Data Analysis 1 08 4.3.5 Criteria for Evaluating Ethnographic Research 110 Internal Validity 111 External Validity (Generalisability) 112 Reliability 113 4.4 Chapter Summary 114 Chapter 5 - Research Design & Methodology (II) 115 Elicitation Technique - Landscape Visualisation 5.1 Introduction 115 5.2 Research Approach 116 5.2.1 Approaches to Environmental Perception Research 116 5.2.2 Elicitation Techniques in Cognitive Research 118 5.3 Evaluating Simulations in Social Science Research 122 5.3.1 Comprehensibility 123 Visual Clarity 123 5.3.2 Simulation Credibility 125 Defensibility 125 5.3.3 Simulation Bias 126 Representativeness 127 Accuracy 128 5.3.4 A Framework for Simulation Evaluation 129 5.4 Simulation Design 5.4.1 Purpose of the Simulations 130 131 5.4.2 Scope of the Simulations 132 Viewpoint Selection - Where to Simulate 133 Viewpoint Condition - What to Simulate 135 Quantity of Simulations - How Many Images Required 137 5.4.3 Simulation Method 138 5.4.4 Simulation Process 142 5.4.5 Medium and Format for Presentation 149 5.5 Chapter Summary 151 Chapter 6 - Interpretation & Analysis 152 6.1 Introduction 152 6.2 Forest Management Scenarios - Viewpoint One 153 6.2.1 Scenario Preferences 153 6.2.2 Conceptual Categories 158 Physical Sustenance 159 Social Cohesion 165 Cultural Identity 170 Spirituality 176 6.3 Stream Management Scenarios - Viewpoint Two 183 6.3.1 Scenario Preferences 183 6.3.2 Conceptual Categories 188 Physical Sustenance 188 Social Cohesion 194 Cultural Identity 197 Spirituality 199 6.4 Maps & Simulations - Effectiveness of the Media 204 6.4.1 Qualitative Responses 204 6.4.2 Quantitative Responses 209 6.5 Chapter Summary 216 Chapter 7 - Synthesis & Conclusions 217 7.1 Introduction 217 7.2 Research Findings 218 7.2.1 Cultural Definitions of Place (Research Objective 1) 218 / Physical Sustenance 219 // Social Values 221 /;/' Cultural Identity 222 iv Spirituality. 223 7.2.2 Land Management & Cheam Culture (Research Objective 2) 224 /' Timber Management 226 //' Stream Management 228 7.2.3 Effectiveness of Visual Media in Planning Communication (Research Objective 3) 230 /' Effectiveness of Visual Media in Planning Communication 231 //' The Complexity of Land-Based Cultural Values 232 7.3 Implications for Resource Management (Research Objective 4) 234 7.3.1 The Present Situation 234 7.3.2 Current Policy Options: Legislation, Litigation, Consultation 238 7.4 Recommendations 242 7.4.1 Shared Decision-Making: Co-Management 242 vi Co-Management Case Study: Wendaban Stewardship Authority.... 247 7.4.2 A Socio-Cultural Planning and Management Framework 250 7.4.3 Education 258 7.5 Concluding Remarks 263 7.5.1 Outlook for the Future 263 7.5.2 The Future Research Agenda 269 References 277 Appendix A1: Letter of Introduction 291 Appendix A2: Interview Consent Form 292 Appendix A3: Interview Guide 293 Appendix A4: Letter of Thanks 295 Appendix B1: Interview Panels (Timber Scenarios Maps & Simulations) 296 Appendix B2: Interview Panels (Stream Scenarios, Maps & Simulations) 297 Appendix C1: Chi-Square Calculations (Table 6.11) 298 Appendix C2: Chi-Square Calculations (Table 6.12) 299 Appendix C3: Chi-Square Calculations (Table 6.13) 301 Appendix D1: Technical Appendix (Mapping Process) 302 Appendix D2: Technical Appendix (Simulation Process) 304 vii List of Tables Table 6.1 Timber Model Preferences 154 Table 6.2 Number of Comments Relating to Physical Values, Timber Scenarios 163 Table 6.3 Number of Comments Relating to Social Values, Timber Scenarios 165 Table 6.4 Number of Comments Relating to Cultural Identity, Timber Scenarios 171 Table 6.5 Number of Comments Relating to Spirituality, Timber Scenarios 177 Table 6.6 Stream Model Preferences 183 Table 6.7 Number of Comments Relating to Physical Values, Stream Scenarios 191 Table 6.8 Number of Comments Relating to Social Values, Stream Scenarios 194 Table 6.9 Number of Comments Relating to Cultural Identity, Stream Scenarios 198 Table 6.10 Number of Comments Relating to Spirituality, Stream Scenarios 199 Table 6.11 Number of Comments Related to a Particular Medium 210 Table 6.12 Number of Comments Related to a Particular Medium by Order of Presentation 210 Table 6.13 Number of Tactile Uses of the Media 214 viii List of Figures Figure 2.1 Xatytem Rock: Mission, BC 29 Figure 2.2a Sto:lo River Fishing - Setting a Gill Net 33 Figure 2.2b Sto:lo River Fishing - Cleaning the Catch 34 Figure 2.3 Micronesian Sea Chart 42 Figure 2.4 Shawnadithit's Cortege Map 45 Figure 2.5 Gitksan/Wetsuweten Place Names Map 48 Figure 2.6 "The Law vs. Ayook, Written vs. Oral History" 49 Figure 2.7 Gitksan House Boundaries 50 Figure 3.1 Sto:lo Traditional Territory 59 Figure 3.2 Location of the Cheam Reserve 62 Figure 3.3 Forest Fragmentation and Changing Land-Use, Rosedale, BC 64 Figure 3.4 Reserve Boundary Erosion 70 Figure 3.5 Siwash Rock 73 Figure 3.6 Mount Cheam (Lhilheqey) 74 Figure 3.7 Transformer Rock, Chitmexw 83 Figure 3.8 Spirit Residence, Cheam Lake 84 Figure 3.9 Ritual Bathing Pool 85 Figure 3.10 Questing Area, Foothills on Mount Cheam 86 Figure 3.11 Traditional Resource Area, Cedar Bark Stripping 88 Figure 4.1 Interview Participants by Age Cohort 100 Figure 4.2 I nterview Protocol 105 Figure 4.3 Interview Participant Sub-Groups by Age Cohorts 106 Figure 4.4 Tactile Responses to Simulation and Map Media 106 Figure 5.1 Landscape Simulation Media, Levels of Abstraction 120 Figure 5.2 Image Clarity and Planimetric Mapping 124 Figure 5.3 Field of View and Project Dominance 128 Figure 5.4 Simulation Evaluation Framework 130 Figure 5.5 Simulation Viewpoints 134 Figure 5.6 Estimate of Simulation Quantity 137 Figure 5.7 The Photomontage Process 141 Figure 5.8 The Landscape Simulation Process 143 Figure 5.9 Completed Simulation (Viewpoint Two: 50m Riparian Buffer) 146 Figure 5.10 Interview Presentation Panel (Viewpoint Two) 147 Figure 5.11 Map Scenario (Viewpoint Two: 50M Riparian Buffer) 148 Figure 7.1 Recommendations 264 ix Acknowledgements First of all, being a follower of Christ, I would like to acknowledge Him as my Lord, God and the source of much strength and inspiration throughout my work on this thesis. I thank Him for many answered prayers. I also wish to thank and acknowledge the contribution of the people of Cheam to my work. I thank them in particular for opening their homes and their minds to me in the last two years, and for helping me to appreciate what is truly meant by the word 'sacred.' I thank Dr. Stephen Sheppard for his supervision of this work. He has been a tremendous provider of intellectual insight and guidance, as well as a source of encouragement for what has proven to be a very challenging body of research. I would like to acknowledge and express my appreciation to the members of my supervisory committee who provided much guidance and feedback on drafts of this thesis including Madeleine Maclvor (First Nations House of Learning, UBC), Dr. David Tindall (Sociology, UBC) and Dr. Charles Menzies (Anthropology, UBC). I thank my lab colleague Jon Salter for his critical eye during the laborious and often frustrating task of preparing the landscape visualisations and pushing the software to the margins of its simulation capabilities. I wish to express my deepest thanks to my wife Susie. I owe her an enormous debt for being my conceptual sounding board, for tending to my bouts of anxiety and self-doubt, and for agreeing to be my life-long partner. 1 Chapter 1 Introduction & Overview 1. Cultural Narratives and Expressions of Sacredness The creation stories of several cultures tell us where humanity comes from and why we are here. In the beginning, these stories say, there was water, and then there was sky and fire, there was Earth, and there was life. We humans crawled out of the womb of the planet, or were shaped out of clay and water, carved from twigs, compounded of seeds and ashes, or hatched from a celestial egg. One way or another, human beings were made from the sacred elements that compose the Earth. We are made from the Earth, we breathe it in with every breath we take, we drink from it and eat it, and we share the same spark that animates the whole planet. The stories of many traditional cultures tell us this, and so does the science of contemporary Western society. According to creation narratives, human beings were made for a variety of purposes. We are commanded to be fruitful and multiply, like all other living things; to rejoice and give thanks to the Creator; to name and care for the wonders of creation, or simply give voice to them. Spider Woman in the Hopi story says to Sotuknang, the incarnate god: As you have commanded me I have created these First People. They are fully and firmly formed; they are properly coloured; they have life; they have movement. But they cannot talk. That is the proper thing they lack. So I want you to give them speech. Also the wisdom and the power to reproduce, so that they may enjoy their life, and give thanks to the Creator (Sproul, 1979: 45). Creation stories create, or recreate, the world that human beings live in, shape what we see and suggest the rules by which we should live. Unbelievably numerous and diverse, these tales of the beginning of everything are considered by the peoples that live by them the most sacred of all the stories, the origin of all the others (Swartz, 1996: 67). Stories help us to reconcile conflicts and contradictions and describe a coherent reality. They form a meaning that holds social groups together and express a set of beliefs; even in the scientific, skeptical world of Western culture, we live by myths so pervasive that they are believed to be reality. In addition to telling humanity where we come from, creation stories also tell us that something went badly wrong, that we humans have been exiled from home (Swartz, 1996; Dudley, 1996). Many stories describe how we lost our place in the harmony of creation. Judeo-Christian narratives tell us that the first man and the first woman ate from the tree of knowledge of good and 2 evil, believing that it would make them godlike. The ancient Greeks tell how Prometheus stole the sacred fire that was reserved for the gods, and drew down punishment on men. Most belief systems include such stories, recounting how we disobeyed the gods, tricked them, and committed hubris. Acting differently from the rest of creation, separating ourselves from the divine will, humanity broke the harmony. We live in a world where things go wrong, where conflict and tragedy are common, where we are often lonely and confused, and our myths give us reason for this disorder. However, what makes human beings so different from other creatures on Earth? Disobedience, quarrelsomeness, cruelty, greed - these are the faults that set humanity apart from the rest of nature. However, they may be the consequences of being conscious (Dudley, 1996: 76). Consciousness and its primary creation, culture, are the primary adaptive tools of the human species. Our large brain allows us to see patterns by discerning repetition, similarity and difference. From this we gain history and we gain foresight - we can plan. Because we can learn from experience, we can teach our children more than we knew when we were their age. We can adapt more rapidly than evolution will allow us, responding to threats by drawing on experience and deciding to alter the way we live. But consciousness has its associated problems. Aware of time, people are aware of their origin and our fate, we know that eventually we will die. The awareness is always with us that the precious I, me, myself, the centre of each consciousness, will eventually disappear. As reflected in the transition of seasons, time in nature is cyclical or cumulative, whereas human time is linear. Because of this contradiction between the constant of renewal in nature and the finality of our own fate, we reach for something eternal, something absolute, the essence of self, the soul or spirit (Evernden, 1993: 54; Dudley, 1996; Suzuki, 1997). In the absence of water, air, energy, food, without other forms of life and other human beings, we die. However people are just as critically dependent on the idea of spirit. Without that we are truly destined to drown in time and change. Time and death threaten friends, family, and the joys and beauty of life, and we need spirit to heal that disconcerting knowledge. "Spirit" is a powerful and mysterious word. It is the power of divine creation, moving over the waters, and it is divinity itself - the Great Spirit, the Holy Spirit. "Spirituality," as many cultures 3 conceive it, is the apprehension of the sacred (Evernden, 1993: 5; Swartz, 1996). In a modem, post-industrial world, people in Western cultures tend to see matter and spirit as antithetical, but the stories of traditional cultures reveal a different understanding. They describe a world permeated by spirit, where matter and spirit are simply different aspects of a totality, and together they constitute "being." Most cultural traditions around the globe believe in and describe a power, which transcends human power, in life beyond death, which they characterize as spirit. Many of them describe an animated, inhabited, sacred world surrounding them, the natural world that constitutes reality (Bierwert, 1999: 69; Evernden, 1993; Kingsley, 1995; Swartz, 1996). These beliefs restore our sense of belonging, of being with, which is threatened by our dividing, conquering brain; they provide us with rules and rituals for restoring the harmony and reentering the world of which we are a part. The mythmaking of our mind, its ability to find coherence in chaos, to create meaning, may be our species' antidote to the risks of consciousness, a way of overcoming mortality. 2. Cultural Landscapes Traditional cultures live in an animated landscape. Mountains, forests, rivers, lakes, winds and the sun all have their presiding deities, while each tree, stone and animal may have, or be, a spirit (Heaney, 1996: 23; Kingsley, 1995; Suzuki, 1997). Such world-views generally see all death, including that of humans, as simply one stage in the continuum of birth, life, death and rebirth that we see in nature. Human beings are included in the totality of creation, participating in various ways in the re-creative cycles of an animate Earth. Instead of being separated from the world because of our unique consciousness, humanity belongs to a conscious world in which everything interacts with everything else in a process of continual creation and sustenance. Contained within this world-view are the rituals that allow wrongs to be righted, spirits to be placated, and for the world to unfold as it ought. These rituals are the responsibility of the human part of creation, perhaps because we often trigger the disruptions. The traditional world-view of aboriginal Australians is just one of innumerable examples of this kind of world-view (Birckhead, 1996; Kingsley, 1995). They live in an environment that is constantly created, partly through their own interactions with the land. The Ancestors sang the world into existence in the "Dream Time" and now, as ecologist David Kingsley describes, contemporary Aborigines "have the responsibility of perpetuating the sacred character of the land by re-creating it, 4 or remembering it," using the same songs handed down through the generations. An Aboriginal woman conceives a child when she passes a sacred part of the landscape and a spirit ancestor decides to enter her. The spirit grows to term and is born into the world as a human being. "That is, every human being is in some essential way a spirit of the land, a being who has an eternal, intimate connection with the land. He or she is an incarnate spirit of the land, living temporarily in human shape and form" (Kingsley, 1995: 63). To know that person's true identity, Aborigines have to discover from which sacred site the spirit ancestor originated: A person is not simply the offspring of his or her physical parents. Each individual is primarily an incarnation of the land, a spirit being who belongs intimately and specifically to the local geography. Their beliefs concerning spirit impregnation are an unambiguous statement that human beings are rooted to the land and will become disoriented, suffer, and ultimately die if uprooted and transported outside the location of their birth (Kingsley, 1995: 34, emphasis added). Similarly, the Coast Salish peoples of the Pacific Northwest live in a land that is full of spirit ancestors (Bierwert, 1999: 65; Suttles, 1987). A cultural anthropologist working with the Sto.lo people described her initial feelings of disbelief and confusion to an elder's personification of a prominent feature of the Sto:lo landscape. The ethnographer had inquired about spatial orientation in cultural practice, asking the elder if the mountains of the Fraser Valley were ever used as landmarks by Sto:lo ancestors. She explained that during her frequent travels through the valley she had noticed that the hooked peak of the highest mountain, Mount Cheam, looked dramatically different from one place to another. It occurred to her that the Sto:lo people may have used this particular feature on the landscape to spatially orient themselves. The elder's response, or rather her lack of acknowledgement, indicated that the anthropologist's idea was clearly that of a stranger to the Sto:lo landscape, someone who didn't know where she was: She's a lady. Mount Cheam is a lady. And behind her are her children. That little one, it's the dog. That's what they say. The Indian name is Lhilheqey. That means like a lady. Lhilheqey - that's what they called her. The white people gave the name Mount Cheam. Cheam is from the Indian word. It means strawberries, wild strawberries, you know ... They grow on the island down there, right below the mountain. That's chee-am. The white people called it Mount Cheam (Bierwert, 1999:63). The English name for the mountain obscures the landmark's Native identity. Nevertheless, the mountain's significance is not forgotten by the Sto:lo people. Even with its English toponymy, Mount Cheam remains an important manifestation of Native identity (Bierwert, 1999: 63). 5 At first glance, it is easy for most of us to understand the personification of landscape features as imaginative renderings, a colourful play on words that builds on visual resemblances and fill them out with complex personalities and narratives. Most Euro-Canadians are familiar with landmark personifications, derived in large part from western literary traditions, such as the "old man in the mountain." However, for most of us, the idea of a personified mountain seems to be an entirely unnatural concept. In fact, for those of us who have been reared within the Western scientific tradition it is often not clear where in the telling of these stories metaphor ends and personification begins, where personification is a figure of speech and where an actual figure in the world. For many anthropologists working within indigenous cultures, the challenge has often involved confronting the confines imposed by one's own culture in order to be able to take seriously and, therefore, understand what other people say and know about their places. 3. Cultural Landscapes and the Potential for Misunderstanding The basic lesson for Euro-Canadians should be clear. The lives of First Nation peoples are tied to the land upon which their tribal group exists or existed before contact (Deloria, 1973). The "story of the people" is based upon features across the landscape, which resonate with meaning and, in many instances, with life itself. First Nations typically exist as a full and complete people within the landscape of their oral traditions. Whether it is the Haudenosaunee (i.e. 'Iroquois') of eastern North America, or the Pueblos of the Southwest, each group relates to the specific and generalised landscape within each country as children upon Mother Earth (Tallbull, et al, 1996: 128; Martinez, 1998; Redmond, 1996; Storm, 1972). Tradition and spiritual practice are intimately tied to locations within each Nation's home territory; a point which is not readily understood by most non-Natives who possess a relatively portable religion that can be practised anywhere on the Earth. It is precisely because living spirits or stories live within landscape features that the alteration or destruction of those features precludes use of the area for ceremony or teaching. The potential for destruction and alteration of cultural landscapes is typically a function of misunderstanding. Without the teachings and cultural practices that fill out significance in aboriginal places, culturally significant settings in the First Nations landscape are susceptible to being misunderstood in three related and often very damaging ways. First, the narrative constructions of western literary traditions as well as those of popular culture threaten to provide substitute or 6 surrogate meanings for indigenous people to the extent that these would become exclusive interpretations, independent of what can be locally known (Redmond, 1996: 128). We can consider the possibility that there are figures in the landscape and that, if they were people, they could speak to those listening, making themselves known over time. We may or may not come to the conclusion that the mountains are people, but we may be better able to speak of their influence on the lives of the local culture. However, if we assume that the features and traditions that inhere in the landscape are only significant in terms of cultural construction, that they have no agency, then we will not hear them. If we fill them in light of our own cultural experience or through misappropriation from other cultural settings, we radically transform them. The second difficulty centres on the relatively complicated definitions of exactly what First Nation people mean when they assert that the landscape has profound or ancient cultural significance. While public land managers are becoming increasingly aware of the culturally deep, land-based values, they are experiencing difficulty in fully understanding them and in designing and implementing actions to accommodate them (Nathan, 1993; Redmond, 1996; Stankey, 1992; 100; Willems-Braun, 1997). Herein lies the difficulty. While these values are extremely hard to define, legislation such as the Forest Practices Code mandates that all relevant values be explicitly incorporated into management planning (BCMOF, 1995b, 1999). Carrying out this and similar mandates is made all the more difficult when public land managers formulate planning decisions based on incorrect cultural premises which frequently lead to conflict and prolonged mistrust between public agencies and First Nation groups. One fundamental problem encountered when misunderstandings arise between Native and non-Native peoples is the assumption that in some way the world-views of both groups are essentially the same (Deloria, 1973; Martinez, 1998: 39). At the risk of gross oversimplification, the traditional First Nations worid-view embraces the idea that all nature is sacred. Nature means everything dwelling on planet Earth - rocks, trees, humans, animals, birds, land, water - everything. In addition, everything has a right to live, and everything is animate. If, for some reason, the life of a creature must be taken, it is usually only taken after asking forgiveness (Halifax, 1979; Kehoe, 1981; Underhill, 1965). In general, the world-view of Euro-Canadians is that humans are superior creatures that alone have a God given "right to life." All other 7 forms of life can be utilized for the benefit of humans without thought or ceremony. Landscapes that are called culturally significant or "sacred" by First Nations are viewed as wilderness, barren, or dead by non-Native land managers, and therefore as an exploitable resource (McCormack, 1998: 27). A clear example of conflicting world-views occurred in 1992 during a meeting between a certain Plains First Nation and representatives of an agency of the U.S. government (Price, 1993). The First Nations tried to impress upon agency personnel, particularly the resource managers, that they needed to harvest live trees for upcoming ceremonies. They felt that their treaty rights were being violated once again because they were being compelled to obtain and pay for a permit to collect the live trees necessary for tipi lodge poles. In essence, these live poles were essential for the successful conduct of the ceremonies. From the land manager's perspective, however, the Natives could enter previously burned areas and collect as many lodge poles as they desired without need of a permit. However, nothing could be said by the Native Americans to convince the official that the lodge poles must unquestionably come from living trees. The manager's attitude continued to be that a lodge pole is a lodge pole. This misunderstanding was based almost entirely on a difference in world-views. For the non-Native resource manager, there was no valid or sensible difference between live or dead poles, especially if the poles were intended to be used merely as structural supports. In fact, the manager perceived significant advantages in utilising the dead trees in lieu of the live stems; less sap to get on oneself. From the perspective of the Natives, however, the tipi is a living and, therefore, sacred being whose presence is necessary for the proper conduct of the ceremony. The manager and her staff perceived this point as a minor issue and as such, for the First Nation participants, it was treated as a major insult. Differing world-views is one level of misunderstanding between Native and non-Native peoples. However, the perception of Western land managers that they can intuit many of these ideas and world-view gaps provokes even greater misunderstandings (McCormack, 1998: 28; Redmond, 1996). This is due in part to the misconception that because some basic or superficial level of understanding is reached by the resource manager, that is all there is to understand. However, nothing could be further from the truth. The crucial point is that many Native peoples understand the depth and complexity of these world-views intuitively and from the oral traditions taught from early 8 childhood. For this reason, it is often extremely difficult for a First Nation person to explain fully the meaning of something. It frequently ends with an exasperated "But why can't you understand? I've just explained it!" In reality, they may have explained it as fully as possible, but only for another Native person because both are using the shorthand of understanding. They are dealing with the same worid-view that begins their own understanding, a world-view which contains well understood, often tacit understandings; which rarely need to be articulated fully with other members of the same community. In other words, when there is a shared basis of apprehending the worid between individuals of the same cultural group, there is no real need to explain one's value premises and assumptions. Putting these hidden assumptions into words can pose a serious challenge. It is exactly the same when someone of European heritage attempts to explain their picture of the world to a First Nations individual. Frequently the initial feeling on both sides is that an understanding has been reached only to discover in the future that next to nothing was actually understood (McCormack, 1998: 132). 4. Planning for Cultural Values: Research Objectives In sum, if public land managers are to be responsive to the needs and values of indigenous cultures, they must work toward a fuller understanding of those needs and values. To gain that understanding, I have reviewed the relevant literature and asked several members of the Cheam First Nation to explain what these land-based cultural values mean to them. Having spent the last year working with the Cheam people, I have heard people say unequivocally, "this land is our home", "this land is sacred to our people", "this stream, this forest, this fish, this tree is essential to our way of life" (Cheam informants, personal communication).1 In the process a great deal has been learned, and it is with considerable enthusiasm that I share much of this knowledge, with the understanding that it is the result of a combination of personal experience coupled with a more formal type of ethnographic research that includes both qualitative and quantitative analysis. The philosophy that guided much of 1 The Cheam people are one of several "Indian" bands that comprise a larger national entity known as the Sto:lo Nation. The Sto:lo have traditionally inhabited the lower stretches of the Fraser River from the Fraser Canyon above Yale to the Fraser River Delta, and are part of a larger ethno-linguistic group known as the Coast Salish. A geographic and cultural overview of the Sto:lo Nation is provided in Chapter 3 (Cultural and Historical Background). My rationale for working with the Cheam First Nation is provided in Chapter 4 (Research Design and Methodology I). In addition, pseudonyms or references to "informants" or "participants" are provided throughout the thesis to ensure the anonymity of the Cheam band members. 9 this research has been that most aspects of documenting and understanding cultural or spiritual values cannot be defined purely from a scientific standpoint. In essence, the crucial lesson that I have learned from the Cheam is that land-based cultural values are part of an interconnected whole and some aspects are therefore not reducible to quantification. As a result of my efforts with the Cheam I have learned that this is an immensely abstract topic, one that reflects the moral and ethical aspects of land usage and the pervasive character of higher emotions, thoughts and feelings toward the land, nature and culture. At this level of abstraction, I am dealing with feelings, thoughts and values that are ethereal and intangible and, therefore, difficult to define and describe clearly. In addition, I have learned that true sensitisation to cultural values is made evident not in the questions that can be answered but in the questions that are asked and how we seek the answers. Thus, the basic research questions that guided this research consisted of - "What are land or land-based cultural values?" and "What do people mean by the assertion that land has profound cultural and spiritual significance to them and their communities?" The information that flowed from interviews and informal conversations in response to these questions was striking in terms of the diverse expressions of cultural attachment, and in the pervasive character of land-based culture within a First Nations community. Flowing directly from these questions, the general objective of this research has been to explore cultural perceptions and definitions of the landscape as they are expressed by the Cheam people of the Sto.lo Nation. Many First Nations retain a "spatial conception" of the land in which places and their names, and all that these may symbolise, are accorded central importance. In essence, the past lies embedded in features of the Earth, in rivers and canyons, mountains and rocks which together animate the land with multiple layers of meaning that reach into their lives and shape the ways that First Nation people think (Deloria, 1973; Spencer, et al. 1977). Knowledge of place is therefore closely linked to knowledge of the self, to grasping one's position in the greater scheme of things, including one's own community, and to securing a confident sense of identity. That such a nexus between the land and its occupants exists is very clear from the ethnographic literature that documents the cultural expressions of place held by First Nations. The challenge in this context stems from the first objective of this thesis, which is: 10 1. To explore the cultural definitions of place as expressed by the people of Cheam. With any sense of place the pivotal question here is not where it comes from, or even how it gets formed, but what, so to speak, is it made with? While describing a community's sense of place may prove troublesome and, ultimately, prone to misunderstanding as it crosses cultural boundaries, the elements that compose it can be selectively sampled and separately assessed. In its fullest manifestation, sense of place gives way to thoughts of membership and identity in social groups, of participation in activities that cut across the concerns of particular people to forge enduring social bonds, and close involvement with whole communities and their ancient rituals and spiritual traditions. Experienced in this way, as what Heaney (1980: 133) terms a "mode of communion with a total way of living," sense of place may gather to itself a potent spiritual or even religious force. Fuelled by expressions of inclusion, belonging and connectedness to the past, culturally significant places have the power to root individuals in the social and cultural soils from which they have sprung together, holding them there in the grip of a shared identity, a localised version of self. For the First Nation communities that are working to preserve culturally important places, they are confronted with some formidable challenges. What remains of the cultural landscapes that are being used by aboriginal people in Canada and the United States is being threatened by resource development, extractive industries such as timber and mining, and by unbridled tourism and recreation use. Most of the culturally significant places that we hear about are situated on Crown lands, and thus the responsibility for these sites rests in the hands of public agencies and professional land managers, many of whom may not understand land-based cultural values or simply regard them as irrelevant to the technical or commercial interests of resource management (Cummings, 1998: 289; Hammond, 1996). Land-based cultural values often conflict with Western, non-aboriginal conceptions of the land which regard nature as a commodity, as a 'resource' that is devoid of culture and spiritual meaning, and for which we have designed laws to protect private ownership and exploitation (McCormack, 1998: 26). The second research objective is intended to address this conception of resource management as a technical and culturally neutral planning exercise, and demonstrate how activities such as forest management can affect or interfere with traditional conceptions and uses of the land: 11 2. To explore the connections between land management and culture and, in particular, to identify the ways in which cultural perceptions and uses of the land are affected by resource management activities. In essence, land-based cultural values often spring from social or cultural structures that the typical resource manager, as a result of previous education, is often poorly prepared to comprehend. One technique that has been advanced in the landscape planning literature to develop sensitivity to unfamiliar cultural values is a simple "what i f (Ervin, 1992) exercise of the imagination, facilitated by a realistic model of the landscape under different land management scenarios. "What it might look like" analysis (Ervin, 1992; Duerden and Johnson, 1993) using realistic three-dimensional computer models has been employed to a very limited extent by resource managers with First Nations to assess the visual and cultural impacts of proposed management alternatives within a community's traditional territory (Duerden and Johnson, 1993). By presenting aboriginal communities with a range Of landscape management scenarios in the form of realistic three-dimensional images, this technique is intended to depict the land as seen through the eyes of the affected community, to illustrate what a management proposal will look like on the ground, and help identify the culturally important sites and values that will be affected by the proposal. As Duerden and Johnson (1993) have found in their work with the Council of Yukon Indians, consulting with and developing an appreciation for the cultural perspectives of indigenous communities is essential to fair and inclusive land-use planning and, therefore, it is important that land-use information be presented in a form that the community can understand (Crerar, 1999; Duerden and Keller, 1992; Duerden, Kuhn and Black, 1996; Nantel, 1999). Realistic, three-dimensional visual models of the landscape have been touted in the resource management literature as the best available means of eliciting community reactions to a management plan across several dimensions including aesthetic, cultural use and, potentially, spiritual values (Duerden and Johnson, 1993: 729; Crerar, 1999). Despite the growing body of literature documenting the use of visualisation techniques in land-use planning and resource management, comparatively little has yet been done to assess the effectiveness of visual media - ranging from standard planimetric maps to three-dimensional simulations - to elicit responses from First Nation communities with unique and frequently misunderstood cultural perceptions of their landscape. The third objective of this thesis is an attempt 12 to begin filling this gap by systematically exploring the benefits and possible limitations of realistic 3D visualisation in eliciting cultural information relative to the standard two-dimensional maps that are typically employed by resource managers to consult with aboriginal communities. Ultimately, this research objective is intended to provide a case for the potential opportunities and limitations inherent in landscape visualisation as a consultation tool for resource managers in dialoguing with First Nation communities and understanding their unique land-based cultural values: 3. To explore the effectiveness of various data and landscape visualisation media as a means of eliciting land-based cultural values from the people of Cheam. The final research objective stems from the concern that, once the forest manager has developed some basic understanding and appreciation for cultural concepts and uses of the land, that it is possible to accommodate the full range of interests and values in an effective decision-making process. Simon (1984) has criticised contemporary resource management for its preoccupation with technical and ecological analysis, and posits that the central question before resource managers is how to frame an approach to forest management that is both ecologically responsible (i.e. predicated on good science) and socially acceptable (i.e. commands the understanding and support of the community). Moreover, Simon and others (Martinez, 1996; Hammond and Judy, 1996; McCormack, 1998; Redmond, 1996; Tallbull, et al., 1996; Wolfe-Keddie, 1994, 1995) argue that the meanings attached to culturally significant or "special places" by First Nation communities may constitute the most significant attribute influencing decisions about acceptability. How esoteric cultural meanings are tapped and incorporated into resource management decisions represents a major challenge for most scientifically trained forest managers who have been educated to perceive the landscape within a relatively narrow spectrum of values - i.e. ecological, commercial, and/or recreational. Thus, the final objective of this thesis is slightly less abstract than the first three, and is intended to address some of the fundamental policy implications of cultural landscapes for BC forest management: 4. To discuss the implications of land-based cultural values for resource management in British Columbia and examine any barriers to the effective integration of cultural values in BC forest management. One general caveat about the approach taken in this study deserves to be stated here. Given the highly abstract and complicated nature of land-based cultural values, it was felt that an 13 approach using visual media to elicit cultural information needed to be complemented by experiential and participatory modes of learning (Goulet, 1998: 28). In effect, a researcher needs to trust their own perceptions and observations and, with that objective in mind, get out of the laboratories and lecture theatres and observe community interactions with the land on a firsthand basis. As such, this research has also been informed to a considerable extent by interactions with the people of Cheam through extensive informal conversations and more formal meetings, and short-term residence on the Cheam reserve during the summer months of 1999. Experiential learning and planning takes considerable time, but without it, there is only the illusion of understanding culturally significant areas. Computer graphics and thick reports are useful, but distant. They are poor substitutes for being there, face-to-face with the real situation and the real people, learning to understand it and the people who care about it in all dimensions. 5. Organisation and Content of the Thesis The body of this thesis is organised into the following sections including: Chapter 2: A review of the literature that addresses ideas about nature and the human cultural and spiritual values that inhere in the landscape. The opening half of the chapter is intended to address the first objective of this thesis, which is to explore and develop some framework to understand the ways in which human societies establish a cultural relationship with their landscapes. These ideas will be explored from a variety of professional and academic viewpoints, and will draw largely upon examples from Sto:lo culture, other Native North American perspectives and, to a limited extent, from European cultures where relevant. The concepts addressed will include, but are not limited to anthropological definitions of culture, cultural perceptions of place, place as embedded knowledge, and work in nature as a place defining activity. Having explored how and why different cultures develop unique cultural relationships with their environment, the second half of the chapter will examine the various means through which traditional societies have expressed cultural interpretations of place using different visual media. The discussion will begin with a historical review of the use of cartography by different indigenous societies, and an exploration of recent landscape planning initiatives by First Nations and First Nation researchers using computerised mapping and/or landscape visualisation technologies. 14 Chapter 3: This chapter provides a relatively brief description of the historic and geographic context of the Cheam people. The basic objective of Chapter 3 is to provide the reader with a cultural and historic framework for the Cheam community in terms of the physical environment that they inhabit, the historic and political circumstances that have contributed to the present configuration of First Nation reserves in the Lower Mainland, and an exploration of the places that the Cheam and their Sto:lo neighbours continue to regard as culturally or spiritually significant. While this chapter is primarily descriptive in nature, it is also intended to provide a relatively substantial investigation of the history of European settlement in the Fraser Valley, and the consequences that are associated with changing land-uses for culturally significant places. Chapter 4: This chapter describes the overall research strategy or methodology that was used in the thesis. A procedural account of the methods that were used for data collection and analysis is provided, accompanied by a theoretical rationale for each step taken. The chapter concludes with a description of the measures followed to ensure the validity and reliability of the findings, and how the ethical principles of social science research were followed. Chapter 5: Beyond the interview questions and data collection protocols described in Chapter 4, this chapter is intended to document the use of visual imagery as the other key aspect of the data collection exercise. The first purpose of this chapter is to provide a brief conceptual background in the use of visual media (resource maps, landscape simulations, etc.) for planning practice and social science research. The second, more fundamental purpose is to provide a detailed account of the methods used to develop the visualisations and assumptions underlying the landscape management scenarios depicted in the simulations. In part, this is to ensure that nothing about the simulation planning process is hidden from scrutiny but, more importantly, to provide a theoretical justification for the techniques used, as well as an argument in support of the accuracy, credibility and clarity of the simulations. Chapter 6: This chapter will describe the main study results, provide an analysis of interview transcripts and personal observations using insights gleaned from the literature review, observations from several "field visits" to the Cheam reserve, and conversations with key individuals within the community. The reflections of interview participants to a series of resource management scenarios 15 are presented along with evidence accumulated from a variety of sources (i.e. ethnographic accounts, archival records, newspaper articles, etc.) either to corroborate or shed additional light on observations drawn from the interview data. Chapter 7: This chapter will conclude with a synthesis of the important insights that have been acquired throughout this research. Chapter 7 will begin by reintroducing the research questions and objectives that have guided this thesis, and present a number of the key findings that stem from the analysis presented in Chapter 6. The discussion will then provide a more "pragmatic" exploration of the implications of land-based cultural values for government agencies such as the B.C. Ministry of Forests, as well as examine possible barriers to the effective integration of cultural interests in forest management. The innovative experiments of a number of resource managers will be examined to provide some insight into how government agencies and First Nations can accommodate the more esoteric cultural interests of indigenous communities in resource management. The chapter will conclude with a consideration of the future of cultural resource management in British Columbia, as well as examine the research agenda and opportunities that result from this investigation. 16 Chapter 2 Literature Review 2.1 Introduction While forest managers are becoming increasingly aware of land-based cultural values, they are experiencing some difficulty understanding them and in designing implementing actions to accommodate them. Herein lies the problem; while these values are extremely hard to define, legislation such as the Forest Practices Code mandates that all relevant cultural values be explicitly incorporated into management planning: Aboriginal rights include fishing, hunting, gathering, trapping for food, the use of the land and resources for shelter, medicinal, spiritual and ceremonial purposes. Aboriginal rights must not be unjustifiably infringed upon by resource development activities of the Crown (BC Ministry of Forests, 1995, Forest Practices Code, Forest Development Plan Guidebook, s. 5) Carrying out this and similar mandates is made all the more difficult because First Nations' cultural values and uses can conflict with the values underlying more typical or contemporary uses of crown forest lands (e.g. timber harvesting and, potentially, some forms of recreation). Working with Native and non-Native interests to sort out these competing values and turn conflict into a learning process that creates positive results is a daunting and largely uncharted management task. Nonetheless, if Crown lands are to be managed in the best interests of all, all values attendant to those lands - i.e. cultural, ecological and commercial - and their existence must be considered. In sum, being responsive to the needs and values of a group that has historically been marginalised in resource management (Bobiwash, 1998) means that land managers must work to a fuller understanding of those needs and values. This chapter responds to that need by documenting the literature that addresses the land-based cultural values of the First Nations of North America, paying particular attention to the body of ethnographic research that relates to Sto:lo conceptions of place and environmental meaning. The attempt is to fill in some of the conceptual gaps that currently exist in the resource management literature between land as a place of commercial wealth and industry and land as a source of physical and spiritual sustenance, and a place in which to find expressions of cultural identity. The objective of this chapter is to examine the cultural relationship of human beings with their landscape. The chapter is divided into four key sections: 2.2) the cultural significance of place, 2.3) place making and oral history, 2.4) landscape meaning through labour, and 2.5) place 17 images, mapping in indigenous cultures. The purpose of the first section is to explore anthropological definitions of culture and to investigate the ways in which place meaning is created through the cultural filters (i.e. values and norms) that a person or group brings to their environment. The remaining sections explore some of those cultural filters and examine the ways in which groups establish and communicate place meaning through their histories and graphic depictions of their environment. 2.2 The Cultural Significance of Place 2.2.1 Culture For nearly a century, culture was primarily the preserve of anthropologists. Many readers have found their works to be fascinating reading and yet the application of their studies, which frequently took place in remote and exotic settings, seemed to have little direct bearing upon the problems of Western society. The writings of American anthropologist Edward T. Hall (1959, 1969, 1977, 1983) moved anthropology from the groves of academia to the boardrooms of multinational corporations. Hall revealed the hidden cultural dimensions that govern the way people conceptualise and organise their activities in space. Architects and interior designers found immediate applications for his theories in the design of modern offices, and corporations sent their executives to learn Hall's cultural theories of space and environment (which are discussed at some length in section 2.2.2) so that they could better deal with their increasingly international, multicultural clientele. Planners and natural resource managers, for the most part, have failed to mine Hall's work. The disciplines of environmental planning and resource management have preferred to concern themselves with the more tangible and quantifiable effects of land-use plans and, therefore, have chosen to turn a blind eye to the "messy" social and cultural reality of their plans. Environmental perceptions and the cultural impacts of resource management proposals are seen to be simply a rather unfortunate element which cannot be ignored in the integrated or "comprehensive planning approach" (Simon, ef a/; 1984). Although it has not permeated the professional paradigms of planning and resource management, an active field of human/environment studies has developed in universities around the world. Knowledge drawn from a wide range of fields has been directed towards improving the understanding of people behaviour within natural settings in order to create healthier human environments (Simon, et al., 1984: 7; Steele, 1991). Despite considerable work in this field, no organising theory has emerged 18 which provides a synthesising structure for the information from the various environmental disciplines to be applied to planning and land management issues (Bechiel, 1977; Simon et al, 1984; Schauber, 2000). Separated by half a generation and the longest undefended border in the world, the reasons Hall gave for non-anthropologists to be concerned with the "cultural dimension" of the environment remain valid for Canadian planners today: Knowledge of the cultural dimension as a vast complex of communications on many levels would be virtually unnecessary if it were not for two things: our increasing involvements with peoples in all parts of the world, and the mixing of subcultures within our own country... It is increasingly apparent that clashes between cultural systems are not restricted to international relations ... For, contrary to common belief, the many diverse groups that make up our country have proved to be surprisingly persistent in maintaining their separate identities. Superficially, these groups may all look alike and sound somewhat alike but beneath the surface there lies manifold unstated, unformulated differences in the structuring of time, space, materials, and relationships. It is these very things that, though they give significance to our lives, so often result in the distortion of meaning regardless of good intentions when people of different cultures interact (Hall, 1969: 5). Culture is one of those popular, contemporary terms that is difficult to pin down and definition has evolved over the past century. It is therefore important to point out that the word 'culture' is used in this thesis in a much wider sense than in everyday speech. Typically, it simply conjures up the idea of refined manners and genteel ideas, fine art, music, literature and so on. In anthropology, these things are seen as no more than a specialised, if important, aspect of culture in general. All of the products of a particular way of life are included under this heading. However, culture refers not just to the material objects (tools, clothes, food, etc.) produced in any given society but also its system of beliefs and ideas, morals and customs. Culture consists of the beliefs, behaviours, norms, attitudes, social arrangements, and forms of expression that form a describable pattern in the lives of members of a community (LeCompte and Schensul, 1999: 21). By the mid twentieth century, "culture was conceived as learned, socially transmitted, symbolically based mechanism for survival, which like other phenomena in our universe, had order or pattern" (Gamst, 1954: 6). Today, as in other fields of academic inquiry, the ordering, patterning or system aspects are emphasised, "culture is a unit composed of interrelated parts which affect and are affected by one another" (Gamst, 1954: 6). The unique human ability to create symbols is seen as basic to the creation and perpetuation of culture. 19 Culture is not an individual trait. If what we observe is unique to an individual and is not repeated by others in similar settings, it is not culture. Although individuals can create cultural patterns by inventing them and communicating them with others, a cultural feature or element exists only when it is shared (Burrow, 1966; LeCompte and Schensul, 1999: 23; Lee and Newby, 1985). By definition, culture consists of group patterns of behaviour and belief that persist over time. Therefore, a group - or even a small subgroup - must adopt a behaviour or belief and practice it over time if it is to be defined as cultural rather than individual or personal. For example, during the 1980s, the insertion by a handful of adolescents of safety pins in their earlobes could be viewed as a personal form of mutilation until the use of safety pins and other hardware as jewellery became commonplace in the punk subcultures of Europe and North America. Culture can also be treated as a mental phenomenon, that is, as consisting in what people know, believe, think, understand, feel, or mean about what they do. Goodenough's (1956) definition of culture as what we need to know to function as a member of a society is illustrated by the example of gifting in Native North American society. Many Native cultures practice gifting as a way of paying respect to spiritual healers and elders. The form of the gift varies from one culture to the next and may consist of tobacco, feathers, coins, shirts, or rifles; and is typically given in exchange for some service such as spiritual healing or story telling (Goulet, 1998: 88). The practice of gifting is so ingrained within some aboriginal cultures that failure to provide a gift is interpreted as a form of disrespect which may result in ostracism until the obligation has been fulfilled. Culture can also be treated behaviourally in terms of what people actually do as opposed to what they say they do. Evelyn Jacob (1987) summarises the differences between these two approaches with the terms "patterns for behaviour" and "patterns of behaviour." Patterns of behaviour represent behavioural variations or choices in the group; patterns for behaviour represent cultural expectations for behaviour. For example, ways of greeting people are strongly patterned by culture. Cultural patterns for behaviour dictate that in North American society, individuals meeting one another feel that they must extend their right hands to shake hands firmly in greeting. This pattern is so firmly ingrained as denoting cordiality that people feel compelled to apologise if their right hand is injured so that they must shake with their left hand, or not shake 20 hands at all. Children almost never shake hands, unless prompted by adults; and many immigrants, and Native North Americans do so uneasily because their own cultures either mandate different forms of greeting or, in fact, have mandates about not touching strangers. Culture is not static, it is a constantly changing process, although change is slow since culture is essentially "dogmatic as to its contents and resentful of differences" (Kroeber and Kluckhohn, 1963). According to contemporary evolutionary thinking, cultural adaptation occurs in spurts as a response to changes in geographic environments or to the influences of neighbouring peoples, the introduction of new technologies, and so on. However, this process is usually one of slow change. As life conditions change, traditional forms cease to provide a margin of satisfaction and are eliminated; new needs arise or are perceived, and new cultural adjustments are made to them (Murdock, 1940 from Kroeber and Kluckhohn, 1963: 168). The imposition of change by outside agents can have destructive results (Shkilnyk, 1985). Cultural change is not, according to positivist anthropologists and sociologists, a linear development from primitive early religion, through metaphysics to science (Lee and Newby, 1985: 72). However, much of planning and design thought still suffers a conceptual hangover from positivist thinking which asserts that every culture outside of "Western civilisation" is more primitive or less highly developed (Beattie, 1966; Friedmann, 1989; Klohn and Olivares, 1975; Lang, 1990; Simon et al., 1984: 23) and "modernisation" must be the logical destination of all societies. Today, at least intellectually, most people acknowledge that the differences exhibited by non-western societies do not equate with being less highly developed. However, when confronted with actual cultural differences in a working situation there frequently is a strong tendency to try to coerce cultural conformity. In some instances, cultural differences are so basic that planners and land managers may not even be aware that differences can exist. ...fundamentals such as time concept, logical inference, or transcendental feelings ... are usually taken for granted (Klohn and Olivares, 1975: 105) Lacking a theory that adequately explains the relationship between culture and environment, this thesis utilises a major theme approach. The major theme is that the relationship between people and their environment is transactional, that is, people bring values, attitudes and beliefs to their environment and it is through those cultural filters that a setting becomes imbued with place meaning (Steele, 1991: 9). In other words, the meaning of a place 21 can never really be described as simply a function of its physical attributes. Place experience must also take into consideration the attitudes, beliefs and expectations of those experiencing it. For the purposes of the following discussion, I have focused on the human-environment literature that deals with cultural perceptions of the physical world. In particular, I have explored the literature which addresses how people identify themselves with places, call them home, and use them to find a sense of spiritual renewal, and provide a sense of security and identity for themselves and the group. 2.2.2 Cultural Uses and Perceptions of Space Robert Ardrey (1966) provides a biological foundation for human as well as other animals' spatial behaviour. Ardrey viewed humanity's biological constitution as a driving force that is: ...essential to the existence of contemporary man ... I see it as a force shaping our lives in countless unexpected ways, threatening our existence only to the degree that we fail to understand it (Ardrey, 1966: 7). Hall views culture as being "... bio-basic - rooted in biological activities and territoriality as a behaviour that preceded culture but later became elaborated by man into culture as we know it today" (1959: 44). "Space (or territoriality)", Hall says, "meshes very subtly with the rest of culture in many different ways" (1959: 51). Proxemics, as defined by Hall (1969), is the study of how people of different cultures arrange their world, and assign value to and measure the parts. When representatives of different cultures unconsciously act according to their own cultural proxemic patterning, not only misunderstandings, but alienation can and do occur. Recognition that such wide differences exist among the proxemic patterns of various ethnic groups is a first step toward eliminating this kind of alienation (Hall, 1969:2). Different cultures perceive and organise their world according to different spatial patterns to the extent that: ...people from different cultures not only speak different languages but, what is possibly more important, inhabit different sensory worlds. Selective screening of sensory data admits some things while filtering out others, so that experience as it is perceived through one set of culturally patterned sensory screens is quite different from experience perceived through another (Hall, 1976: 2; emphasis added). In effect, space perception is not only a matter of what can be perceived but what can be filtered out. People reared in different cultures learn as children, without ever knowing that they have done so, to screen out one type of information while paying close attention to another. Once set, these perceptual patterns apparently remain fairly stable throughout life (Hall, 1966: 102). As people travel abroad and examines the ways in which space is handled, surprising variations are 22 discovered, differences that we react to vigorously. Since none of us is taught to look at space as isolated from other associations, feelings cued by the handling of space are often attributed to something else. In growing up, people literally learn thousands of spatial cues, all of which have their own meaning in their own context. These cues release responses already established in much the same way as Pavlov's bells started his dogs salivating. The accuracy of spatial memory varies considerably from one person to the next. There are indications, however, that it is exceptionally persistent in all human beings. For instance, whenever a North American moves overseas, he or she suffers from a condition known as "culture shock" (Burrow, 1966; Hall, 1959: 182). Culture shock is simply a removal or distortion of many of the familiar cues one encounters at home and the substitution for them of other cues which are unfamiliar. A good deal of what occurs in the organisation and use of space provides important leads as to the specific cues responsible for culture shock. For example, the Latin American house is often built around a patio that is next to the sidewalk but hidden from outsiders behind a wall. It is not easy to describe the degree to which small design differences such as these affect outsiders. Canadian and American visitors to Latin America often complain that they feel "left out" of the community, that they are "shut off." In the United States and Canada, however, propinquity is the basis of neighbourhood relationships. Being a neighbour endows you with certain rights and privileges, and also responsibilities. You can borrow things, including food and drink, but you must also take your neighbour to the hospital in an emergency. For these and other reasons, English North Americans try to pick their neighbourhood carefully, because they know they are going to be thrown into intimate contact with people. We do not understand why it is that when we live next to people abroad the sharing of adjacent space does not always conform to our own cultural pattern. In France, for instance, the relations between neighbours are apt to be cooler than in North America. Mere propinquity does not tie people together. The whole point of this discussion is to underscore the notion that culture equips us with different value assumptions and expectations of the appropriate uses of space. In effect, human beings react to their environment according to the expectations and values which they inherit from their culture and bring to a setting. However, people are also active to the extent that they will purposefully seek or avoid certain locations that they believe to be dangerous or proscribed such 23 as deserts and sacred burial grounds. People also actively seek out places that they believe to be particularly desirable or auspicious such as Mount Olympus, Lourdes, and so on. What we bring to a setting and why we choose to seek or avoid particular places is often based on our understanding of the past and, in particular, the history of our culture (Basso, 1996; Kahn, 1999; Steele, 1991: 6). William Chapman (1979: 46) has written that, "the past is at its best when it takes us to places where we have been, that remind us of our connections to what happened here" (emphasis in original). Places such as Dunkirk, Wounded Knee and Gettysburg are much more than just geographic sites, they are imbued with symbolic power and, in some cases, have acquired an element of sacredness. Places with cultural or sacred significance are often encountered in the landscape of the present as material objects, features and areas that make up the landscape of everyday life. Frequently, in our worid of everyday current concerns and projects, historical places are not seen as reminders of the past. Instead, when they are seen at all, places are perceived in terms of their tangible, outward characteristics, as features, forms, colours, and textures. However, on occasion, we stumble across a familiar feature or landmark, and suddenly the landscape assumes an entirely different meaning. For example, Niels Bohr, the theoretical physicist of the early twentieth century, made the following remarks about Kronberg Castle in Bohr's native Denmark to the German mathematician Werner Heisenberg: Isn't it strange how this castle changes as soon as one imagines that Hamlet lived here? As scientists we believe that a castle consists only of stones, and admire the way the architect put them together. The stone, the green roof with its patina, the wood carvings in the church, constitute the whole castle. None of this should be changed by the fact that Hamlet lived here, and yet it is changed completely. Suddenly the walls and ramparts speak a different language. The courtyard becomes an entire world, a dark corner reminds us of the darkness of the human soul, we hear Hamlet's "To be or not to be." ... everyone knows the questions Shakespeare had him ask, the human depths he was made to reveal, and so he too had to be found in a place on earth, here in Kronberg. And once we know that, Kronberg becomes quite a different castle for us (Bohr quoted in Basso, 1994: 5). Thus, in an instant, the landscape of Denmark's past transforms and supplants the landscape of the present. That certain places prompt such transformations, evoking as they do entire worlds of cultural meaning is not, as Bohr observed, a small or uninteresting truth. Place making becomes a common response to typical human curiosities such as - What happened here? Who was involved? What was it like? 24 Long before the advent of literacy, places served humanity as durable symbols of distant people and events and as indispensable aids for remembering and imagining them. This convenient arrangement, ancient but not outmoded, is still with us today. In contemporary landscape settings, people continue to ask, "what happened here?" The answers that they provide should not be taken lightly, for what people make of their places is closely connected to the way people see themselves as members of a culture. Place making is not merely a way of constructing and narrating the past, a venerated means of doing human history, but it is also a way of constructing social traditions and in the process of forging social identities. Place making provides a sense of identity and a sense of security to individuals and groups. Places can serve as tangible symbols linking people to distant events, and when these symbols are shared, they link people to one another to forge a common identity (Bierwert, 1999: 68; Marshall, 1999; Mohs, 1987). In this manner, places provide a sense of security, a feeling that we have a home or have a home that we can go back to. It is when our landscapes acquire this level of symbolic power that they then assume a level of sacredness - places become a source of meaning and identity, and therefore constitute being (Steele, 1991: 8). The cultural value of landscape is widely discerned but only loosely understood. Place making is a form of cultural activity and as such, as many anthropologists will attest, it can be grasped only in relation to the values and behaviours with which place making is accomplished. As a human value, sacredness is subjective and intangible, becoming objective and observable only through its tangible expression as apprehensible forms of culture - histories and traditions, human behaviour, and works of art (Boden, 1992; Finnegan, 1992; Kahn, 1999; Steele, 1991: 9). Beginning with the first of these cultural forms, the following discussion explores the oral history of the Sto:lo people and illustrates the way in which history invests a setting with meaning, and forges a link between people and environment. In part, this discussion is intended to illustrate how a cultural group uses its own sense of history to colour the landscape of the Fraser Valley with meaning. In the process of asking "what happened here?" the Sto:lo have not only crafted for themselves a sense of group identity and belonging to their landscape, but they have also transformed their environment into a repository of social and moral knowledge. In effect, the Fraser Valley is a sacred, living chronicle of the Sto:lo people through which they can not only find 25 a link with people and events of the past, but which also provides moral guidance for living in the present. 2.3 Place Making and Oral History: Sto:lo Conceptions of Place Meaning 2.3.1 and the Moral Landscape of the Fraser Valley To First Nations people, the natural world is imprinted with memories from the ancient past, far off memories of events the power of which, having seemingly charged the landscape, are recalled by those with the ability to see. For instance, in the natural landscape of the Fraser Valley can be found impressive stone monoliths, massive boulders set upon the mountain tops or scattered near the high water mark of the river. Just as ancient stone monoliths of other cultures are associated with some of mankind's earliest stories, similar rock monuments that record memories from the distant past also inhabit the world of the Sto:lo people. In ancient times, before the advent of the written word, cultures often preserved their memories by attaching them to singular benchmarks found in their local environment (Basso, 1984; Bierwert, 1999; Marshall, 1999: 3; Mohs, 1987). A large pinnacle of rock might record the site of an important battle between old foes. A narrow canyon might recall the presence of a supernatural event. And several stone monuments, such as the prominent boulders that occupy the natural landscape, are often the very points where human lives had been touched and transformed by the spirits that created them. Just as First Nation people have inhabited their landscapes since 'time immemorial,' so to have the ancient signposts of their cultures which have lasted for millennia. Long before history books were ever created, the natural world was like a book in itself, which could be read and reread by successive generations. In oral-based cultures such as the Sto.lo people they can walk the landscape and literally watch history unfold (Bierwert, 1999; Marshall, 1999: 47; Mohs, 1987, 1992). Each and every stone marker tells a story, and with every story, a past is preserved and relived in the present. For instance, in the Sto:lo creation story and in other teachings, Xa:ls the Transformer (pronounced with an aspirated H and ends like the English word "walls") is an agent sent by the Creator to make changes in the human world (Boas, 1895; Carlson, 1999; Duff, 1952; Jenness, 1934, 1955; Marshall, 1999; Mohs, 1987; Suttles, 1987). Xa:ls only appears in the oral traditions of the Coast Salish people, and his purpose is very different from the tricksters (e.g. mink) and founding ancestors who are responsible for many of the changes in the Sto:lo landscape. In contrast to a trickster, Xa:ls is a deeply moral character with a singular purpose that comes from 26 the Creator (in Halkomelem, Chichelh Siya:m). Unlike the first ancestors of the Sto:lo people, Xa:ls leaves no descendants, only a landscape that is replete with moral lessons. In general, Xa:ls is described as someone possessing a deep concern for human welfare, who travelled the world generations prior to European contact with North America and judged its people according to a strict moral code, rewarding the good and punishing the wicked (Marshall, 1999; Suttles, 1987: 109). By transforming dangerous monsters, supernatural beings, and immoral people into rocks and animals, Xa:ls placed things in a new and more peaceable order for the Sto:lo peoples of the present age. In addition, he has bequeathed to succeeding generations a rich historical record that is inscribed in the landscape. In this way, the indigenous people of the Fraser Valley are able to ask "what happened here?" and, in so doing, find an ancient cultural heritage that affirms their identity as Sto:lo (literally translated as People of the River). The full chronicle of Xa:ls' travels makes its first appearance in the Western academic literature in the mid-1950s when a Sto:lo elder named Thalhecten and called Old Pierre recounted a story of Xa:ls that is perhaps the longest account to have been told in the Halkomelem language (Jenness, 1955). Old Pierre's son translated his words into English for ethnographer Diamond Jenness, who transcribed the narrative and published it as "The Faith of a Coast Salish Indian." The work is a lengthy account of Sto:lo origins, and Xa:ls' journeys from Vancouver Island to the Fraser Canyon comprise nearly a third of the story. Old Pierre also provided extensive ethnographic documentation for Jenness, including place names, history, and a detailing of aboriginal cultural practices. Old Pierre begins his story with a description of the setting. The place in which Old Pierre opens his story is the Fraser Valley, which he describes as a bountiful food bowl: In earlier times this Fraser River resembled an enormous dish that stored up food for all mankind (Jenness, 1955:10). The world begins as a bountiful place and, with this established, Old Pierre begins the first half of the narrative by describing how two principal human beings, made directly by God, continue the work of creation. All the landmarks, birds and animals, and supernatural beings are created by these agents. The most elaborate work is done by the leader Swaniset, who was told to "finish the work" of giving form to the land and waterways, and to provide food for the people that inhabit the landscape. The second main part of Pierre's story are the Xa:ls episodes, which begin as a sequel to Swaniset with some interesting shifts in perspective: 27 A rumour now reached the Indians on the Lower Fraser that three brothers, accompanied by twelve servants, were coming from the west to finish Swanset's [sic] work. Anxiously the Indians waited (Jenness, 1955: 34). Old Pierre says that God created Xa:ls, and that he is a human being, but that he is also "a being of marvellous power... who could transport [himself] wherever he wished by his mere thought" (Jenness, 1955: 35). Unlike Swaniset, the place of Xa:ls' origins is unknown and he moves through the landscape transforming it and the people that he encounters, with no enduring social connections. By the end of his travels, somewhere in the Fraser Canyon, Old Pierre states that Xa:ls: ...had sorted out the good from the bad and made the world a better home for man (Jenness, 1955: 34). In order to understand the cultural meaning of the Sto:lo landscape, we must look more closely at the part of Old Pierre's teachings where Xa:ls transforms the landscape of the Fraser Valley. Xa:ls' moral transformation of the world comes through a simple sifting of character as he travels through the Sto:lo homeland. Often a character's own actions will provide the basis for the transformation. For instance, in Xa:ls' first encounter with people, he addresses a man and his wife who are sitting on a beach. According to Jenness, there is some hint that they are waiting for Xa:ls, but Old Pierre does not fully explain their purpose. Without any clear justification on his part, Xa:ls sweeps "his right hand upward, restoring their souls to the Lord Above and changing their bodies to stone" (Jenness, 1955: 19). It appears that the people have been condemned, but if they are recipients of Xa:ls' judgement, it is not clear from the narrative. According to Old Pierre, Xa:ls' purpose was to turn the old couple into a stone talisman You shall help the people who come hereafter. If they speak fair words to you, you shall grant them fine weather (Jenness, 1955: 42). In essence, Xa:ls' transfiguration of the couple is intended to be a reminder that prayer is the source of good things for people. In Xa:ls' next encounter, he addresses a woman who is reputed for her intense greed, for never sharing her clams. When Xa:ls asks what she is doing: she answered sharply, 'I am cooking clams for myself.' Then you shall dwell among the clam beds forever,' he decreed and, raising his right hand, he transformed her to stone (Jenness, 1955: 47). The moral judgement that is cast is more transparent. According to Old Pierre, the stone that Xa:ls created is sacred to the Sto:lo because it is a tangible reminder of Xa:ls' passage through 28 the valley, and because the woman's flawed character had consigned her to permanent condemnation (Jenness, 1955: 47). Two transformer sites in Sto.lo territory - Th'exelis and Xa.ytem - are among the most noted and venerated transformer sites among contemporary Sto:lo people (Mohs, 1987: 91). Located in the Fraser Canyon near Yale, the principal feature at Th'exelis is a number of shallow grooves in a bedrock exposure 15 metres above the Fraser River. Altogether, there are 35 such grooves, the largest of which measures 20 centimetres in length. Both the Sto:lo and their Nlaka'pamux (Thompson) neighbours have legends associated with Th'exelis. According to Sto:lo teachings, Xa:ls arrived at the mouth of the canyon near the completion of his time on earth. Here he met a formidable opponent, Kwiyaxtel, a powerful medicine man from a village near the present day Spuzzum who questioned Xa:ls' power and authority and challenged him to a duel. In the course of their duel, Xa:ls sat at Th'exelis (literally "gritting his teeth") and Kwiyaxtel on the opposite side of the river at Xelhalh (meaning "injured person"). In the battle that followed, each attempted to transform the other by various means. By gritting his teeth, Xa:ls proceeded to scratch the rock upon which he was sitting with his thumbnail and with each scratch he weakened his opponent. Ultimately, Kwiyaxtel was defeated and transformed into stone by Xa:ls. The permanence of such stories confirm the importance of Th'exelis to contemporary Sto:lo belief systems. In effect, Th'exelis is where Xa:ls left his mark on earth so that future generations would remember his passing. Th'exelis is an affirmation of Sto.lo spirituality and figurative representation in the landscape prior to the arrival of Europeans. A Sto:lo informant to anthropologist Gordon Mohs affirmed the importance of Th'exelis in establishing continuity with the past: When my grandfather used to go up there fishing he'd take me over there and when I turned 13-1 think this was another training that young people go through - if you want to be strong, you sit there at 13. So I sat there and put my feet where his [Xa:Is] was. Mind you, it makes you quiver to sit there. 'Cause maybe the powers are there of Christ [Xa:ls] himself... (Sto:lo informant in Mohs, 1992: 195) Perhaps the most widely recognisable transformer site in the Fraser Valley is a large boulder located near Mission and known by the Sto:lo people as Xa:ytem (Figure 2.1, following page). The following is the teaching related to the site as related by Sto:lo elder Bertha Peters: A person from Chilliwack Landing told me this story: The Great Spirit [Xa:ls] travelled the land, sort of like Jesus, and he taught these three siya:m [elders] how to write their language. And they were supposed to teach everyone how to write their language but they didn't. So they were heaped into a pile and turned to stone. Because they were supposed to teach the language to everyone, and 29 because they didn't, people from all different lands will come and take all the knowledge from the people. Because they wouldn't learn to write they lost that knowledge (Bertha Peters in Carlson, 1997:187) There is nothing forgiving about Xa:ls. People with flawed characters are punished with a gesture and words that transform them. The people he changes become gifts to those who are left including, in some cases, animals as food for future human generations. He suggests a continued presence, even though he will not be there in his person. A s a benefactor, he is remote, providing both bountiful resources and a landscape that is rich in moral lessons. In effect, the connections between these remote figures of the past and the present are secured by these stories. By adding references to immediate and tangible landmarks, people like Old Pierre and contemporary Sto:lo make places stand out more vibrantly, shifting the persons transformed by Xa:ls from landmarks to living people once again. Figure 2.1: Xa:ytem Rock, Mission, BC Photograph by author. 2.3.2 Inscribed Meanings: Possible Implications Xa:ls was a scribe, and the landscape of the Fraser Valley was the archive of his work. In Halkomelem, Xa:ls is named for his inscriptions upon the landscape. The root word xal refers to inscription in its broadest meaning (Marshall, 1999: 47). The name Xa:ls translates as "his mark," the trace of his presence, his record. The Halkomelem word is used to describe not only the graphic inscriptions and visual designs of indigenous cultures, but all kinds of graphic artefacts, including visual images and writing. The landmarks that Xa:ls created are therefore marks made in this world, marks that were created in the same sense as any other graphic inscription and 30 intended for the same purpose, to communicate. Xa:ls' stories are therefore embedded or inscribed in the land, referring to and from it. A problem that I will explore in greater depth in Chapters 3 and 6 is that, as with any other inscription, Xa:ls' archive can be damaged and destroyed, thereby compromising the ability of the Sto:lo people to read his work. As modem development continues to spread out over the landscape, the natural world is further transformed into a massive network of roads, bridges, railways, towns, clearcuts, and endless suburban housing, all of which have, and continue to have, a most destructive effect on these signposts of the natural world. To destroy the ancient markers of the Sto:lo world is to essentially destroy the history of a rich and lasting culture. Contemporary Western society has systematically reduced and preserved the memories of its culture within the pages of leather bound volumes that have remained on library shelves to avoid inconveniencing the rapid pace of "progress." For the Sto:lo people though, their book remains in the very places that they have occupied and used for millennia. This ancient book, however, has been lent to a careless reader who has, at time, damaged it beyond the point of repair. To inadvertently damage or obliterate these ancient markers is to erase the past and deny one of the oldest cultures in the Pacific Northwest its cultural heritage. 2.4 Place Meaning through Labour The act of reading cultural meaning from the landscape described in the preceding section implies a relatively detached and passive relationship to the natural world. We come to a place or feature on the landscape, gaze upon it, and reflect on what may have happened within that setting or who may have passed through there. We may recall a story or teaching which resonates with who we are as individuals or as a society thereby giving the setting a sense of meaning, place and, in some instances, sacredness. However, sometimes we find meaning through what we actively do in the landscape and from the ways in which we work with our environment. My objective in this section is to explore the connections that exist between people and place through the activity of work. There are several possible land-based activities that serve as a basis from which expressions of place meaning may arise including recreation, worship and ceremony, artistic expression, and so on. However, I have chosen labour as the focus of my discussion because it is perhaps the most visible and documented aspect of the relationship that First Nation cultures retain with the land (Booth and Jacobs, 1990; Cronon, 1994; Martinez, 1998; Pinkham, 1996; White, 1996: 175; Willems-Braun, 1996). My argument will be that a connection 31 with the land through work creates knowledge, and that the transmission of such knowledge within families and across generations sustains important social networks. In effect, the productive use of the land through work becomes a cultural activity, and becomes the basis for assertions that the landscape possesses meaning because it is "part of us" (Darryl [Cheam informant], personal communication). 2.4.1 Work as a Place Making Activity There is no avoiding the question of work and nature. Most people spend their lives engaged in some form of productive work activity, and centuries of human labour have left deep, indelible marks on the landscape. In both the old world and the new, herders, farmers, hunters and labourers have deeply influenced the natural world, such that virtually no place is without evidence of its alteration by human labour. Work that has changed the land has simultaneously produced much of what we know about our landscape (White, 1996: 171). Humans have come to know nature by digging in the earth, planting seeds, and harvesting fruits and plants. We have come to know nature by shaping wood and stone, by living with animals, nurturing them, and hunting them. We have come to know distance and the various forms of landscape because of the physical energy that we expend moving through space. Our ancestors have tugged, pulled, carried, and walked, or they have harnessed the energy of animals, water, and wind to perform tasks for them. In essence, working with the land achieves a full bodily knowledge of the natural world (White, 1996:172). Our urbanised society lacks an adequate understanding of this work. However, examples of human knowledge of nature gained through labour are readily apparent if we look. For millennia humans have known animals largely through their work. Work gave the people who trained and worked with animals a particular knowledge of them. Albert Drihkwater, a retired B.C. logger explains: There is something about a horse that isn't an engine you know. A horse won't work for everybody the same. He'll work for one man and he'll pretend to pull for the other one. The horses themselves became ... part of the man that drove them (Dietrich, 1992: 39). This is a knowledge that we possess because we have bodies with which to work. Through our bodies and our senses we encounter not ideas of the world but other bodies. We confront the intractable reality of the world itself. To know a horse through work is to know that for all the 32 general knowledge of horses you may have, what also matters is the knowledge of this particular animal at this particular time. John Berger through his essays in Pig Earth, presents examples of "peasant knowledge" where in rural communities "working is a way of preserving knowledge" (1979: 11). For instance, Jacobo Romero was a farmer in the Sangre de Crista Mountains of New Mexico. Along with the Rio de las Trampas, a small river that is nothing more than a stream, he is the central figure in William deBuys and Alex Harris's work River of Traps (1985). Romero knew his landscape though his work. Like Berger's peasants, "inexhaustibly committed to wresting life from the earth," he had become so wedded to a particular place that to move him would have been to change who and what he was (deBuys and Harris, 1985: 23). He worked his land along the river, and his work yielded both physical sustenance and a body of knowledge that could be passed on to his children, grandchildren, and so on. How one works, how one yields a hoe, handles a horse, or sets a fishing net creates both a bodily knowledge and a social knowledge, part of what Pierre Bourdieu calls habitus (1977: 78). Such knowledge is connected with physical, bodily experience, but it is not solely or even directly connected with physical experience. Working can also communicate a history of past work, of past trials and successes, which is turned into bodily practice until it seems like second nature. Often referred to as traditional knowledge, this habitus or bodily knowledge is unconsciously observed, imitated, adopted and passed on in a given community. Our labour and the productive uses to which we put the land both create and reinforce these cultural connections. Thus, people who work and live from the land possess a reciprocal relationship with their environment to the extent that they bring their labour and the accumulated knowledge of how to work the land in order to derive a material or subsistence livelihood from it (Berger, 1979; deBuys and Harris, 1985; Steele, 1991: 7; White, 1996). Moreover, the knowledge that is received from ancestors of past trials and successes, and which is in turn granted to the children who will inherit the land, forges deep and permanent social bonds within land-based societies (White, 1996: 181). That the land is the source of such material and social abundance means that, for people like Jacobo Romero, his land is much more than an accumulation of physical resources, it is a place of profound personal and social meaning. In essence it is a place that provides for him and sustains his family, and it is the milieu in which children acquire the accumulated wisdom of their 33 parents and ancestors. A s inhabitants of the land, Romero and his family are inhabited by it as well. This reciprocal or transactive relationship in which people invest themselves in their environment, while incorporating the meaning that they derive from it into their existence, is a crucial foundation upon which traditional land-based societies express their cultural interest in the land and natural resources. The practice of river fishing by the Sto:lo people is one example of work in nature as a form of cultural practice that cultivates sociality among community and family and, in turn, unites people and place (Bierwert, 1999: 48; Carison, 1999; Crey, 1997; Suttles, 1987). Fishing in Sto:lo communities is a labour intensive, family-based enterprise, that involves intense periods of work interspersed throughout long stretches of attention to the details needed for those moments of work - e.g. hauling nets alternates with cutting fish during a fishing opening, mending nets, tuning outboard motors, and setting nets in the river. On the reserve, women tend to the gear that is needed for camp, and men hang nets in their backyards and work with their sons to mend tears. However, in spite of its laborious and sometimes mundane qualities, working on the river makes visible the social and cultural fabric of family relationships through their co-operative practice (Bierwert, 1999; Carison, 1999; Crey, 1997: 67; Mohs, 1987, Suttles, 1987). For example, when - i Figure 2.2a: Sto:lo River Fishing - Setting a Gill Net Photograph by author. 34 the first salmon run of the season comes upriver, when they are filling nets in large numbers, they typically do so for everyone in the community and there is a joyfulness and feeling of celebration that is very tangible. The feeling of celebration that comes with the first run of salmon reinforces the social bonds of the community through the ritual of the First Salmon Ceremony. The material purpose of this ritual is to share and distribute the wealth of the first catch throughout the community (Carlson, 1999: 5). Spiritually, the ritual of giving thanks for the catch and returning the bones of the fish to the river are intended to ensure an abundant harvest for future seasons. However, the annual ceremony is also intended to re-emphasise the communal nature of the resource in the sense that the river's bounty is intended for the use of the entire community, and should not be coveted by any single person or family (Carlson, 1999: 5). Through the height of the fishing season in mid to late summer, there is a continuum of effort and energy associated with shared work. Men usually pick the nets (Figure 2.2a, preceding page) and women clean and process the fish for home consumption (Figure 2.2b), as well as maintain the fish camp and cook for everyone assembled there as well. Some women fish on Figure 2.2b: Sto:lo River Fishing - Cleaning the Catch Photograph by author. their own or actively fish with their spouses or their children. Children view the time and work as play at the edge of activity, watching for their time to join in. Fishing these same sites can deepen the bond between parents and children as effort and knowledge is shared, as well as 35 orchestrating a deeper sense of continuity with the past (Carlson, 1999; Crey, 1997). The depth of skill that is transmitted between generations is reflected in part by the diversity of fishing sites along the Fraser River. There are hundreds of fishing sites up and down the Fraser River from the delta and into the canyon, along the banks of the river. Each site has been inventoried by the Sto:lo Nation which maintains a map of the fishing sites in use, and records details of most sites, including ownership, physical features and some history of use (Mohs, 1987). Ownership and use of the sites is hereditary as locations along the Fraser River are marked for the exclusive use of particular families, who may have fished from the same location over several generations. Separately, each site requires a highly specialised working knowledge (Bierwert, 1999; Mohs, 1987: 7). The sites vary in their productivity and, by extension, in how intensively they are tended. Although virtually each site along the river is fished using a set net, each location requires specialised handling and produces more or fewer fish depending on river conditions -e.g. water temperature, river height, the size and nature of the given salmon run. Setting a net at different angles to the shore can produce different results, and the yield reflects the knowledge a fisherman has of the site (Mohs, 1987: 8). For instance, within the fast and turbulent section of the River through the canyon, there are bays that contain relatively calm back eddies whose edges are good places to set nets. Below the canyon, the river's ragged edge produces miniature bays and inlets carved out by fast water. Still farther downstream where the river turns westward, some spurs of the bank are built into sandspits as the water slows, and these produce riffles that both hide the net from the fish and draw the salmon into sheltered areas. This knowledge is shaped by the salmon swimming the river in a particular way, the shape of the river's course, and by the Sto:lo peoples' accumulation of past trials and successes of fishing the river over several generations. Given the permanence of family ownership over fishing sites along the Fraser, the knowledge of how to work each location to its fullest potential is both cultivated and transmitted within families. Fathers instructing sons not only strengthens family bonds but, in some instances, connects people to a particular place through the understanding that the knowledge of how to fish the site transcends generations of occupation and use (Crey, 1987; Mohs, 1987: 56). Thus, the Sto:lo fishery reflects the notion that connection with the environment through work reinforces knowledge and strengthens community and family bonds when the activity and fruits of the activity are shared (White, 1996: 183). The physical 36 settings or places in which these activities and convivial experiences occur become in themselves culturally meaningful because they are alive with memories, knowledge and history, both personal ones and the narratives of parents and ancestors. In addition, traditional fishing sites become a place where people reaffirm their ties with family and community (Bierwert, 1999: 49). For some Sto:lo families, the good feelings that result from the social experience of working fishing sites with friends and relatives is often the primary reason for being there. The argument presented here is not intended to romanticise traditional forms of work. However, the urbanised culture of Western society gives little credence to the ways in which First Nations have used the landscape through their labour over the past millennia, and for the ways in which aboriginal people experience their environment and bequeath that knowledge to succeeding generations. That inheritance provides an individual, family, community with a sense of connectedness to one another and to their past; a connectedness and sense of community that is rooted in place. 2.4.2 Synthesis of ideas: Place Making as a Transactional Experience The belief in a living, sacred nature is not simply an intellectual concept for Native cultures. For many, perception of the landscape is important in determining perception of self and community. Vine Deloria, Jr. (1973) argues that Native peoples hold a perception of reality that is bound up in spatial references, references which refer to a physical place. In Deloria's view, a spatial reference is important in establishing positive relationships with the natural world. Owing to its basis in a particular land or place, a spatial orientation requires an intimate and respectful relationship with the land: The vast majority of Indian tribal religions have a centre at a particular place, be it river, mountain, plateau, valley, or other natural feature. Many of the smaller non-universal religions also depend on a number of holy places for the practice of their religious activities. In part, the affirmation of the existence of holy places confirms tribal peoples' rootedness, which Western man is particularly without (Deloria, Jr., 173: 53). The major theme of this chapter has been that the act of place making, or finding rootedness in place, is a transactional activity. In effect, how we perceive a setting is often a function of the values, behaviours and expectations that we bring to the setting. In section 2.3, I explored how people bring a sense of history to their environment, and how an awareness of "what happened here?" can transform a seemingly banal geographic setting into a place that is replete with meaning and character. The meaning of a seemingly innocuous medieval building 37 transforms in an instant upon the realisation that an ancient structure had once been the home of Hamlet. Upon that realisation, the landscape of Bohr's native Denmark comes alive with history and a profound sense of belonging and cultural identity. Similarly, the Sto.lo people have coloured the landscape of the Fraser Valley with history and cultural meaning. The legacy of Xa:ls to the Sto:lo people resides in his transformation of the world into a more peaceable order by judging people according to a strict moral code. By transforming immoral people into features of the landscape, Xa:ls has given to succeeding generations a historical and moral legacy that is literally inscribed in the land. As Deloria asserts, many Native nations embrace "spatial conceptions of history" in which places and their names, and all that these may symbolise, are accorded central importance (1973: 54). For Sto.lo men and women, the past lies embedded in features of the earth - in canyons, rocks, lakes and mountains - which together give the landscape multiple layers of meaning that reach into their lives and influence the ways they think. When people identify themselves with places that carry such potent symbolic power, these places become markers of home; symbolic markers that link members of a society to one another to forge a common sense of identity or community. Thus, human beings are able to cultivate a sense of connectedness or relationship with particular places because, as shared cultural and historic symbols, they have the power to bring people together. N. Scott Momaday suggests that the human impulse to find identity and community from place has been with us for a very long time: From the time the Indian first set foot upon this continent, he centred his life in the natural world. He is deeply invested in the earth, committed to it both in his consciousness and in his instinct. The sense of place is paramount. Only in reference to the earth can he persist in his identity (Momaday, 1994:1). Most people are able to grasp with relative ease the concept that physical settings with deep historic and symbolic meaning (e.g. Agincourt, Bosworth Field, Bunker Hill) often resonate within our personal and collective psyches as important and meaningful places. In a similar manner, the activities or behaviours that we bring into a setting are capable of forging connections with place that are equally as profound. Work in nature establishes a full bodily knowledge of the environment. When labour becomes a co-operative undertaking and, in particular, when work yields both knowledge and a material abundance that can be given to others, critical social bonds are created that sometimes transcend generations. As the example of Sto:lo river fishing posits, some cultures imprint their traditional knowledge and personal memories to particular settings to 38 the same extent that they embed stories and legends within specific features of the landscape. Thus, resource use areas acquire a special meaning in the human mind because they are focal points for modes of work that are capable of sustaining important social connections in the present, as well as allowing us to feel connected with the people of our past. Thus, the essential point to the discussions in 2.3 and 2.4 is that the human-environment transaction involves a bringing of our sense of history or our labour to a setting, and a taking from that setting some sense of cultural identity and community. The idea that people can establish connections or relationships with place is based on what Di Chiro refers to as a "unity of difference" (1996: 318). This idea presupposes that human beings can establish reciprocal relationships with other groups, other species and even the natural environment itself through everyday experiences with family and work. The idea of relationship or community with the land is central to Native expressions of "we are the land" and conceptions of other living creatures as "relatives" (Booth and Jacobs, 1990: 33-4): We are the land. To the best of my understanding, that is the fundamental idea embedded in Native American life ... The land is not really the place (separate from ourselves) where we act out the drama of our isolated destinies. It is not a means of survival, a setting for our affairs, a resource on which we draw in order to keep our own art functioning. It is not the ever present "Other" which supplies a sense of "I." It is rather a part of our being, dynamic, significant, real. It is ourself, in as real a sense as our notions of "ego," "libido," or social network, in a sense more real than any conceptualisation or abstraction about the nature of the human being can ever be (Brown in Booth and Jacobs, 1990: 34). These fields look after us by helping our corn to grow. Our children eat it and become strong. We eat it and continue to live. Our corn draws life from this earth and we drawn life from our com. This earth is part of us! (Basso, 1994: 21) The world in which the Sto:lo dwell (and many other Native peoples for that matter) can be said to live within them because Sto.lo history and tradition is based in the land and, to the extent that the land provides physical sustenance and social cohesion, their lives are inseparably intertwined with the land. In a very real sense, the land is their life. Thus, whether it is harvesting wild game from the forest, fish from the river, or passively reflecting on "what happened here?" First Nation peoples possess a reciprocal relationship with their environment. In essence, the concept of place implies a binary transaction, like provider and receiver. As inhabitants of their landscape, First Nations are inhabited by it as well, and through the depth of that reciprocal relationship, the people and their landscape exist as a single, sacred community. This reciprocal relationship, a relationship in which individuals invest themselves in the landscape while incorporating its 39 meanings into their existence, is the ultimate source upon which Native peoples base their expressions of place and their reactions to environmental change. 2.5 Place Images: Mapping in Indigenous Cultures My discussion thus far has examined two distinct ways in which members of a local aboriginal community involve themselves with their landscape. First, they may observe the landscape attending to aspects of its appearance and, on occasion, reflecting on the meaning that it holds for their group. Second, they may use the landscape, engaging in a broad range of physical activities which may build connections with other members of the group through a co-operative effort and sharing of the fruits of that effort. Depending on the duration and extent of that effort the landscape acquires a different presence in the group's collective psyche in the sense that their home place becomes a landscape of both physical and social sustenance. However, the third and final aspect of place involvement that I would like to explore in this section is how Native peoples communicate their sense of the landscape and, in particular, formulate descriptions and other depictions that they share in the course of social gatherings and discussion with members of other cultural groups. Western society tends to be entirely preoccupied with the relatively narrow history and opinions of European culture. In cultural geographies there is typically little mention of maps made by any cultures other than those with European origins (Turnbull, 1998: 16). There is a standard method to this exclusion. An opening chapter begins with the acknowledgement that indigenous cultures used mapping, usually under the derogatory heading of "primitive" (Parsonson, 1965: 128). Some very scant examples are provided, and the discussion quickly shifts to a review of Asian mapping, perhaps because many Asian cultures (e.g. Japan, Islam, Ottoman Turks, etc.) shared the imperialist ambitions of European powers at some time during their respective histories. The discussion presented in this section attempts to break with that tradition. It begins with the premise that every culture, albeit in different ways, uses spatial notions to organise and make sense of every day life. There is a vast gulf between indigenous attitudes towards land and the attitudes of the dominant colonial culture of North America. To the Native people of this continent, land is immediately and consciously the source of sustenance, an action space which serves to reinforce important social networks, and provides an affirmation of their historical and cultural heritage. Retention of detailed land-use information, excellent mental and paper maps, a 40 rich place name vocabulary, and the identification of landscape features regarded to be irrelevant by the western intellectual tradition, contrasts sharply with the perspective of a society that regards land to be either scenery or real estate (Duerden and Johnson, 1993). Whether in our minds or printed on paper these spatial notions, or maps, are powerful cultural artefacts that articulate our conceptions of environmental and social reality. They are depictions of the world for what our senses perceive through the filters of culture and experience. Furthermore, the content and ostensible purpose of western mapping is reflected in part by the map-makers themselves. In our society, the making of maps has become dominated by trained specialists who employ satellite technology and sophisticated algorithms to convert landscape and communities into digital abstractions used to guide the development of forest companies and engineers (Sparke, 1995: 474). The result is that although we now have unprecedented access to maps, we are in danger of losing the ability to use maps to reflect our images of place - skills that our ancestors honed over several generations and many aboriginal peoples still retain. Mapping as conceptualised by indigenous peoples is at the heart of what Western culture needs to rediscover Turnbull, 1998: 19). Thus, the central question for this section is how did societies that were rooted in place use maps to depict their conceptions of space and time and provide order to their actions? Due to the relentless subjugation of aboriginal cultures, it is difficult to find answers to this fundamental question. This section looks at how aboriginal societies made maps, how their environment was conceptualised and communicated and, finally, how contemporary indigenous cultures are using maps in the process of articulating postcolonial conceptions of place. Before proceeding, two related purposes deserve to be made transparent. First, in spite of the prevailing orthodoxy in the cartographic literature, my purpose in this section is to demonstrate unequivocally that aboriginal cultures made maps. My purpose is to respond to some fairly common misconceptions that First Nation cultures were "too primitive" to use abstract visual representations of their landscape to communicate conceptions of territoriality and/or place meaning. A common theme in the ethnocartographic literature is that contemporary mapping technologies such as geographic information systems or landscape visualisation are "culturally inappropriate" (Turnbull, 1998: 15; Nantel, 1999) because traditional, land-based societies in North America have never relied upon visual media to convey their sense of place. However, the 41 following discussion will posit the idea that, not only did "primitive" indigenous cultures make and utilise maps, but these maps reflect a level of complexity and intimate familiarity with their environment that surpasses our two dimensional conception of space. To this end, I will begin the discussion with a brief examination of the cartographic techniques of the "primitive" indigenous cultures of Micronesia and North America. In addition to the fact that they are among the most prevalent examples in the ethnocartographic literature (Brower, 1984; Farrell, 1984; Gladwin, 1970; Lewis, 1972), the examples chosen provide the clearest demonstration of the use of visual media by First Nation societies to communicate traditional knowledge and conceptions of place meaning. My second, purpose is to demonstrate how First Nations today are using various forms of cartography and visualisation technology to depict an interstitial conception of space between the abstract Cartesian spatial conventions and the historically rich, place-specific oral maps of traditional aboriginal culture. In effect, mapping technology in its present form can never hope to capture fully the complexities of indigenous cultures and, in particular, the unique human-environment relationship described in the first two-thirds of this chapter. Contemporary cultural geographers are beginning to appreciate the ways in which aboriginal cartography and landscape visualisation are able to surpass our two dimensional conceptions of space, and reflects a level of complexity and intimate familiarity with place that is situated "in between" Western and aboriginal depictions of space (Bhabba, 1994: 217; Sparke, 1995). 2.5.1 Mapping Place Experience - Examples of Indigenous Cartography Sticks & Shells - Micronesian Sea Charts Most surveys of the history of cartography contain some reference to the sea-charts used by Micronesians living on the Marshall Islands in the North Pacific (Brower, 1984; Lewis, 1972; Figure 2.3, following page). Islanders constructed these maps from pieces of palm leaf tied together with coconut fibre, and the grids that were formed in distorted geometric patterns, depicted the curve, refraction, and intersection of wave patterns caused by the prevailing winds. Seashells are tied to the frame as well to indicate the location of islands. Typically, only a physical description of this unique map is included in books on cartographic history, and the interesting cultural setting that has leant to the creation of such images is often left relatively unexplored. Micronesians inhabit very small atolls scattered in four major clusters in the Pacific Ocean - the Gilberts, Carolines, Marianas, and Marshalls. Surrounded as they are by a vast ocean, the 42 inhabitants of Micronesia face the constant threat of devastating typhoons and have needed, therefore, to develop highly reliable navigation techniques to move people throughout the atolls for social activities, locating and harvesting resources, and for reciprocal trade. Their physical and social requirements necessitated a technology that would enable navigation across vast distances without the benefit of landmarks, and which could be readily taught to succeeding generations of navigators. Figure 2.3: Micronesian Sea Chart National Geographic, October 2000:100. The obvious problem of traversing vast distances of ocean with no physical guides is the key challenge. To most westerners, mapping the surface of a dynamic and featureless body of water is a seemingly impossible task. However, the inhabitants of Micronesia have inhabited and travelled throughout the islands of their region for millennia. Much like Jacobo Romero living along the Rio de las Trampas, the Micronesians have accumulated a knowledge of the ocean that is connected with their physical, bodily experience of navigating the Pacific for centuries or, in other words, a form of habitus. Through centuries of use, and an accumulation of past trials and successes, the people of Micronesia have learned that there are regular and predictable patterns to be found on the ocean's surface and in the sky's expanse (Brower, 1984; Farrell, 1984: 11; Gladwin, 1970; Lewis, 1972). For instance, oceans are a complex interaction of tidal forces, currents and wind driven wave patterns that are replicated and observable in cycles over time. The steepness of waves, their patterns of refraction, or the amount of cresting can all be used as indicators of location. In addition, star configurations and their movement are nocturnal markers used by navigators around the globe. Sea colours, sounds, water temperature, and phosphorescence change with depth, as do the type and variety of sea creatures and birds that 43 can be observed. Birds are particularly useful for ocean navigators because different species fly at a variety of distances from shore. The point is that people who live "in place" develop an astounding familiarity with their natural environment. This accumulation of experience permits the development both of technologies and cultural worldviews that allow the hostile and apparently featureless environment of the Pacific Ocean to become full of opportunity and potential. Micronesians pass on their environmental knowledge and mapping skills through a number of methods, all connected by the need to layer mapping in memory. Mapping lore is preserved verbally in stories, poems, chants, and through rhymes. It is illustrated physically in the palm stick sea chads, in dwellings whose rafter patterns depict segments of the night sky, and in model canoes surrounded by stones which mark distances and location. In this way, Micronesians weave information on navigation into their daily lives. In effect, mapping skills are not the preserve of selected technical "experts" in Micronesian culture; they are part of the common, everyday life of a culture that is deeply interconnected with its environment. Mapping in Indigenous North America: Beothuk Maps There is no more telling and poignant example of aboriginal cartography than that of Shawnadithit, a Beothuk from the ironically named Newfoundland. Matthew Sparke's (1995) article reflects the depth of Shawnadithit's mapping skills and casts her as an "agent of knowledge," through the manner in which her spatial renderings challenged nineteenth century European notions of space and history (Marshall, 1996; Such, 1978). However, as Turnbull (1998) and Sparke (1995) argue, Shawnadithit's influence continues well into the twentieth century as her cartography challenges established notions about the "great divide" between the "scientific" explorers and the "primitive" itinerants of North America. Only after print and the extensive experience with maps that print implemented would human beings, when they thought about the cosmos or universe or "world," think primarily of something laid out before their eyes, as in a modern printed atlas, a vast surface or assemblage of surfaces ... ready to be "explored." The ancient oral world knew few "explorers," though it did know many itinerants, travellers, voyagers, adventures and pilgrims (Ong, 1982: 73). Map making as we know it is not a natural art but a literate and above all scientific achievement (Parsonson, 1965:128). As the "last of the Beothuks," Shawnadithit came to the world's attention through her death in 1829, a victim of the colonial government's misguided attempts to establish contact and "civilise" the last remaining indigenous inhabitants of Newfoundland. Her obituary in the London Times (September 14, 1829: 5) casts her and her fellow Beothuks as anomalies and creates the 44 conditions for cultural erasure and for the kind of questioning of aboriginal spatial awareness that still permeates Western culture: Died - At St. John's Newfoundland on the 6th of June in the 29th year of her age, Shawnadithit, supposed to be the last of Red Indians or Beothuks. This interesting female lived six years a captive amongst the English, and when taken notice of latteriy exhibited extraordinary mental talents. ... This tribe, the aborigines of Newfoundland, presents an anomaly in the history of man. Newfoundland nearly as far from China as the Antipodes there has been a primitive nation, once claiming rank as a portion of the human race, who have lived, flourished and become extinct in their orbit. They have been dislodged, and disappeared from the face of the earth in their native independence in 1829, in as primitive a condition as they were before the discovery of the New Wodd... Shortly before her death, Shawnadithit's story came to the attention of naturalist W.E. Cormack, who had her transferred to the Beothuk Institute which he founded to open "communication with and promote the civilisation of the Red Indians of Newfoundland" (Turnbull, 1998; Warhus, 1990: 90). Shawnadithit provided "nearly all the information we possess regarding her tribe" (Sparke, 1995; Turnbull, 1998: 27; Warhus, 1997). It was in the last six months of her life while she was at the institute that, being "clever with a pencil" and possessing no instruction in Western cartographic techniques, that Shawnadithit drew a series of maps describing her tribe's encounters with British colonists (Sparke, 1995: 16). In one map, she illustrates failed attempts by a British naval captain to return the body of Shawnadithit's mother to her people, ostensibly in another attempt at contact.2 The map also illustrates the travel routes and campsites of the Beothuk and, with considerable cartographic ability, illustrates Shawnadithit's own capture (Figure 2.4, following page). Sparke's analysis of the cortege map addresses the key issue on which Lewis (1993) and several other ethnocartographers have sought to differentiate western "scientific" maps from indigenous ones; the issue of accuracy and scalar consistency (Sparke, 1995: 12). On one side of the debate over indigenous cartography, authors such as Parsonson (1965) question the accuracy of Shawnadithit's maps and characterise her distortion of rivers and other spatial features as inaccurate, "primitive" attempts at geographic representation (Parsonson, 1965: 128). In effect, the cortege map shown in Figure 2.4 does not make use of an accurate or consistent scale to represent landscape features or the geographic distance between points of interest. It is z Having reduced Beothuk numbers to approximately 30 people by the early 19m century, the British colonial office offered a 100 pound bounty for the capture of a Beothuk man or woman. Shawnadithit's mother (Demasduit) was captured in 1819, only to die 4 years later of tuberculosis. 45 on this basis that Parsonson denies Shawnadithit any semblance of cartographic or spatial However, Shawnadithit's maps and those of the many other Native North Americans that Warhus (1997), Mundy (1996) and Thompson (1998) have brought together show that they have profound cartographic and historiographic capabilities: Rather than a deficiency, the uneven scale in Shawnadithit's map can be read as a rigorous and reliable picturing of the uneven possibilities for travel by foot across so uneven a landscape. Rather than set up an imaginary abstract grid of space on which all else falls into synchronic place, the complex space-time map depicts, traces the spatiality of people and movement. It is still a representation of space, still a picturing and still an embodiment of geographical imagination. Yet it is also a spatiality rooted in the practical pathways of Beothuk journeying and knowing (Sparke, 1995:12, emphasis added). Recent authors such as Lewis (1993) and Sparke (1995) have revealed that Shawnadithit's maps are sophisticated spatial-temporal representations of geography. That is, rather than depicting space as a linear, two-dimensional relationship between features on the landscape, Shawnadithit's maps add a temporal dimension by scaling the distance between geographic features according to the time and effort required to travel across the landscape. According to Sparke, it is Shawnadithit's creation of an "interstitial space shared but travelled through and experienced differently by the two groups' employing a European 'outline ordered' format but literacy. Figure 2.4: Shawnadithit's Cortege Map Sparke, 1995: 9. I f 46 incorporating Beothuk perspectives" (Sparke, 1995: 15) that is very disruptive of the orthodox treatment of aboriginal mapping. Unfortunately, while this "new view" on aboriginal mapping reveals the profound cartographic capability of indigenous North Americans, it also shows that maps can be double-edged swords.3 Native maps demonstrate, very clearly, aboriginal knowledge and ownership of their land. However, they have also provided the means for invaders through agencies such as the Beothuk Institute to explore the land and then take possession of it (Turnbull, 1998: 28). Maps are a tool of empire precisely because they are a way of assembling knowledge at a centre of adding information to the imperial archive. However, the imperial and the indigenous are always in tension; with every move towards hegemony an opportunity for local resurgence opens up. Maps are tools for moving local knowledge, but the movement can occur in two directions. In the next section, a contemporary example of indigenous mapping will be presented as an example of "playing the game in order to change it" (Sparke, 1998: 471). In effect, the contemporary example of mapping by the Gitksan-Wetsuweten nations in British Columbia illustrates very clearly how cartography, as an arguably western form of spatial communication and conquest, can be used to document an alternative conception of spatial reality which challenges the prevailing western paradigm. As a tool in the hands of aboriginal cultures, cartography has been compared to the roads of Rome which served to build an empire and give it control, but which also ultimately served to provide a path for the Goths to the centre and overthrow it. 2.5.2 Maps that Roar: Contemporary Aboriginal Maps of Place Given the recent assertion of Native sovereignty and land rights in Canada, it is probably fitting that contemporary aboriginal peoples are in many ways at the forefront of contemporary mapping. Cognitive knowledge of place preserved in language, myth, and experience is being translated into graphic images. The Inuit and Inuvialuit, recognised in the ethnocartographic literature as having a long mapping tradition that predates contact with European culture, continue to be the focus of some of the most innovative contemporary mapping (Warhus, 1997). In the mid-1970s two studies were undertaken to describe graphically the spatial distribution of Inuit 3 There are several other documented examples of indigenous mapping in North America. Warhus (1997) provides the most comprehensive discussion of traditional cartographic techniques that includes examples from Inuit, Plains and Algonquin cultures. 47 land-use. The Inuit Land-Use and Occupancy Project and Our Footprints are Everywhere: Inuit Occupancy and Land-Use in Labrador describe how teams of researchers interviewed Inuit people in order to understand their concept of use in their Arctic territories (Brice-Bennet, 1977; Freeman Research Ltd., 1976). What emerged from these studies is a glimpse of traditional cultures perhaps never before achieved. Instead of Western interpretations of Arctic society, the studies present scores of maps that simply show patterns of land-use. At the turn of the twenty-first century, innovative mapping continues to originate in the Arctic. The Tungavik Federation of Nunavut has published the Nunavut Atlas, a comprehensive series of land-use maps that played a crucial role in Inuit land claims and in the definition and creation of the Nunavut territory (Turnbull, 1988). In British Columbia, an equally impressive range of traditional territorial mapping has been instrumental in the definition of aboriginal homelands. In the Nass Valley, the Nisga'a people have located the boundaries of extended family territories and, with a team of trained local interviewers, have marked hundreds of place names in the Nisga'a language (Harrington, 1999). More recently, the Nisga'a have purchased state-of-the-art Geographic Information System (GIS) software and have digitised satellite images of their territory to buttress claims of sovereignty, and eventually to aid in the stewardship of locally controlled forest and fisheries resources. Similarly, the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en peoples have recorded traditional knowledge of their territories by interviewing elders (Sparke, 1998: 468). The geographic information collected was eventually used as a primary source to make an atlas representing a collective image of how Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en people inhabit and steward their territory. For the first time, the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en people had a collection of maps that didn't represent a government or corporate scheme to pillage the land. Instead, a beautifully crafted set of images described their home, how people migrated to their present territories, the meaning of ancient place names, where berries grow, and where to catch salmon (Figure 2.5, following page). Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en mapping acquired some degree of political notoriety in the late 1980s from the now famous case of Delgamuukw v. the Queen (Sparke, 1998: 472). The case began in 1987, and involved a trial over sovereignty and rights brought by the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en against the federal government of Canada and the province of British Columbia. In the latter phases of the trial, cartographic tools and arguments were a key component of their 48 effort to outline aboriginal sovereignty in a way that the Canadian court might understand. It was one such map of Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en territory that Chief Justice Allan McEachern was beginning to unfold when he declared - "We'll call it the map that roared" (Sparke, 1998: 470). As Dan Monet, a satirist working for the First Nations made clear, the chief justice's reference to a roaring map evoked a strong resistance implicit in the First Nations' remapping of the landscape (Monet and Skanu'u, 1992). In effect, the aboriginal maps provided a graphic rejection of the orientation systems, the property lines, utility lines, the logging roads, clearcuts, and all the other physical manifestations of Canadian colonialism on Native land. Figure 2.5: Gitksan/Wetsuweten Place Names Map ~j | Sparke, 1998: 469. At the end of the trial, McEachern dismissed the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en claims with an outdated and absolutist set of colonial claims about the extinguishment of aboriginal rights (McEachern, 1991). However, the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en demonstrated how a Western medium of spatial representation could be used to translate and communicate a competing assertion of territorial sovereignty based on "unconventional" (i.e. traditional) sources of information. In effect, the First Nations realised that in order to communicate their oral knowledge and understanding of territorial jurisdiction to a white judge trained in the abstractions and legal formalities of a Western nation-state, they would have to adapt their territorial knowledge to a Western standard of cartographic communication. 49 In the early phases of the trial, aboriginal expressions of territoriality and title followed a very traditional, oral mode of communication as witnesses from both the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en sung or described ceremonial songs and performances in court, among them the Wet'suwet'en kungax and the many Gitksan limx'ooy (Sparke, 1998: 472). Each of these performances evoked the adaawk, a form of historical geographic record of particular Gitksan Houses and the extent of their territorial interests. Dan Monet illustrates how these performances played out in the courtroom setting (Figure 2.6). On one side, he pictures a witness, Antgulilibix, Figure 2.6: "The Law vs. Ayook, Written vs. Oral History" Monet and Skanu'u (1992). singing the limx'ooy. On the other side is Chief Justice MacEachern surrounded by his written records and maps. Monet uses the records and the maps as symbolic representations of the "proper way to approach the problem," according to the Chief Justice (Monet and Skanu'u, 1992). It was according to the rules of this game, played in abstract space of western Cartesian space that the two First Nations had to negotiate. MacEachern's ultimate ruling on the validity of using traditional oral knowledge to establish territorial claims forced the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en to reconsider their approach: Except in a very few cases, the totality of evidence raises serious doubts about the reliability of the adaawk and kungax as evidence of detailed history, or land ownership, use or occupation (MacEachern, 1991: 259). 50 In order to outline their sovereignty in a way that the Canadian court might understand the First Nations elected to follow a different strategy by translating their oral knowledge into a series of maps. This produced a clear example of Satsan's point about "playing the game in order to change it" (Satsan: 1992: 54). On the one hand, through the techniques of modern mapping, they articulated their claim to their territories through a medium that the judge might understand. In the process, they were effectively "playing the game" by mapping their lands within the reductionist, state sanctioned space of Cartesian cartography. However, simultaneously, they were changing the game by supplementing the federal and provincial depiction of the landscape with depictions of aboriginal occupancy and use that were based on oral knowledge. Thus, the maps served at once to communicate and disrupt the mapping conventions of the court (Sparke, 1998: 472-3). Figure 2.7: Gitksan House Boundaries Ij Sparke, 1998: 475. • The maps disrupted the court's conventions in one other very significant way. The maps of Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en territory illustrated the internal boundaries of House territories (Figure 2.7). These internal boundaries were abstracted from the oral, historical articulation in the songs of the First Nations' feasts and were represented instead in the silent, mapping language of the modern state. Yet the maps, while following these conventions of proper geographic communication and court procedure, also transformed them by establishing a toponymy for the subdivisions with the names of the First Nations' Houses. In itself this is not a very significant 51 aspect of the trial; the spatial extent of the House territories was mapped and named according to the House with the title or inherent interest in the territory. However, the House maps did indeed "roar" when they were placed under the colonial maps of provincial jurisdiction. Historically, the colonial maps had been figuratively placed over the First Nations' territories in a way that virtually erased precolonial representations (oral and graphic representations) of the province. However, the two maps seen together as transparent overiays provided a systematic "recodification of the land" (Sparke, 1998: 474). Spaces usually covered by apparent emptiness on modern representations of British Columbia, or seen as so many square kilometres of resources, were actively represented as a landscape rich with the cultural geography of Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en names and meanings. In the end, playing the court's cartographic game opened up the First Nations' case to direct examination in the wider and usually opposing assumptions of the court's conventions concerning geographic space. For instance, James Macauley, a lawyer representing the federal government is recorded as arguing the following: There is another matter that will come up when my friends, at last it is produced, that's his atlas of maps. The maps we received today. This comes as no surprise because we have seen this kind of map before. The place names, the names of creeks, rivers and hills and all the other features, are none of them geographic names, they are Gitksan names (Delgamuuk'w Trial Transcripts: 279). The names on the government maps, the names of the state are held up as the only real names, as the "geographic names." Rereading Macauley's disjointed words, we may be able to detect signs of anxiety. The bold assertion about Gitksan names not being "geographic names" may point to how the Gitksan and Wet'suwet'en maps had at least challenged observers, and the most ardent opponents, to rethink Canada's official geography and consider the 'other" national naming of the land. 2.5.3 Emerging Trends in Indigenous Mapping & Resource Planning The recent experience of Canada's First Nations communities with mapping in traditional land-use and occupancy planning has been largely successful. Immediately following contact, traditional land-use information was widely used by traders and explorers to become acquainted with the land. Over time, however, it has been widely displaced by European based knowledge, but interest in its use has been revived over the past twenty years in response to the proliferation of northern megaprojects in the 1970s, and as the pace of Native land claim negotiations has 52 accelerated during the '80s and '90s. Native perceptions of land-use and landscapes have been transcribed in the form of maps, discourses on toponymy and community economic base studies. Areas of traditional use, occupancy and sensitivity have been formally mapped (Freeman, et al., 1977; Duerden, 1985, Dimitrov, 1985; Riewe, 1988), and indigenous interpretations of landscape and environment were once more seen to have value and relevance. Cruickshank (1984) has noted that indigenous knowledge has been applied to historical climatic research, geophysical research, paleontological studies, and land-use planning. However, beyond the rather simple data management and cartographic manipulation outlined in these applications of traditional knowledge to current mapping technologies, there are issues that are more central to the nature of the land-claims process and, eventually, the post treaty phase of resource co-management that present both opportunities and constraints for tools such as cartography. Reduced to basics, co-management involves combining indigenous knowledge and cultural wisdom about the environment with scientific knowledge in the cause of making management decisions that may affect land, water, wildlife and, eventually, people (Notzke, 1994; Roberts, 1994: 1; Robinson, 1998; Stevenson, 1998). This process involves placing holders of traditional and cultural environmental wisdom in the same room with environmental scientists, and then convening a meeting to hear submissions by potential proponents about project impacts. Possessed of the facts, and aware of the local and regional issues, the co-management committee then analyses scenarios and makes decisions that influence and may bind the proponents in the conduct of their proposed work. In terms of the opportunities for mapping within such a schema, Duerden and Johnson (1993: 728) have suggested that the computational abilities of a geographic information system (GIS) are well suited to accomplishing such a complex task. In the approach that they suggest, the starting point is a comprehensive GIS based land inventory of the area under co-management. The stakeholder groups - both aboriginal and non-aboriginal - express their land-use needs and aspirations, and the GIS is subsequently used to identify an initial management scenario. Subsequently, the land management process proceeds in an iterative manner. Output is critically reviewed by the community and, subsequent to community discussions, the management scenarios are modified. The GIS is employed to generate another set of scenarios and the process proceeds towards an acceptable solution. 53 The problem with such a framework is that it assumes that the members of the affected community will readily understand the mapped information (Crerar, 1999; Duerden and Johnson, 1993; Duerden and Keller, 1992: 12; Nantel, 1999). Utilisation of indigenous land-use information is essential, but in placing it in standard cartographic format much of value may be lost. Indigenous perceptions of land and environment are highly integrated and representing it in a format that non-aboriginal populations can understand is a major cultural compromise and a lot of essential information may be lost in doing this (Duerden and Keller, 1992: 14). For instance, apart from difficulties adequately depicting thematic information an added difficulty may be that of understanding cartographic symbolism such as contour lines. The ability to read and understand cartographic devices such as contour lines and mentally reconstruct topography from them is taken for granted by those who use conventional planimetric maps frequently. In reality, relatively few people can look at a map and mentally reconstruct the landscape it represents; both aboriginal and non-aboriginal publics alike. Yet this is precisely what indigenous people are expected to do if they are to get a clear picture of the way a management scenario depicted on conventional maps would appear in the real world. In her traditional use study in Australia's Northern Territory, Janice Crerar (1999) noted that research to gauge the full potential of GIS as a tool to assist with natural and cultural resource management remains limited. In response to this apparent research gap, Crerar undertook a pilot study to assess the potential of GIS to assist a remote community in the Northern Territory with the management of saltwater crocodile egg harvesting. Crerar"s research underscored the effect that culture has on the way people perceive their environment, and the limited extent to which environmental processes, and cultural perceptions of those processes, are represented in a GIS. Ultimately the way people view a set of GIS maps will be affected by their cultural experiences (Mark, 1995; Strait, et al., 1994). What Crerar found in her work was that basemap information derived from vector data - such as contour lines and property boundaries -were an inadequate representation of the land for aboriginal elders. Mapping geographic entities in vector format was found to be unsuitable and of little interest to the aboriginal community because the map format was found to be "too like traditional western cartography" (Crerar, et al., 1999: 433). 54 For example, during Crerar's pilot project, clan estates were mapped using standard polyline vector techniques. For aboriginal elders, the clan estate boundaries that occurred where there were rivers and other geographic features - which thereby set discrete limits to the clan estate - could be mapped and were generally understood using a vector format. These natural features established boundaries for the clan estates along which vector lines could be readily applied in a GIS environment, and were generally accepted and understood by community elders. However, the maps could not reflect other attributes of clan estates such as the fact that, in many areas, the boundaries are overlapping gradients rather than solid lines (Crerar et al., 1999: 434). This is particularly true for areas where clan estate boundaries are not formed by natural landscape features such as rivers and ridges, but rather, extend across relatively flat, featureless terrain. Elders generally rejected or failed to comprehend the use of lines (vectors) which formed discrete boundaries between two or more clan estates. The nature of the aboriginal kinship system may account for their difficulty in accepting the vector-based maps. The kinship systems provides an unlimited process of recursion that enables all things to be named and related and thus imposes an order on both the natural and social world that provides order and meaning. The aboriginal kinship system, as in many societies, provides the framework within which social obligations with regard to life, death, marriage, and land can be negotiated (Birckhead, 1996; Ritchie, 1992). Thus, the kinship system and their associated oral traditions together form a knowledge network that allows for everything to be connected. The concept of connectedness is extremely powerful in Australian aboriginal culture and is exemplified by the term likan which, in the spiritual sense, connotes "the connections among ancestors, persons, places, and ceremonies" (Birckhead, 1996; Keen, 1995; Morphy, 1991: 187-188; Taylor, 1996; Williams, 1986; emphasis added). A wide variety of traditional Australian aboriginal paintings have been interpreted as being simultaneously social and geographic, representing both the tracks of ancestors and detailed maps of places. Therefore, it is not typically good custom to display the landscape with fixed boundaries because they are permeable rather than fixed entities with rights of access being required and most frequently granted across kinship boundaries. Areas can be owned by more than one group and routes can be common property. Boundaries are more properly the subject of negotiation and exchange in ceremony and ritual which means that aboriginal conceptions of place do not 55 correspond with Western notions of enclosure but are more typically of open and extendible "strings" of connectedness (Turnbull, 1998: 35) Thus, the western tendency to depict territories as discrete, dichotomous entities - i.e. yours and mine - conflicted with the connected and highly fluid perspectives of Crerar's aboriginal research participants. In addition, Crerar found that community elders experienced some difficulty translating contour information into a mental representation of their traditional territory. However, when presented with a Landsat representation of the same landscape (similar to the image shown below), the elders demonstrated a greater level of familiarity with the area and could more easily describe and identify the locations of traditional crocodile egg harvesting sites (Crerar, 1999: 433). This and similar research findings by Duerden and Johnson (1993: 729), Ervin (1992), and vanZuidam (1986) point to the need for more accurate and realistic visual representations, typically in the form of three dimensional computer models, to enhance the visualisation of landscapes by user groups. Using the approach suggested by Duerden (1993) and Ervin (1992), a digital representation of terrain surfaces using three dimensional perspective views can all someone to stand in a valley looking up at the surrounding hillside. It enables the user to get a feel for the landscape with which they are familiar, to see what a land claim or a forest management proposal looks like on the ground. During a traditional use mapping project with the Council of Yukon Indians (CYI), Duerden found that three dimensional perspective views were more effective in allowing elders and other members of the community to visualise the terrain, identify trails, burial grounds, and other culturally important sites at a highly localised scale (Duerden and Johnson, 1993: 729). In addition to direct land claim applications, the CYI have used visualisation techniques to investigate and protect other land-use interests. The Kluane Tribal Coucil used the visualisation technique to model the aesthetic impact of a proposed mine in their traditional territory. This use of "what it might look like?" (Ervin, 1992) analysis has also been actively used in site planning and gravel pit management by the CYI and other groups. What these authors have concluded is that assertion of indigenous values and the use of both indigenous perceptions of the land and consensual decision making are essential components of a fair land claim and, in the future, resource co-management process (Crerar, 1999: 434; Duerden and Johnson, 1993: 729; Duerden and Keller, 1992). GIS technology coupled with landscape visualisation capabilities may prove to be a useful tool in bridging the gap 56 between traditional landscape perceptions and the demand for more formal cartographic representations of land necessary for land claim negotiation and management. 2.6 Chapter Summary If nothing else, my initial exploration of Xa:ls and the moral landscape of the Fraser Valley, and aboriginal fishing practices on the Fraser River should lend substance to the claim that the sensing of place is a form of cultural activity. Removed from the arena of academic jargon - needs, attributes, mechanisms, etc. - sense of place can be seen as a commonplace occurrence, as an ordinary way of engaging one's surroundings and finding significance in them. Albert Camus stated that "sense of place is not something that people know and feel, it is something people do" (Camus, 1955: 88). That idea brings the whole concept firmly down to earth, which is where I believe the notion of sense of place belongs. I would also argue, that as commonly felt as it is, sense of place can be felt at varying levels of emotional and mental intensity. In its more common occurrences, as Seamus Heaney (1980) has observed, sense of place may prompt individuals to "dwell on themselves in terms of themselves," as private persons with private lives to ponder. However, in its fuller manifestations, these private reflections occasionally yield to thoughts about membership in social groups, of participation in activities that transcend the lives of particular people, and of close involvement with communities and their historical traditions. Experienced this way, as what Heaney (1980: 133) terms a "mode of communication with a total way of living," sense of place becomes a powerful sacred or religious force. Fueled by sentiments of belonging to a community, and connectedness to the past, sense of place roots people in their cultures and holds them there in the grip of a shared identity. For many Native people, place is a reality rather than an abstraction. Spaces and landforms are experienced as locuses of spirit beings whose presence give meaning and sacredness to a person's perception of the land. As Brown (1985: 30) points out, "It also gives meaning to the life of a man who cannot conceive of himself apart from the land." It is this sense of place that defines a person's life. Thus, to the extent that Native cultures and histories are based in the land, and their lives are inseparably intertwined with it, the land is their life. However, as aboriginal cultures assert their unique cultural and spiritual relationship to the land, Native communities are turning in ever greater numbers to the cartographic techniques of western science to render their relationship "readable" and understandable in a non-aboriginal 57 setting (Turnbull, 1998: 37). The social theorist and geographer, John Fox, among others, has pointed to some very profound concerns about GIS and the space making techniques of western science: Researchers should remember that by developing Cartesian maps of customary boundaries we are changing the intrinsic nature of these systems. Once boundaries are mapped and recognised by the state, they lose their fluid and flexible nature. Another consequence of mapping system boundaries is the potential for conflict it creates in villages and between neighbouring villages. The potential for conflict should not be underestimated. Finally, researchers should not overlook the social and economic conditions that operate independently of the individual. Legal recognition of customary forms of tenure does not guarantee that indigenous people will be able to hold onto those rights or profit from them (Fox, 1994: 11). There is no simple path, or code of ethics to guide us in coping with these issues. However, we live in interesting times. We must try to allow for the emergence of a third space in which indigenous and scientific knowledge traditions can encounter each other, rather than in opposition. Perhaps as Frank Duerden and others suggest, environmental simulation may be that third space in which western and indigenous knowledge traditions can be performed together, where representations of place will be understood by both traditions, and where neither can dominate. 58 Chapter 3 Cultural & Historical Background 3.1 Introduction "The authenticity of ethnographic knowledge," writes Jackson (1995: 163), "depends on the ethnographer recounting in detail the events and encounters that were the grounds on which the very possibility of this knowledge rests." The description of events and encounters is always from the perspective of the social scientist, who highlights certain incidents and observations and draws out their implications for research. However, the characteristics of the research setting (i.e. the community, environmental context, etc.) itself may affect the study's results (Schensul et al., 1999: 286). Therefore, it is essential to document the geographic and historical context of the people and culture involved in the research, particularly if such contextual information affects or at the very least elucidates the results (Goulet, 1998: 3; Schensul et al., 1999: 287). In effect, participation within and observation of other people's lives can generate useful insights, but it must also be recognised that the perspectives and concepts that are a product of social science research are a joint creation of the historical experiences of a community with their social and physical environment (Goulet, 1998: 28). As such, this chapter documents the historic and geographic context of the Cheam people. At its most fundamental level, the objective of this chapter is to provide a descriptive account of the Cheam community in terms of the physical environment that they inhabit (Section 3.2.1), the historic and political circumstances that affect the setting and have led to the contemporary arrangement of Indian reserves in the Fraser Valley (Section 3.2.2) and, of primary importance to this thesis, an exploration of Sto:lo spiritual practice and culturally significant places (Sections 3.3 and 3.4). A theme that runs throughout much of this chapter is that the recent history of European settlement in the Fraser Valley, with the associated influx of agricultural development, natural resource harvesting and urbanisation, bears substantial consequences for Sto:lo cultural and spiritual practice. In effect, the legacy of European settlement in British Columbia has resulted in the physical segregation of First Nations from their traditional territories, and because Sto:lo cultural practice is inextricably tied to the land, their cultural existence has in turn been deeply affected by the process of colonisation. 59 3.2 The Landscape & Changing Land-Use in the Fraser Valley 3.2.1 The Physical Setting The Sto:lo are a river people, centred along the upper and central reaches of the Fraser River valley in southwestern British Columbia. From the Fraser Canyon above Yale to the southeastern coast of Vancouver Island across the Georgia Strait, the language that is traditionally spoken by the people of this region is Halkomelem. Sto:lo traditional lifeways, past and present, have centred upon the Fraser River and the rich salmon fishery that has shaped and influenced most aspects of Sto:lo society, including economic life, social networks, settlement patterns, mobility, communications, family life and religious beliefs (Mohs, 1990). As Duff pointedly notes, the name by which the people refer to themselves and prefer to be called is Sto:lo, which translates as "People of the River" (1952:11). The traditional territory of the Sto:lo First Nation (Figure 3.1) covers an area of approximately 100 square kilometres, extending from 5 Mile Creek near Yale in the northeast to Whonnock near Fort Langley in the west, and from the north bank of the Nooksack River in the United States north to include Chehalis Lake and much of Harrison Lake. The eastern extent of Carlson, 1999: 170. Sto:lo territory includes Chilliwack Lake and the Coquihalla River valley (Duff, 1950, 1952; Smith, 1947; Wells, 1968). In terms of physical geography, the regional ecology is diverse, Figure 3.1: Sto:lo Traditional Territory 60 breathtakingly spectacular, and abundantly rich in natural resources. Much of the terrain is mountainous incorporating the Pacific Range of the Coast Mountains to the north and northwest and the Cascade Mountains to the south and east (Holland, 1964: 28). Apart from the Fraser, river valleys are narrow with steep mountain slopes dropping to the valley floors. The Fraser River bisects the region flowing out of the Cascade Mountains to the northeast. Above Yale is the Fraser Canyon; below Yale there is a narrow valley basin that extends as far as Hope. For its first 30 kilometres below Yale, the river valley seldom exceeds a kilometre in width and follows a direct, southerly route. Due in part to the narrowness of the valley bottom, this section of the Fraser is relatively "natural" with rugged cliff faces; thick stands of Hemlock, Douglas Fir and Red Cedar; and small Cottonwood dominated islands and accretion bars scattered throughout the silty water of the river. The Trans Canada Highway, an aboveground gas pipeline and the occasional settlement are the most obvious forms of human incursion into the upper valley landscape. At Hope, as the Fraser turns west and the valley gradually expands into a broad basin that is bordered by the Coast Mountains on the north side of the valley and the Cascade Range to the south. When the Fraser reaches Chilliwack, the valley is some 10 kilometres across and the valley floor is interlaced with sloughs, wetlands, small creeks, estuaries and ponds. It is predominantly here that human transformations of the Fraser landscape, from a rich ecosystem to a broad expanse of roads, buildings, agricultural fields, power lines and parks, have created new issues and concerns for the Sto:lo people. On a warm sunny day, the eastern valley skyline is a brown haze - the mountains sometimes completely obscured - the result of various gases produced by cars, industry and heavily fertilised farmers' fields. The highway roadside is dotted with signs, advertising the newest suburban housing developments being constructed in the forested hillsides. The old Sumas Lake bed between Abbotsford and Chilliwack is home to livestock, and fertilised and irrigated vegetables. A population of two million in the lower stretches of the Fraser has settled throughout the expanse of clearcut forests, and is rapidly expanding into the hills and mountains along the valley's fringe. Given modern incursions into the Fraser Valley, it is difficult to envision what this landscape was like before the arrival of the first Europeans. Writing in the mid-nineteenth century, Thomas Crosby provides one of the more vivid descriptions of the original landscape: 61 No one could go through the primeval forests of those days without being impressed by their greatness. Tall firs abounded, many of them from two hundred to three hundred feet in height, standing straight, their stems unbroken by a single branch until they reached the bushy, spreading tops. Equally tall and gigantic cedars grew side by side with hemlock, spruce and smaller vine maple, the shady, broad leafed soft maple, ash, birch, cottonwood, apple, cherry and alder.... It was while working on the Government road that fall [1867] that I first saw the large dog salmon jumping and floundering up a stream so narrow that we could jump over it. So crowded were they, and so great was their number, that their fins and tails were, many of them, worn off in the struggle. It was not an uncommon thing to see black bears, in such a field, fishing for themselves, and eagles by the score, as well as ravens, carrying off their supply of food. We saw elk and deer in great numbers, and waterfowl in clouds. And the conviction grew upon one that a land of such mountains and rivers, seas and forests, teeming with life, such coal and gold fields and such a magnificent climate, was destined to become a great and grand country (1907: 38-39). Traditionally, the Sto.lo occupied this abundant landscape and organised themselves into a number of tribes or tribal groupings. Boas (1894) lists 14 mainland tribes including the Katzie, Kwantlen and Musqueam. Hill-Tout (1902, 1904) places the number at 15 including the tribes of Vancouver Island. The most important distinction or internal cultural division traditionally recognised by the Sto:lo is that between the upriver (teltiyt) and downriver (tellhois) Sto:lo (Duff, 1950, 1952; Smith, 1947; Mohs, 1987). The boundary between the two occurs roughly in the Mission/Fort Langley area with the Matsqui and Pilalt tribes included within the former, and the Kwantlen and Musqueam in the latter. A major difference between upriver and downriver tribal groups is linguistic; each speaking a different dialect of the Halkomelem language. The basis of Sto:lo tribal organisation has historically been the village; an arrangement that remains largely intact through the contemporary system of "Indian" reserves. Traditionally, the most important of these were Yale, Cheam, Fort Langley, and Musqueam (Duff, 1950; Smith, 1947). Generally speaking, most tribes comprised a number of villages although a few were represented by single villages (Duff, 1952: 81-86). Today, twenty-four reserves with a total population of approximately 4,200 people are recognised by federal authorities today in the Upper Stoilo area. Each has its own administration - the band - and these bands are consolidated into a regional government that presently incorporates all but two of them (i.e. Musqueam and Chehalis) and is collectively known as the Sto:lo Nation. My field research began on the Cheam reserve, a 500-hectare community of 150 people located on the north shore of Cheam Lake between Chilliwack and Hope (Figure 3.2, following page). The reserve takes its name from the Halkomelem word meaning "always wild 62 strawberries," reflecting the abundance of wild berries and other foodstuffs - wild game, fish, medicinal and food plants - that traditionally sustained the Cheam people (Duff, 1952; Suttles, 1987). Ethnohistorical accounts of the area in the mid to late eighteenth century describe the landscape in the shadow of Mount Cheam as abundant in plant and animal life (Boas, 1895). Thick forests of cedar and hemlock interspersed with stands of big leaf maple and alder provided habitat for deer and elk herds that supplemented the Cheam's staple diet of salmon from the Fraser River. The mountain itself was regarded as a guardian of the Cheam people and abundant provider of berries, medicinal plants and mountain goats that supplied a heavy wool used to weave the elaborate blankets that became the trademark of the Coast Salish peoples. Echoes of this natural abundance still resonate through the community. Conversations with elders and their children describe a time in the first half of the twentieth century when it was still possible to catch salmon in the many creeks and sloughs that traverse the landscape; when children could dip a fishing line into the cold water streams below Mount Cheam's waterfalls; or collect bushels of hazelnuts from the trees that once surrounded the reserve (Mary [Cheam Informant], Personal Communication). The contemporary Cheam lifestyle is modern in several ways, and over the past two hundred years the Cheam and their Sto:lo neighbours have lived through all the changes experienced by other Pacific Northwest peoples. The hunters and fishers of the past who travelled through the valley from summer to winter villages in dugout cedar canoes have now settled permanently on the reservation to live in government built houses serviced with electricity Figure 3.2: Location of the Cheam Reserve Sumas " 0 , S } ' " <•>*« Carlson, 1999:170. 63 and running water (Carlson, 1999; Mohs, 1992: 188). Sources of household income are many: income generated from fishing and hunting, wages earned on and off the reservation through part-time and full-time employment, as well as family allowances, old-age pension benefits, and social welfare provided by different levels of government. Trucks, cars and motorboats are the means of transportation to fishing camps or nearby towns and cities. All families rely on store-bought food in addition to the substantial amounts of salmon, deer meat, fowl and berries harvested by both men and women from spring to early autumn. Over the past year, several visits to Cheam households have brought me face to face with the rich products of fishing, hunting and gathering activities. The persistence of the Cheam subsistence economy in the face of modem incursions into their culture is a remarkable testament to its capacity to coexist with the material trappings of a society that many outsiders regard as antithetical to a traditional way-of-life. As a Sto:lo grand chief emphasised after a day of salmon fishing on the Fraser River, motor boats and gill nets do not detract from the essential relationship that the Cheam have managed to retain with the river and its salmon resource (Frank [Cheam Informant], Personal Communication). In effect, the river continues to provide for their material sustenance as it did in their ancestors' time, albeit to a somewhat lesser degree. Modern technologies and implements make the task of harvesting resources more efficient and, on occasion, with substantially reduced risk to life and limb (Bierwert, 1999: 50). The few whites that spend any time on the reserves of the upper Fraser Valley typically see communities such as Cheam as strange places. Conceived, designed and built by whites, the reserve settlement itself has little relation to the social, domestic and economic life that their residents have traditionally regarded as good and proper. Perhaps in the case of several Sto:lo reserves that have been located near the fishing resources on which people depend, there is an association between a traditional way-of-life and the reserve community. Situated as it is on the banks of the Fraser River, the Cheam people have managed to retain their distinctive relationship with the river and, as such, river fishing has become a focal point of cultural and political life on the reserve (Darryl [Cheam Informant], Personal Communication; Bierwert, 1999: 224). 84 Beyond the pickup trucks, television and detached housing that are so pervasive on reserve communities, perhaps the greatest threat to the persistence of Cheam culture and tradition comes from the expanding envelope of urban settlement into their traditional territory. Located less than fifteen minutes away from Chilliwack, and just over an hour from Greater Vancouver, the quiet rural surroundings of the reserve have been encroached upon by two expressions of population and economic growth in the Lower Mainland - tourism and suburban development. As the first map in Figure 3.3 depicts, the reserve was surrounded in the mid-1960s by a small patchwork of open fields and thick forests. At the time, Cheam Lake had been Figure 3.3 - Forest Fragmentation and Changing Land-Use, Rosedale, BC C h e a m R e s e r v e & R o s e d a l e - 1£ C h e a m R e s e r v e & R o s e d a l e -1£ Ortriopriatoaraphy Displayed al I BO.000 1966 Buildings 1966 Roads 1966 Remnant Forest Cover Map Scale 1:20.000 3 0 0 0 3 0 0 600 Me te rs Orthopholoyaphy Displayed at 1 60,000 9aB Bulcmgs N A / 1908 Ro Mat 1BO0 R« & Ti'juii 1000 Rvintant Foist Co*ar Chaim Lska Map Scale 1:20 O0D 300 0 3 0 0 600 Me te rs A Maps digitised from 1:20,000 orthophotography by John L. Lewis, June 2000. drained to dredge marl from the lake bottom (a calciferous substance used as an agricultural fertiliser), and the landscape itself was populated with a relatively sparse concentration of farm houses and reserve dwellings. Thirty years later (Figure 3.3: Cheam Reserve and Rosedale -1996), the character of the landscape surrounding the reserve has been altered dramatically. Urban expansion from Chilliwack during the economic boom years of the early 1990s brought new residential subdivisions to the southern border of the Cheam reserve and, along with the new influx of permanent residents, there has been a concomitant growth in the local tourism industry. 65 Watersiides, a golfcourse, themepark, and botanical gardens have clustered at the base of Mount Cheam in the last twenty years, perhaps capitalising on the visual grandeur that the mountain provides, as well as enticing the wealthy tourists vacationing at the nearby Harrison Hotsprings Resort. The urban growth that the Cheam have encountered over the last thirty years is similar to that experienced by other reserve communities throughout the Fraser Valley. Accompanying these incursions into the Sto:lo homeland, reserve communities have experienced frequent disruptions of their cultural and spiritual life, disruptions that are in part a function of government policies that have diminished the size of Sto.lo reserves and permitted the intrusion of non-aboriginal activities and uses into sensitive traditional areas. In the following discussion, I will explore the history of European settlement in what the Sto:lo people refer to as S'olh Temexw -Our Land (Carlson, 1999: 166). The discussion will begin with an abridged history of the Indian reserve system and describe how the government sanctioned process of land appropriation and industrial development has led to the present configuration of reserve communities in British Columbia. The discussion will then conclude with an examination of the cultural and spiritual consequences of provincial land use and economic development policies in Sto:lo traditional territory. 3.2.2 European Settlement and the Indian Reserve System Traditional or ancestral Sto:lo villages are scattered throughout the Fraser Valley. Although oral tradition and archaeological evidence both affirm that the Sto:lo have occupied traditional village sites such as the Cheam reserve for several centuries, the location and size of contemporary Sto:lo reserves is a product of relatively recent historical events. Between 1850 and 1851, Governor Douglas arranged fourteen treaties with the Coast Salish chiefs on Vancouver Island, securing their village sites and providing payment in exchange for title to surrendered lands that totalled 358 square miles (Tenant, 1990: 23). Douglas's actions laid down precedent for recognition of aboriginal title, however his treaty-making initiative was terminated within three years of its inception. In effect, no additional money was available from the British Colonial Office and, therefore, the colony did not have the authority to sign treaties with the mainland Natives (Tenant, 1990: 26). Nonetheless, Douglas proceeded with surveying the lands of the lower mainland. Parcels of land that Douglas referred to as "Indian lands" were simply apportioned separately from areas that had already been occupied by settlers or made available 66 for sale (Carlson, 1999: 71; Tenant, 1990: 24). The process began by sending surveyors to stake out the boundaries of territories then in active use by the Sto.lo people. The Sto:lo themselves were to point out their villages, fields, "favourite places of resort," sacred places and burials (Carlson, 1999: 71). Douglas's intent, as he stated shortly before retirement as governor in 1864, was to: ...secur[e] them against the encroachment of settlers, and forever remov[e] the fertile cause of agrarian disturbance (Tenant, 1990: 33). However, surveying and recording Sto:lo land proved hardly enough to secure their traditional territories. The next phase of colonial administration that immediately followed Douglas' government, and dedicated to the economic development of the province, pushed the treatyless policy of land appropriation past the limits of acceptability for the Sto:lo people. Joseph Trutch, from his position as chief commissioner of lands and works, redrew the limits of Native lands, restricting those areas reserved for Native use to ten acres per person, a ratio vastly smaller than that applied anywhere else in North America (Carlson, 1999: 73). In 1867, he wrote to the lieutenant governor about the reserves in the Upper Sto:lo area: The Indians regard these extensive tracts of land as their individual property but of by far the greater portion thereof they make no use whatever and are not likely to do so; and thus the land, much of which is either rich pasture or available for cultivation and greatly desired for immediate settlement, remains in an unproductive condition - is of no real value to the Indians and utterly unprofitable to the public interests. I am, therefore, of the opinion that these reserves should, in almost every case, be materially reduced (Tenant, 1990: 43). Within a year, as a result of Trutch's reassessment, Sto:lo lands were reduced by 40,000 acres, or sixty-two square miles. Clearly at odds with the philosophies and policies of Governor Douglas, Trutch rested the practice of imposing land limitations by executive order upon a denial of aboriginal title. "Claims of possession" replaced title; "agricultural and pastoral" use of land replaced rights to hunt, fish, and gather on ceded lands, "as the progress of the settlement of the country seemed to require" (Tenant, 1990: 41). Upper Sto:lo leaders sent petitions protesting the loss of their most valuable lands. In 1872, a group of Upper Sto:lo chiefs, led by Chief Alexis of Cheam, organised a protest rally at the provincial land registry in New Westminster drawing hundreds of Sto:lo supporters (Carlson, 1999: 74). In 1874, the same organising group called together an assembly of chiefs that produced a written grievance to the federal Indian Commissioner Israel Powell: 67 For many years we have been complaining of the land left to us as being too small. We have laid our complaints before government officials] nearest to us; they sent us to some others; so we had no redress up to the present; and we have felt like men trampled on, and are commencing to believe that the aim of the white men is to exterminate us as soon as they can, although we have always been quiet, obedient, kind, and friendly to the whites (Tenant, 1990: 53-4). In 1906, Sto:lo chiefs gathered to affirm their political presence and solicit support from the a broader public, and a contingent travelled to London with petitions to Queen Victoria, seeking recognition of their aboriginal land rights and for access to resources in appropriat