Showing posts with label traditional knowledge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label traditional knowledge. Show all posts

Monday, July 2, 2012

Spring and Oolachans

Apologies for the delay...this was actually written in March 0f 2010 and got lost as a draft. sigh. I got distracted trying to find photos. This one is an overview of the camp at Fishery Bay in spring 1980, showing the drying oolachans hanging on the racks.
Equinox time again...the spring equinox always seems to look forward, while the Fall perhaps look back. As the snows melt and anticipation of spring rises, the air is fresh and wet and full of smells and birdsong, I think about oolachan time. Oolachan, also spelled eulachon (Thalicthys pacificus) are anadromous smelt, rich in oils. In coastal Alaska the same fish are prized, and often termed “Hooligans”. Their arrival in the estuaries of rivers along the coasts of British Columbia and Alaska was widely anticipated and welcomed, as they brought an abundant source of fresh and rich food at a time in the year when stored foods were diminished and declining in quality, and hunting was extremely difficult due to deep wet soft snow. Many years ago my then husband and young daughter canoed to Fishery Bay on the Nass Estuary. The Nass (the name apparently means “belly” and comes from Tlingit) drew people from all the surrounding nations at the time of oolachan harvest in mid March to early April. Cedar dugout canoes made the trip from Haida Gwaii. Tsimshian and Nisga’a converged on their fish camps. Inland Gitksan and Witsuwit’en walked long trails known as “grease trails” through deep melting snows to the head of canoe navigation to come to harvest and trade for grease, the rendered oil that was (and is) the most prized product of the little fish. I was told they carried so much that each leg of the trail had to be walked three times to carry the goods to the coast and then back again with grease and fish. When Allen and Rose and I visited the fish camp of Charlie and Eunice Swanson when Rose was about 3, Eunice told us a story....she said that spring salmon and the oolachan had an argument about who was the saviour of the people....she laughed and said she forgot who won.

At the fish camp in Fishery bay the clouds of gulls wheel and fly in every direction, startled into the air by the slightest sound. They are attracted to the fish run, and to the fish meal left over after the grease is rendered. There is plenty of food for the birds. When we visited there some 30 years ago, people harvested some of these fat oolachan fed gulls along with the fish....I had never heard of anyone eating gulls before (nor since), but apparently they are quite palatable when they have been feeding on oolachan. People also hunted seals that came to follow the spawning oolachans.

The three pole frames for air-drying oolachans (digit) are conspicuous features of the oolachan camps. The long hand knotted trawls (long cone shaped nets) hung to dry after use are another conspicuous feature of the camps. These nets were formerly made of nettle fibre twine, and apparently took a year to make....no small amount of labour, given the need to harvest many mature tall nettle stalks and process them into fibre, spin the twine, and then knot the long fine net. It is fortunate that the rich soils fertilized by fish meal around the camp are excellent places to grow good quality nettles...and the investment in time to make the net would be repaid with tons of nutritious fish good for one’s own family use as fresh, dried, and smoked fish, and as fish oil. The fish and oil are valued and valuable for trading and for feasting (potlatching), where consumption and sharing of the grease adds stature to the Chief’s name and House.

Today walking in the ravine in Edmonton, the weather was fresh, and the melting snow and moist air reminded me of northwest BC in March. I found a tall fireweed stalk from last year, which had retted enough over the winter, and which was moist enough to work, and twisted a length of string while I walked. I used to do this with nettle stalks from by our barn when I lived in northwest BC. At the Museum of Civilization last month, I wasn’t able to see the nettle cord net they have in their collection, but I did see two spreading dogbane bana or large dipnets, and a couple of hanks of prepared fibre from dogbane(Apocynum androsimaefolium, related to Indian hemp) , called lekx in Gitksan, ready to twist into twine for netmaking. The dogbane cord in the nets was so well made and uniform I never would have believed it to be locally made cordage if the tag and accompanying fieldnotes hadn’t explicitly identified the material of the cord.

Seasonal knowledge and knowledge of seasonal cycles is vital in traditional life; being able to predict the timing of the spring high tides that will bring the life-giving oolachans was important business that could make a life or death difference to people’s ability to survive the year. Knowing when to start out from inland areas more than 100 kilometres away by trail was an exacting business. One way of coordinating this seasonal round of harvest and trade was by traditional phenological knowledge, such as the song of the robin which to Gitksan means that the steelhead (milit) will be moving in the rivers and can be caught. Another way is by the use of “calendrical sites” where the shift in location of the rising sun is tracked over a period of weeks at a known site to determine when it is time to depart the winter camp to go down river to meet the salmon (the “footprints” on the Sam Goozley territory, a Witsuwit’en clan territory are one such site). Talking to a colleague of mine at Tofino on Vancouver Island a couple of weeks ago I inquired about whether oolachan were on the coast. She replied that there were no longer oolachan runs into rivers on the west coast of Vancouver Island, but that the herring were in. The roe of spawning herring was another important seasonal resource on the coast, and I recall the crunchy salty taste of the roe with fondness.

Equinox...moving into the bright half of the year.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Of (Universal) Nature, (Ethno)Ecology and (the) Environment



Rocher de Boule and Bulkley River, May 1994
I’ve been thinking for some time about three terms: Nature, environment and ecology. My thinking on these words has been focussed of late by my efforts to work on two courses, an undergraduate course in Ecological anthropology and a graduate seminar in Environment, Traditional Cultures and Sustainability, and some of the reading I’ve been undertaking in preparation for that teaching, especially in Sutton and Anderson’s new edition of their text in Cultural Ecology, and in reading Anna Tsing’s Friction, an Ethnography of Global Connection. Last night I was reading a chapter on Nature Lovers in Indonesia which quite stretched my understanding in revealing ways.

This blog is entitled “Reflections on Nature, Culture and Society”. Obviously, I’ve been reflecting on meanings of the term “Nature” for quite a while. When I mention I’ve been for a walk in the ravine, many of my friends and acquaintances in Edmonton, a highly urban environment, talk about approvingly about being out in “Nature”- some undifferentiated, healing, restorative opposite to pavement, malls, the Internet, parking, job frustrations, indoor canned air and fluorescent-lit windowless rooms. This construal of my relationship with the Land and with Place and Season as “being in Nature” feels uncomfortable, not descriptive of how I see or understand the Land, or this land- a place with specificity, history, process, particularity, species composition, impacts, throughputs, human past (and present), subject to the management of the departments of the City of Edmonton. How natural, after all, is it? It does feature seasonal cycles of growth, flowering, fruiting, and quiescence, return and nesting of birds, the quiet twitter of chickadees and the buzzing group aeriobatics of fast moving flocks of Bohemian waxwings. It does allow some respite from urban light pollution, and therefore a chance to feel the phases of the moon, view stars dimmer than the brightest 1st magnitude stars like Sirius. It does facilitate noticing the differences in rising and setting and zenith positions of the sun through the seasonal round, significant differences at 53.5 degrees north latitude. But is it Nature? What is Nature?

When I used to think in terms of Nature rather than the land, I meant unspoiled places, with inspiring prospects, undammed waterways, towering forests, displays of indigenous wild flowers and beautiful flowering shrubs. I thought of Yosemite (minus the people) as perhaps John Muir first encountered it, I thought of the magnificence of the winter Sonoran desert in the Kofa Game Range as I once experienced it, camping among the red wind-sculpted rocks and drinking from tinajas crusted with ice. I thought of sea cliffs and sea stacks and crashing waves, seals and perhaps migrating whales off the shore. I thought of the admonition to visitors to “Wilderness Areas” (a designated wilderness is by definition an oxymoron, but when I was young and lived in California, the irony eluded me): take only pictures, leave only footprints. Take pictures I did, and leave footprints too. And decry trail bike and snowmobile users, dams, cross country power lines, second home developments, luxury lodges, logging cuts and like as desecrators and desecrations. (Somehow the signs and the trails did not strike me as inappropriate). I thought of the splendid images produced by Ansel Adams and Galen Rowell, collected into annual feasts of the visual, aesthetic and between the lines spiritual in the guise of the Sierra Club Calendar (which I still buy and revel in). I admired Aldo Leopold, Bob Marshall, Adolf and Olaus Murie, John Muir and read their books. I read John Wesley Powell, and his more recent and embittered admirer, Edward Abbee. I got wildflower books for new regions I visited, brought the Field Guide to Animal Tracks with me when I travelled in the back country, carried my binoculars and my fieldbook, and wrote poetry and sketched peaks and lakes and shorelines and trees. I remembered my childhood in Japan, when we made annual pilgrimages to the mountains north of Tokyo around Nikko, the precipitous slopes, pink and purple of azaleas in bloom, or scarlet leaves in fall, the ethereal lacy cascades and sheer waterfalls, a shrine on the shores of Lake Chusenji which framed Mt. Nantai-san. Mountains in their natural state as worthy of reverence, as sacred place.

But there was another strand of my Nature loving which derived perhaps from the time I came of age- I wanted to be in nature, to be at home, to belong. I admired the survival skills of Bob Marshall as well as his appreciation of wilderness (his vision inspired the designation of natural areas as Wilderness Areas ). I wanted to know the names and uses of plants. I bought books on edible plants. I tasted things and quickly learned how much you need to know to actually make a living on the land. We (my future husband Allen and I) spent our first summer together living in a lean- to at about 5000’ elevation in the Siskiyou Mountains, in a defacto wilderness, a roadless area with several tall mountain peaks, meadows, alpine areas, and the most diverse coniferous forest in North America- or maybe it was the world. There were I think 17 genera of conifers there, and a number of species. The southernmost locality of Alaska Yellow Cedar was just above our camp, and numerous species of pines, endemic Brewer’s spruce, fir, douglas fir, Port Orford Cedar, red cedar, incense cedar and others were easily accessible from our camp. I set about learning all the vascular plants I could, and recording observations of birds and animals. I tried to find edible plants with Donald Kirk’s Edible Plants of the Western United States. I began to have respect for the amount of knowledge it really takes to survive. Had I known, we were camped in a meadow that was abundant with a food plant used by Native Americans of the region, Peridaridia gardneri or yampa. I think I tasted a root, but had no concept of how to prepare or harvest it. I also tasted the rhizomes of the yellow pond lily Nuphar polysepalum and found them highly unpalatable. They were said to be an important food of the Modoc of northeastern California. If so, they knew something about preparation that I don’t know. More recently I have found that this rhizome is highly regarded as a medicine against tuberculosis and topically for fractures (see Gottesfeld and Anderson 1988 and Johnson 2006) a use that seems more consistent with their strong bitter taste.

I digress. But the point I want to make is that I was coming to have a view of nature which implied taking more than pictures, and to have a sense of the particularity and richness of interacting with land. With a particular area of land and its biota, its affordances. That led me on a long journey from a universal and unpopulated Nature to an appreciation of the local, of emplacement, of homelands. The relationship with the land that Tim Ingold refers to as dwelling. And thence to a long fascination with traditional knowledge and ethnoecological perspectives. Some of the story of that transformation is detailed in other writings, including my recent book Trail of Story, Traveller’s Path (AU Press 2010) so I won’t repeat it here.

Having spent a long time moving away from this impersonal and universal Nature, this arena of beauty and encounter of the Self by removal from society, and direct grappling with the challenges of the non-social world, to an appreciation of the subtlety and skill and particularity of knowledge of homelands and how to live in them, I was unprepared for the phenomenon of Indonesian Nature Lovers as described by Tsing in her 2005 book.

Tsing carefully describes how Indonesian youth are trained in how to regard Nature, and are deliberately trained in cosmopolitan skills like backpacking, rafting, and mountain climbing, enculturated in a peculiarly Indonesian cosmopolitanism in their adoption of values of universal Nature, and love of Nature divorced from particularity of place, skills in making a living or any continuity with local tradition. They wear flannel shirts and hiking boots, and use Western style outdoor equipment as accoutrements of the identity as a Nature Lover. They even bring guitars and sing (European and North American style) folk songs, in English, as part of their camping and Nature Loving activities. Tsing delicately teases out continuities to the Indonesian Youth movement, carefully apolitical but nationalistic during the New Order under President Suharto. She shows how, in contrast to similar seeming movements supporting outdoor recreation in North America with which I am familiar, camping is not a family activity. And unlike North American or European environmentalism, once women marry and have children, they stop being active Nature Lovers. Instead the Nature Lover identity shows continuity with a phase of youth exploration before settling down to serious family life and responsibilities of making a living which characterized pre-existing culture. New waves of Nature Lovers come up through the schools and Universities. They learn to regard the local peoples where they travel as quaint and picturesque as they separate themselves from any conception of connection to the land as homeland or the site of livelihood.

I found this form of Nature Loving a peculiar mix of the familiar and deeply different. How often do similar external forms mask deep, even perhaps incommensurable differences underneath? These thoughts crossed my mind as I walked through one of the branch temples of Nature Loving in Canada: the Edmonton store of Mountain Equipment Coop, MEC. Ethnographic examination of Nature Lovers also calls to mind Kay Milton’s seminal book Loving Nature, which focusses on the concerns and values of British environmentalists.

And what is “environment”? When I went looking for discussions of the term to prepare an introduction for a course…it seemed that everyone took the meaning of the term for granted. It appeared unproblematic. Environment is, well, what is around one. It encompasses the abiotic environment (rocks, water in its various forms, mountains sans the vegetation cover, dirt, sand, soil -leaving out of course the microbiota, the air, and derivative concepts like weather and climate) and the biotic environment (the complex agglomeration of living things of all sorts from microbes and pond scum to elephants to giant sequoias, rainforests and the like). “The environment” is subject to pollution, degradation. Terms like environmental quality come to mind. The environment is not us. It is outside us. Sutton and Anderson write:
The environment consists of the surroundings in which an organism interacts, a pretty broad definition. One of the problems in defining the environment is this breadth; it can be viewed as different things in different places and at different geographic or spatial levels or scales– a pond, a valley, a continent, the earth, the solar system or even the universe.


What of ecology? Although in the speech of many people today, ecology, or “the ecosystem” is used interchangeably with Nature and with “the environment,” for me “ecology” produces a somewhat different focus, a more scientific gaze on the one hand, and a focus on relationships, fluxes, processes. And on biodiversity, species richness.

A point to consider: an environmentalist is not equivalent to an ecologist. One advocates and one studies.

I was an undergraduate at Stanford during the first Earth Day. I had been studying ecology in several different ways, and was full of zeal to save the environment. I learned about “ecosystems” from EN Kormondy, and from Eugene Odum’s classic works. I read Rachel Carson. I was concerned about pesticides, contaminants, the impact of a growing human population. I was concerned about invasive species and conservation of native flora. No one had yet any inkling of global warming, so climate change was not on the agenda. I was groping toward concepts of process such as cycles of fire, but not yet there. I had not yet imagined ethnoecology, examining the traditional environmental knowledge and (arguably) sustainable ecological relations of local human groups. No one had yet coined the term “sustainability”; we were still more than a decade before the Brundtland Report.

Toward locality from the global. Toward cosmopolitan from the regional. North Americans going to Bali to experience the local, wear sarongs, batiks, experience Place. Indonesians in flannel shirts and hiking boots enacting cosmopolitan Nature.


Sources:
Carson, Rachel. 1962. Silent Spring. Boston, Cambridge, Mass. : Houghton Mifflin, Riverside Press.

Gottesfeld, Leslie Main Johnson and Beverley Anderson. 1988. Gitksan traditional medicine: herbs and healing. Journal of Ethnobiology 8(1):13-33.

Ingold, Tim. 2000. The Perception of the Environment, Essays in livelihood, dwelling and skill. New York and London: Routledge.

Kirk, Donald R. 1970. Wild Edible Plants of the Western United States. Healdsburg: Naturegraph Publishers.

Leopold, Aldo. 1949. A Sand County Almanac and Sketches Here and There. London: Oxford University Press.

Johnson, Leslie Main. 2006. Gitksan Medicinal Plants–Cultural Choice and Efficacy. Journal of Ethnobiology and Ethnomedicine 2:29 doi:10.1186/1 746-4269-2-29 Published 21 June.

Johnson, Leslie Main. 2010. Trail of Story, Traveller’s Path, Reflections on Ethnoecology and Landscape. Edmonton: AU Press.

Kormondy, E.I. 1969. Concepts of Ecology. Englewood Cliffs, N.J: Prentice Hall.

Milton, Kay. 2002. Loving Nature, Towards an Ecology of Emotion. London, New York: Routledge.

Muir, John. 1988 [1914] The Yosemite. Reprinted by Sierra Club Books, San Francisco.

Murie, Olaus J. 1954. A Field Guide to Animal Tracks. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company.

Odum, Eugene 1971. Fundamentals of Ecology, 3rd Edition. Philadelphia: Saunders.

Sutton, Mark Q. and E.N. Anderson. 2010. Cultural Ecology. Second Edition. Lanham: AltaMira Press.

Toledo, Victor. 2002. Ethnoecology: A conceptual framework for the study of Indigenous Knowledge of Nature, pp. 511-522 In J. R. Stepp, F. S. Wyndam, and R. K. Zarger (eds.), Ethnobiology and Biocultural Diversity. Athens GA: International Society of Ethnobiology.

Tsing, Anna Lowenhaupt. 2005. Friction, an Ethnography of Global Connection. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Thinking about Birds, Thinking With Birds



Photos: the late William Teya with three black ducks on the Peel River
and male surf scoter or "black duck" deetree aa in Gwich'in

Birds are salient actors in human environments around the world, and are carriers of meaning, their actions invested with a range of significance.The observations I share were made by spending time on the land with people and in conversation —that is in everyday circumstances and through commonly repeated traditional stories. Accordingly what I present is a series of examples of certain salient birds and their meanings across the range of localities where I’ve worked. As such they are common birds, frequently observed. Relationships with these birds include: commensalism and sharing; power; birds as food; symbolic and metaphoric associations; and ecological relationships. Birds often appear as art motifs, and have strong roles in traditional narratives. Birds also enrich human experience.
What follows was learned by spending time on the land with people, and just in conversation while doing ethnobotany, ethnomedicine and ethnoecology research, that is, in everyday circumstances for the most part, and through some commonly repeated narratives, not through specific ethnornithology research.
I’ll present perspectives learned in working with four communities in northwestern Canada: Gitksan of the Skeena River drainage in northwestern British Columbia; Witsuwit’en, Athapaskan speakers whose traditional teritories border those of the Gitksan in the Bulkley/Morice River drainage and those of the Dakelhne in the Nechako River drainage in northwest/north central British Columbia; the Kaska Dena of northern BC and the southern Yukon, and the Gwich’in in the Mackenzie Delta region of the northwest Territories. Natural environments range from the inner edge of the Coast Mountains and forests of coastal affiliations (Coastal Western Hemlock and Interior Cedar Hemlock biogeoclimatic zones) through Sub-boreal and Boreal forests dominated by white spruce with pine and extensive subalpine willow and dwarf birch, to the taiga tundra ecotone in the low Arctic of the Gwich’in homeland. Large rivers, lakes and wetlands of variable extent characterize all of these northern forested environments.
Fisheries focussing on salmon species, lake charr, grayling, and whitefish species help to support local communities, and the diverse fish populations also support numerous birds (loons, ospreys, bald eagles, diving ducks, gulls). The ubiquitous northern corvids- ravens, crows and jays, scavenge fish and scraps from carcasses of animals hunted by people or wolves, year round residents and long companions of the human residents of the North. Owl species—great horned, great grey, and barred, – swoop silently through the night forests. Hawk owl and snowy owl are active by day. The wetlands and river banks host various sandpipers and wading birds such as yellowlegs, cranes, and spotted sandpipers. And in the sub-boreal forests and coastal forests, the tiny chickadee is a year round gregarious resident.
The Gitksan and neighbouring Witsuwit’en share the symbolic crest system of the Norhwest coast, in which Raven and Eagle and Owl figure , among other bird figures that belong in the histories (adaawk) of specific Clans or Houses. Grouse is also a crest of certain Fireweed (Gisgaast) houses. The late Mary Johnson (Antkulilbisxw) explained to me that in a time of starvation in ancient Temlax’aamit, two sisters and a brother were seeking to escape an unnatural winter and in their journey the brother starved. When they were finally able to kill a grouse, the women wept because this food, had they gotten it in time, would have saved the brother.
Raven is also allied with a set of trickster creator tales shared beyond the Northwest Coast region, appearing as Txemsim on the Nass, Wii Gyet [‘the big man’] for the Gitksan, or Estes for the Witsuwit’en. Sometimes other birds are involved in these stories besides the raven figure and his adventures. For the Gitksan, the figure Wii Gyet is at once an insatiable bumbling giant [the name means “Big Man] and raven, and the tales refer to his ‘Gwiis Gaak’ or raven blanket. A story shared by Gitksan and Witsuwit’en involves greed and Wii Gyet/Estes’ miscalculation when trying to hunt swans with the aid of a borrowed swan decoy hat. Because he tries to take too many, he is carried up into the sky by the swans whose legs had tied...with highly unpleasant results for him when he plunges earthward from a great height.
For both Gitksan and Witsuwit’en, bird names can form part of plant names and place names, indicating metaphorical connections, and ecological associations [as indeed bird related plant names may in English as well]. So in Gitksanimx, the plant called in English black twinberry (Lonicera involucrata) is sgan ‘maaya gaak ‘raven’s berry plant’, alluding to the shiny black (and inedible) fruit. It is a medicinal plant, not a food plant, and the bird name probably signals its inedibility to humans. Similarly, among the Witsuwit’en, the related white snowberry (Symphoricarpus albus) is called citsit ‘mi cin or grouse’s berry stick, and has medicinal uses. The bird/place name connection in Gitksan also involves berries: a traditional high elevation black huckleberry patch is called Anxsi ‘maa’y litisxw ‘blue grouse’s berry on it’. Here I assume the information is ecological in terms of the habitat and food of the blue grouse, the the fruit itself is not named for blue grouse (being the “real berry” sim ‘maa’y everywhere it grows).
Birds, as their migration is seasonally predictable, can also carry what Trevor Lantz and Nancy Turner have called traditional phenological knowledge. A Gitksan language primer explains that the song of the robin, when it appears in spring, says Gii gyooks milit, milit “the steelhead are coming, the steelhead, are coming”, indicating that steelhead can be fished in the rivers and creeks once the robins have arriverd.
And the tiny chickadee whose piping and flitting presence around camps in the winter woods is named. I was told that when you hear a chickadee, someone is coming to visit. Besides being a crest ayuks owl apparently also indicated impending death, and hearing an owl hooting was cause for disquiet..
Eagle Down is a sacred substance used to enforce peace for both Gitksan and Witsuwit'en. The late High Chief Johnny David said "Eagle Down is our Law", which anthropologist Dr. Antonia Mills used as the title of her book on Witsuwit'en traditions, history and law.
The Kaska Dena live in what is now northern British Columbia and the adjoining Yukon Territory, in the Cassiar Mountains north of the Stiking River in the drainage of the Liard and Pelly Rivers, and in the adjoining Logan mountains on the border with the Northwest Territories. Kaska lack the complex Clan/House structure of the Gitksan and Witsuwit’en, butm they do have the moiety structure widespread throughout most of the Yukon, of Wolf Tsíyone and Crow. Elder Mida Donnessey explained the fundamental division of society this way: Crow and Wolf are brothers in law, she said, but they couldn’t travel together, because Crow (Nusga) travels in the daytime and the wolf travels at night.
Travelling with Auntie Mida in the spring 10 years ago, she commented about grouse, and how the pleating of its muscular stomach taught people how to gather the toes of their round toed moccasins Grouse aka ‘chicken’ di’ is also a reliable food source, one available to women and children, and a back-up in the absence of large game like moose. Hence, one of the two sentences I can manage in Kaska is “I saw one chicken”...Hligah dí’ ne gánesta– which can describe what was seen in a journey across the land, a subject of frequent discussion when people meet. The habitats of different birds are well known; grouse like young pine stands. Ptarmigan prefer willows in winter.
Birds as agents and actors on the land can also hold and bestow power. My collaborator Linda McDonald told me that swan was a power bird for her late mother Edna McDonald. Swans are also a source of food (prohibited now with migratory bird treaties).
Along with detailed knowledge of the habitats and habits of birds and animals, people are oberservant of timing of significant seasonal events, such as the migration time of ducks, and geese. These are now changing, and are taken by elders as an indicator of environmental change. This is a topic Linda McDonald, my Kaska colleague and I will take up in more detail through our research this summer.
Ravens and whisky jacks (grey jays) are intelligent and observant birds, and their sometime destructive behaviour is tolerated. People have lived a long time in the North with ravens and whiskey jacks, which are adaptable year round residents. Another English name for the whiskey jack is “camp robber”, aptly descriptive of their deft pilfering of unattended food in camp. However, people may in fact leave food out for the whiskey jacks, perhaps with the logic that if food is freely given, they will leave the rest alone. Raven figures in stories among the Kaska as well as Gitksan and Witsuwit’en. Both raven and whisky jack lend their names to plants. The valued medicinal plant Juniperus communis is called in Kaska Nusga dzidze “crow’s brush or crow’s berries . The berry like cones are not edible by people, though they add to the strength of medicinal decoctions made from the plant. Arctous rubra, called “red bearberry” in English, is ts’oska dzidze, ‘whisky hack’s berry” in Kaska.
As I travelled with and listened to my elder teachers, birds were woven into conversation and commentary. I am a somewhat “scattered” person who easily misplaces or looses things. Auntie Mida explained to me after one such incident that it was because I has looked at an osprey on the nest; if you look at osprey on the nest it causes you to loose things easily.
Wading birds and cranes have very long legs. In a narrative recorded in Dene Guideji, Kaska Narratives, Elder Clara Donnessey recounts how the sisters who married stars escape their pursuer by crossing the Liard River canyon on the legs of yellowlegs as a bridge, which then refused to allow the pursuing wolverine to cross over. When I was told the story, my source described the bird, in English, as “crane”.
I gained a different sense of ravens when I went North. Instead of the ravens sitting solitary on the top of spruce or cedar, and tolling their bell-like calls, or hungrily feeding one or two at a time on the carcasses of dead and dying salmon beside the river, ravens in Inuvik were raucous, forward, in-your-face, interacting and squabbling in groups in the morning hours, hanging around dumpsters. It was in the Mackenzie Delta region I first really understood the ancient commensal relationship of ravens to northern peoples. Ravens scour the land widely for sources of food, which in winter prominently feature the kills of wolves, and the kills and camps of people. In February of 2000, I went up the Peel with my teachers William and Mary Teya to their winter trapping camp at Road River. It took 4 days for raven to find us after we arrived. When William got a cow and calf moose during our stay, the skulls were placed on the roof of a shed for raven to finish cleaning the bits of meat we had not been able to cut off for our own use.
The story of raven and his wooden jaw known in Tsii geh tchic as well as way south on Skeena. The location this occurred, it is said, is right where they later built the Catholic Church in Tsii geh tchic. Stories are localized on the land. In summer fish camp on the Peel River, we returned to camp one day to find raven mess on the fish cutting table. As she cleaned the white splotches off the wood, Mary told the story of raven’s bride, and how she was similarly despoiled by her handsome new husband, the ever active raven. I was told that you can’t harm raven, even if he breaks into your smoke house and steals some of your drying fish. It would bring bad weather, a serious threat in the low Arctic country where the Gwich’in dwell.
Gulls have an important place in the Gwich’in world. Gulls are not year round residents in Gwich’in country, coming with break-up and leaving when the country starts to freeze up. I was told that for Gwich’in, gulls are more important than eagle. Gulls are associated with the milder weather and easier times of summer fishing. In fish camp, the fish offal is to be spilled on the sandbars or gravel bars near, but not in, the river, for the gulls to clean up. Visitors to the country such as myself and a company of French paddlers who stayed a day or two at Alestine Andre’s 2000 Tree River camp on the Mackenzie, are carefully instructed in this matter. The cleaning role of the gulls is much appreciated, and may help to avoid confrontations with bears at the fishing sites. Two different places are named “gull lake” Tidigeh van, one a large lake up a tributary creek emptying into the Delta near Inuvik, and the other on a flat beside the Peel, not far from the Road River camp. After the gulls leave, I was told, raven takes over clean-up duties, and takes care of the spilled fish offal. Gulls can be a nuisance in the summer season, feeding on and spoiling fish left to air dry before being put in the smokehouse. In one camp I was at, fish netting was draped over the air drying fish, and a light fire lit where the smoke would blow toward the fish as gull deterrents. But even if the gulls spoil fish, they can’t be harmed, or bad weather will come.
As with Kaska, the sometimes pestiferous whiskey jacks are not harmed by Gwich’in. I watched while Mary carefully freed a bird who had entangled herself in the netting intended to deter gulls, a rather delicate process. The same (or another) whisky jack later slipped into the smokehouse from time to time, snacking on the drying whitefish and coney. It was not molested.
A last bird that stood out to me in Gwich’in country were the “black ducks”, surf scoters and common scoters who frequent the Peel and Mackenzie in summer. Black ducks are good to eat, and greatly appreciated when you can get them.

In closing, birds are salient actors in our worlds, readily available for symbolic interpretation, good for food, feathers and down used in material culture, associated with seasonal cycles of change and with specific habitats. The ever present raven has been a commensal of humans in northern regions of North America since people began to inhabit these lands. People carefully observe ravens, and ravens carefully observe people. Ravens many lead human hunters to game, and human hunters provide a reliable source of food for ravens throughout the cold dark winters. Raven’s intelligence and human like antics provide rich food for comedic analogy and moral thought. Raven is also powerful, seeing and knowing things humans do not, capable of transformation and of generosity.
Birds provide seasonal information, may be crests or personal sources of power, and are valued sources of food (especially grouse, ptarmigan, and various ducks, geese and swans, though many other birds were also eaten, such as cranes, and even loons in some places, though others consider them inappropriate to eat). As sources of food, certain birds can be proscribed for the young, or for pregnant women, such as loons who are “awkward” birds because they cannot walk on land. Or instead can be eaten with intent to invoke their qualities by those at these critical junctures in their growth and development, as the Witsuwit’en practice of feeding young boys ptarmigan to make them swift and agile on snowshoes.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Seasons- Equinox time


As I write we are at the time of Equinox, one of the two times in the year when day and night are of equal length, and the same all over the world. The Equinoxes are also times of very rapid change at higher latitudes, such as most of Canada, where the day lengths change dramatically between our summer and our winter seasons. As my partner recently pointed out, the change in day length over time can be represented as a cycloid, one of those familiar graphs of oscillating peaks and valleys. The peaks and troughs would represent the summer and winter solstices, where the sun indeed seems to stand still for a while. The Equinoxes are placed just at the times of most rapid change, and at our latitudes, we can see the day length change over a period of a few days. Here on Mountain Daylight time, it was just dawning at a bit after 7 in the morning, and the sun will set tonight at 7:38 according to the weather site. If I were in the middle of my time zone, there would be a perfect symmetry. I can anticipate a rapid shortening of day length now and dramatic shifts of the aspect of the land [deciduous trees will all drop their leaves, snow will mantle the ground once winter arrives]. Thinking about equinoxes made me think about seasonal knowledge: moon cycles, Solstice celebrations, predictors of planting dates, evidence of the timing of salmon migrations, and the like. Trevor Lantz and Nancy Turner wrote an insightful article on what they termed “traditional phenological knowledge”, or the use of one kind of seasonal biological event to predict the timing of another (Lantz, Trevor C. and Nancy J. Turner. 2003. Traditional phenological knowledge of aboriginal peoples in British Columbia. Journal of Ethnobiology 23(2):263-286). Among the Gitksan in northwestern British Columbia, the arrival of robins in the spring “announces” the arrival of steelhead migrating up the rivers from the Coast. The Gitksan interpret the robins' song as saying “Gii gyooks milit, milit”. Milit is the steelhead, and the phrase means the steelhead are coming, the steelhead are coming. In other places other indicators of salmon arrival are noted: the fruiting of the red elderberry, for example. In many traditional calendrical systems the names of the months indicate conditions or resources to be expected in those months. Iain Davidson-Hunt and Fikret Berkes give a nice exposition of this for the Shoal Lake Anishinaabe in their 2003 paper in Conservation Ecology (now renamed Ecology and Society, an online journal about adaptation, conservation, and traditional knowledge) www.consecol.org/vol8
and in their chapter in my upcoming book Landscape Ethnoecology, Concepts of Physical and Biotic Space (Berghahn Books, November 2009), a collection of topical papers on landscape knowledge co-edited with Eugene Hunn. Some of the named moons are “budding moon”, “blooming moon”, “ricing moon” [for the harvest of manomin, or wild rice a “cultural keystone species” for Anishinaabe], “berrying moon”, “leaves turning colour moon”, “falling leaves moon” and “whitefish spawning moon” –all obviously encoding information about the cycle of seasonal change and when key events are anticipated to occur. Other systems make reference to significant events in their local ecologies:

Nearer the equator, seasonal shifts are much more subtle, but nonetheless, in the Andes not far south of the Equator, the Quechua people have elaborate ceremonials at their winter solstice in June. The winter may see frost in places with cold air drainage, whereas in the summer season, the higher precipitation means that mists will prevent radiation of heat away at night, and the frost line is much higher. The present Intí Raymí Ceremony is a mid 20th century re-creation of an ancient annual Inca ritual, which was suppressed during the Colonial period by the Catholic church. The present re-created ceremony makes offerings to Pachamama, the mother earth for a successful renewal of the seasonal cycle and the return of the sun. Apparently the visibility of the Pleiades constellation at winter solstice, gives information about the coming season and when to plant (Orlove et al. "Forecasting Andean rainfall and crop yield from the influence of El Niño on Pleiades visibility." Nature 403, 68-71 (6 January 2000) | doi:10.1038/47456). Depending on the amount of moisture in the air at high altitudes, more or fewer stars will be visible. The fine tuning of traditional knowledges such as this are likely to shift dramatically with present and on-going global climatic change, as all global systems become less predictable, and show more events that are extreme or outside of historic conditions.
Joseph Bastien wrote a compelling and sensitive ethnography of the people of Mt. Kaata in the Bolivian Andes not too far from Cusco where I was, which details the spiritual and agricultural cycle of the local people as it was when he lived there in the early 1970’s Mountain of the Condors, Metaphor and ritual in an Andean Ayllu (1978 St. Paul, MN: West Publishing Co.)