Plants, People, and Places: The Roles of Ethnobotany and Ethnoecology in Indigenous Peoples' Land Rights in Canada and Beyond 9780228003175

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Plants, People, and Places

M c Gill-Queen’s indiGenous and northern studies (In memory of Bruce G. Trigger) John Borrows, Sarah Carter, and Arthur J. Ray, Editors

The McGill-Queen’s Indigenous and Northern Studies series publishes books about Indigenous peoples in all parts of the northern world. It includes original scholarship on their histories, archaeology, laws, cultures, governance, and traditions. Works in the series also explore the history and geography of the North, where travel, the natural environment, and the relationship to land continue to shape life in particular and important ways. Its mandate is to advance understanding of the political, legal, and social relations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples, of the contemporary issues that Indigenous peoples face as a result of environmental and economic change, and of social justice, including the work of reconciliation in Canada. To provide a global perspective, the series welcomes books on regions and communities from across the Arctic and Subarctic circumpolar zones. When the Whalers Were Up North Inuit Memories from the Eastern Arctic Dorothy Harley Eber 2 The Challenge of Arctic Shipping Science, Environmental Assessment, and Human Values Edited by David L. VanderZwaag and Cynthia Lamson 3 Lost Harvests Prairie Indian Reserve Farmers and Government Policy Sarah Carter 4 Native Liberty, Crown Sovereignty The Existing Aboriginal Right of Self-Government in Canada Bruce Clark 5 Unravelling the Franklin Mystery Inuit Testimony David C. Woodman 6 Otter Skins, Boston Ships, and China Goods The Maritime Fur Trade of the Northwest Coast, 1785–1841 James R. Gibson 7 From Wooden Ploughs to Welfare The Story of the Western Reserves Helen Buckley 8 In Business for Ourselves Northern Entrepreneurs Wanda A. Wuttunee 9 For an Amerindian Autohistory An Essay on the Foundations of a Social Ethic Georges E. Sioui 10 Strangers Among Us David Woodman 1

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When the North Was Red Aboriginal Education in Soviet Siberia Dennis A. Bartels and Alice L. Bartels From Talking Chiefs to a Native Corporate Elite The Birth of Class and Nationalism among Canadian Inuit Marybelle Mitchell Cold Comfort My Love Affair with the Arctic Graham W. Rowley The True Spirit and Original Intent of Treaty 7 Treaty 7 Elders and Tribal Council with Walter Hildebrandt, Dorothy First Rider, and Sarah Carter This Distant and Unsurveyed Country A Woman’s Winter at Baffin Island, 1857–1858

W. Gillies Ross 16 Images of Justice Dorothy Harley Eber 17 Capturing Women The Manipulation of Cultural Imagery in Canada’s Prairie West Sarah A. Carter 18 Social and Environmental Impacts of the James Bay Hydroelectric Project Edited by James F. Hornig 19 Saqiyuq Stories from the Lives of Three Inuit Women Nancy Wachowich in collaboration with Apphia Agalakti Awa, Rhoda Kaukjak Katsak, and Sandra Pikujak Katsak

20 Justice in Paradise Bruce Clark 21 Aboriginal Rights and Self-Government The Canadian and Mexican Experience in North American Perspective Edited by Curtis Cook and Juan D. Lindau 22 Harvest of Souls The Jesuit Missions and Colonialism in North America, 1632–1650 Carole Blackburn 23 Bounty and Benevolence A History of Saskatchewan Treaties Arthur J. Ray, Jim Miller, and Frank Tough 24 The People of Denendeh Ethnohistory of the Indians of Canada’s Northwest Territories June Helm 25 The Marshall Decision and Native Rights Ken Coates 26 The Flying Tiger Women Shamans and Storytellers of the Amur Kira Van Deusen 27 Alone in Silence European Women in the Canadian North before 1940 Barbara E. Kelcey 28 The Arctic Voyages of Martin Frobisher An Elizabethan Adventure Robert McGhee 29 Northern Experience and the Myths of Canadian Culture Renée Hulan 30 The White Man’s Gonna Getcha The Colonial Challenge to the Crees in Quebec Toby Morantz 31 The Heavens Are Changing Nineteenth-Century Protestant Missions and Tsimshian Christianity Susan Neylan 32 Arctic Migrants/Arctic Villagers The Transformation of Inuit Settlement in the Central Arctic David Damas 33 Arctic Justice On Trial for Murder – Pond Inlet, 1923 Shelagh D. Grant

34 The American Empire and the Fourth World Anthony J. Hall 35 Eighteenth-Century Naturalists of Hudson Bay Stuart Houston, Tim Ball, and Mary Houston 36 Uqalurait An Oral History of Nunavut Compiled and edited by John Bennett and Susan Rowley 37 Living Rhythms Lessons in Aboriginal Economic Resilience and Vision Wanda Wuttunee 38 The Making of an Explorer George Hubert Wilkins and the Canadian Arctic Expedition, 1913–1916 Stuart E. Jenness 39 Chee Chee A Study of Aboriginal Suicide Alvin Evans 40 Strange Things Done Murder in Yukon History Ken S. Coates and William R. Morrison 41 Healing through Art Ritualized Space and Cree Identity Nadia Ferrara 42 Coyote and Raven Go Canoeing Coming Home to the Village Peter Cole 43 Something New in the Air The Story of First Peoples Television Broadcasting in Canada Lorna Roth 44 Listening to Old Woman Speak Natives and Alternatives in Canadian Literature Laura Smyth Groening 45 Robert and Francis Flaherty A Documentary Life, 1883–1922 Robert J. Christopher 46 Talking in Context Language and Identity in Kwakwaka’wakw Society Anne Marie Goodfellow 47 Tecumseh’s Bones Guy St-Denis 48 Constructing Colonial Discourse Captain Cook at Nootka Sound Noel Elizabeth Currie

49 The Hollow Tree Fighting Addiction with Traditional Healing Herb Nabigon 50 The Return of Caribou to Ungava A.T. Bergerud, Stuart Luttich, and Lodewijk Camps 51 Firekeepers of the Twenty-First Century First Nations Women Chiefs Cora J. Voyageur 52 Isuma Inuit Video Art Michael Robert Evans 53 Outside Looking In Viewing First Nations Peoples in Canadian Dramatic Television Series Mary Jane Miller 54 Kiviuq An Inuit Hero and His Siberian Cousins Kira Van Deusen 55 Native Peoples and Water Rights Irrigation, Dams, and the Law in Western Canada Kenichi Matsui 56 The Rediscovered Self Indigenous Identity and Cultural Justice Ronald Niezen 57 As affecting the fate of my absent husband Selected Letters of Lady Franklin Concerning the Search for the Lost Franklin Expedition, 1848–1860

Edited by Erika Behrisch Elce 58 The Language of the Inuit Syntax, Semantics, and Society in the Arctic Louis-Jacques Dorais 59 Inuit Shamanism and Christianity Transitions and Transformations in the Twentieth Century Frédéric B. Laugrand and Jarich G. Oosten 60 No Place for Fairness Indigenous Land Rights and Policy in the Bear Island Case and Beyond David T. McNab 61 Aleut Identity Tradition and Modernity in an Indigenous Fishery Katherine L. Reedy-Mascher 62 Earth into Property Aboriginal History and the Making of Global Capitalism Anthony J. Hall

63 Collections and Objections Aboriginal Material Culture in Southern Ontario, 1791–1914 Michelle A. Hamilton 64 These Mysterious People Shaping History and Archaeology in a Northwest Coast Community Susan Roy 65 Telling It to the Judge Taking Native History to Court Arthur J. Ray 66 Aboriginal Music in Contemporary Canada Echoes and Exchanges Edited by Anna Hoefnagels and Beverley Diamond 67 In Twilight and in Dawn A Biography of Diamond Jenness Barnett Richling 68 Women’s Work, Women’s Art Nineteenth-Century Northern Athapaskan Clothing Judy Thompson 69 Warriors of the Plains The Arts of Plains Indian Warfare Max Carocci 70 Reclaiming Indigenous Planning Edited by Ryan Walker, Ted Jojola, and David Natcher 71 Setting All the Captives Free Capture, Adjustment, and Recollection in Allegheny Country Ian K. Steele 72 Before Ontario The Archaeology of a Province Edited by Marit K. Munson and Susan M. Jamieson 73 Becoming Inummarik Men’s Lives in an Inuit Community Peter Collings 74 Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America Nancy J. Turner 75 Our Ice Is Vanishing/Sikuvut Nunguliqtuq A History of Inuit, Newcomers, and Climate Change Shelley Wright

76 Maps and Memes Redrawing Culture, Place, and Identity in Indigenous Communities Gwilym Lucas Eades 77 Encounters An Anthropological History of Southeastern Labrador John C. Kennedy 78 Keeping Promises The Royal Proclamation of 1763, Aboriginal Rights, and Treaties in Canada Edited by Terry Fenge and Jim Aldridge 79 Together We Survive Ethnographic Intuitions, Friendships, and Conversations Edited by John S. Long and Jennifer S.H. Brown 80 Canada’s Residential Schools The History, Part 1, Origins to 1939 The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 1 81 Canada’s Residential Schools: The History, Part 2, 1939 to 2000 The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 1 82 Canada’s Residential Schools: The Inuit and Northern Experience The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 2 83 Canada’s Residential Schools: The Métis Experience The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 3 84 Canada’s Residential Schools: Missing Children and Unmarked Burials The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 4 85 Canada’s Residential Schools: The Legacy The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 5

86 Canada’s Residential Schools: Reconciliation The Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, Volume 6 87 Aboriginal Rights Claims and the Making and Remaking of History Arthur J. Ray 88 Abenaki Daring The Life and Writings of Noel Annance, 1792–1869

Jean Barman 89 Trickster Chases the Tale of Education Sylvia Moore 90 Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓s-kucw Marianne Ignace and Ronald E. Ignace 91 Travellers through Empire Indigenous Voyages from Early Canada Cecilia Morgan 92 Studying Arctic Fields Cultures, Practices, and Environmental Sciences Richard C. Powell 93 Iroquois in the West Jean Barman 94 Leading from Between Indigenous Participation and Leadership in the Public Service Catherine Althaus and Ciaran O’Faircheallaigh 95 Against the Current and Into the Light Performing History and Land in Coast Salish Territories and Vancouver’s Stanley Park Selena Couture 96 Plants, People, and Places The Roles of Ethnobotany and Ethnoecology in Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights in Canada and Beyond Edited by Nancy J. Turner

Plants, People, and Places the roles of ethnobotany and ethnoecology in indigenous PeoPles’ land rights in canada and beyond

Edited by Nancy J. Turner

McGill-Queen’s University Press Montreal & Kingston | London | Chicago

© McGill-Queen’s University Press 2020 ISBN 978-0-2280-0183-6 (cloth) ISBN 978-0-2280-0317-5 (ePDF) Legal deposit second quarter 2020 Bibliothèque nationale du Québec Printed in Canada on acid-free paper that is 100% ancient forest free (100% post-consumer recycled), processed chlorine free This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Funding was also received from the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation.   

We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Plants, people, and places : the roles of ethnobotany and ethnoecology in indigenous peoples’ land rights in Canada and beyond / edited by Nancy J. Turner. Names: Turner, Nancy J., 1947– editor. Series: McGill-Queen’s indigenous and northern studies ; 96. Description: Series statement: McGill-Queen’s native and northern series ; 96 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2019023878X | Canadiana (ebook) 20190238887 | ISBN 9780228001836 (cloth) | ISBN 9780228003175 (ePDF) Subjects: LCSH: Ethnobotany. | LCSH: Indigenous peoples—Ecology. | LCSH: Indigenous peoples—Land tenure. Classification: LCC GN476.73 .P63 2020 | DDC 581.6/3—dc23

Set in 10/13 Gentium Plus with Cyntho Pro and Cyntho Slab Pro Book design & typesetting by Garet Markvoort, zijn digital

co n t e n ts

Tables and Figures xiii Benediction: The Teachings of Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick and the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) Dance xvii

Douglas Deur (Moxmowisa), Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa), and William White (Kasalid/Xelimulh)

Preface and Acknowledgments xxv Nancy J. Turner

1 Introduction: Making a Place for Indigenous Botanical Knowledge and Environmental Values in Land-Use Planning and Decision Making 3 Nancy J. Turner, Pamela Spalding, and Douglas Deur

section one – indiGenous PeoPles’ relationshiPs to Plants and territory in canada Introduction 33 Nancy J. Turner

2 Living from the Land: Food Security and Food Sovereignty Today and into the Future 36 Jeannette Armstrong

3 Nuučaan̓uł Plants and Habitats as Reflected in Oral Traditions: Since Raven and Thunderbird Roamed 51 Marlene Atleo (Ɂeh Ɂeh nah tuu kʷiss)

4 Tamarack and Tobacco 65 Aaron Mills

5 Xáxli’p Survival Territory: Colonialism, Industrial Land Use, and the Biocultural Sustainability of the Xáxli’p within the Southern Interior of British Columbia 70 Arthur Adolph

section two – historical PersPectives on PlantPeoPle relationshiPs in canada Introduction 83 Nancy J. Turner

6 Understanding the Past for the Future: Archaeology, Plants, and First Nations’ Land Use and Rights 86 Dana Lepofsky, Chelsey Geralda Armstrong, Darcy Mathews, and Spencer Greening

7 Preparing Eden: Indigenous Land Use and European Settlement on Southern Vancouver Island 107 John Sutton Lutz

8 A Place Called Pípsell: An Indigenous Cultural Keystone Place, Mining, and Secwépemc Law 131 Marianne Ignace and Chief Ronald E. Ignace

9 Traditional Plant Medicines and the Protection of Traditional Harvesting Sites 151 Letitia M. McCune and Alain Cuerrier

section three – ethnoecoloGy and the law in the international arena Introduction 169 Nancy J. Turner

x | Contents

10 From Traplines to Pipelines: Oil Sands and the Pollution of Berries and Sacred Lands from Northern Alberta to North Dakota 173 Linda Black Elk and Janelle Marie Baker

11 The Legal Application of Ethnoecology: The Girjas Sami Village versus the Swedish State 188 Lars Östlund, Ingela Bergman, Camilla Sandström, and Malin Brännström

12 Tāne Mahuta: The Lord of the Forest in Aotearoa New Zealand, His Children, and the Law 203 Jacinta Ruru

13 Cultivating the Imagined Wilderness: Contested Native American PlantGathering Traditions in America’s National Parks 220 Douglas Deur and Justine E. James Jr

14 Kīpuka Kuleana: Restoring Reciprocity to Coastal Land Tenure and Resource Use in Hawaiʻi 238 Monica Montgomery and Mehana Blaich Vaughan

section four – ethnoecoloGy, law, and Policy in the current context Introduction 251 Nancy J. Turner

15 Right Relationships: Legal and Ethical Context for Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and Responsibilities 254 Kelly Bannister

16 Ethnoecology and Indigenous Legal Traditions in Environmental Governance 269 Deborah Curran and Val Napoleon

17 Indigenous Environmental Stewardship: Do Mechanisms of Biodiversity Conservation Align with or Undermine It? 282 Monica E. Mulrennan and Véronique Bussières

18 Tsilhqot’in Nation Aboriginal Title: Ethnoecological and Ethnobotanical Evidence and the Roles and Obligations of the Expert Witness 313 David M. Robbins and Michael Bendle

Contents | xi

19 Plants, Habitats, and Litigation for Indigenous Peoples in Canada 329 Stuart Rush, QC

section five – drawinG strenGth and insPiration froM PeoPle, Plants, and lands throuGh Justice, eQuity, education, and PartnershiPs Introduction 347 Nancy J. Turner

20 Restorying Indigenous Landscapes: Community Regeneration and Resurgence 350 Jeff Corntassel

21 Partnerships of Hope: How Ethnoecology Can Support Robust Co-Management Agreements between Public Governments and Indigenous Peoples 366 Pamela Spalding

22 “Passing It On”: Renewal of Indigenous Plant Knowledge Systems and Indigenous Approaches to Education 386 Leigh Joseph (Styawat)

23 On Resurgence and Transformative Reconciliation 402 James Tully

24 Retrospective and Concluding Thoughts 419

Nancy J. Turner with E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) and John Ralston Saul

Epilogue: Native Plants, Indigenous Societies, and the Land in Canada’s Future 436

Douglas Deur (Moxmowisa), Nancy J. Turner (Galitsimġa), and Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa)

Contributors 443 Index 459

xii | Contents

ta b l e s a n d f i G u r e s

tables 7.1 Records of Indigenous landscape burning in the vicinity of Fort Victoria, 1846–51 118 10.1 Berry patch activities as important aspects of cultural knowledge and practice 179 17.1 A chronology of landmark events for rights of Nature 296 fiGures

B.1 Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick. Photo by Bert Crowfoot (Kiyo Sta’ah/ Gayutalas), Crowfoot Photography xviii B.2 Grouse dancer. Photo by Hannah Roessler xxii B.3 Stump dancer. Photo by Hannah Roessler xxiii P.1 Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa) presents T’Sou-ke chief Gordon Planes with a blanket. Photo by Hannah Roessler xxvi P.2 Symposium group along the T’Sou-ke Sacred Mountain trail. Photo by Hannah Roessler xxvii

P.3 Bill White and Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick at the First Peoples House, University of Victoria. Photo by Bert Crowfoot (Kiyo Sta’ah/Gayutalas), Crowfoot Photography xxx 1.1 Map of Indigenous “culture areas” of Canada. Drawn by Dr Nancy Mackin 11 2.1 Ponderosa pine (sɁatqʷłp, Pinus ponderosa) in Syilx/Okanagan territory. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 40 2.2 Black huckleberry (st’xałq, Vaccinium membranceum). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 41 3.1 Marlene Atleo, Nan (Grace) Margaret Charlie Atleo, and Mary Hamilton Little. Photo by E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) 53 3.2 Mary Hamilton Little’s famous ch’itapt (slough sedge) basketry. Photo by E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) 54 3.3 Using a č’it’aqƛ, fashioned from a piece of Swede-saw blade and some cedar wood. Photo by E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) 57 3.4 Evergreen huckleberries (siinamuxsɁits, Vaccinium ovatum) in fall. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 59 4.1 Tamarack (mashkiigwaatig, Larix laricina), used for making lodge poles. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 67 6.1 “Timeline” petroglyph in Sts’ailes traditional territory on the Harrison River. Photo by Ken Lertzman 89 6.2 The Húy̓at landscape in the traditional territory of the Heiltsuk on the central coast of British Columbia. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 92 6.3 Tl’ches (Chatham Island), an archipelago off the southernmost tip of Vancouver Island. Photo by Darcy Mathews 93 6.4 Dawn Charlie (Sts’ailes) with the locally rare blue elderberry (Sambucus cerulea). Photo by Chelsey Geralda Armstrong 94 6.5 Bryn Letham, Justin Clifton Jr, and Spencer Greening mapping a 2,000-year-old wooden fish trap in the intertidal of Laxgalts’ap. Photo by Dana Lepofsky 99 7.1 James Douglas’s map of Vancouver Island, 1842. Drawn by A. Lee Lewes 113 7.2 Map of native plant communities of Victoria. Prepared by S. Eis using Canadian Forestry Service cartography by the Resource Analysis

xiv | Tables and Figures

Unit of the British Columbia Environment and Land Use Secretariat. Published in R.G. McMinn et al., Native Vegetation in British Columbia’s Capital Region (Victoria: Forest Service, Environment Canada, 1976), http://cfs.nrcan.gc.ca/entrepotpubl/pdfs/1773.pdf  114 7.3 Map of the territories of the Lekwungen. Drawn by John Sutton Lutz 115 7.4 Camas flower and bulb. Drawn by Briony Penn 116 7.5 Map showing farms of the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Puget Sound Agricultural Company, Vancouver Island. Drawn by Stewart Daniels 122 7.6 Victoria as an English village, 1860. Drawn by H.O. Tiedemann. Courtesy of Library of Congress, G 3514.V 5A 35. 1980.T 5 125 8.1 Pípsell (“trout place”), known as Jacko Lake, 2013. Photo by Marianne Ignace 133 8.2 Map of Secwépemc territory based on ethnographic and ethnohistoric sources, 2017. Drawn by Joanne Hammond 135 9.1 The tart red hairs on the fruit of staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta, syn. Rhus typhina). Photo by Letitia M. McCune 155 9.2 The inner red bark of black spruce (Picea mariana). Photo by Letitia M. McCune 157 9.3 Cree medicinal plants: Labrador tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum) in flower, black spruce (Picea mariana) bark, pitcher plant flower (Sarracenia purpurea), and leaves of mountain ash (Sorbus decora). Photos by Alain Cuerrier 159 10.1 Large swaths of prairie filled with edible and medicinal plants destroyed by the Dakota Access Pipeline. Photo by Linda Black Elk 175 10.2 Buffaloberries, or soapberries (Shepherdia canadensis). Photo by Janelle Marie Baker 178 10.3 Indigenous people facing military-like violence in the protection of water and land at the Standing Rock camps. Photo by Ryan Vizzon 182 11.1 Scots pine and mountain birch forest near Vouttasjavri, Sweden. Photo by Lars Östlund 194 11.2 Bark-peeled Scots pine dated to 1680, tree felled for harvest of lichens for reindeer, Sami hearth for a tent hut in the high mountains, and birch marked for a path through the mountain forest. Photos by Lars Östlund 196

Tables and Figures | xv

13.1 Paiute woman grinding acorns on a metate stone in Yosemite Valley, c. 1900. Photo by Charles C. Pierce. Courtesy of University of Southern California Digital Library 224 14.1 Fisherman with a squid box and pole for harvesting octopus at Kahana Bay, Hawaiʻi, 1959. Photo in Hawaiʻi State Archives, PP 58–10–016 244 14.2 A prayer before giving testimony on the rules package of the Community-Based Subsistence Fishing Area, 3 October 2014. Photo by Kim Moa 248 16.1 Barbara Wilson (Kii’iljuus) of Skidegate, Haida Gwaii, drying herring roe on giant kelp fronds. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 273 16.2 Huchsduwachsdu Nuyem Jees (“source of the milky blue water”) / Kitlope Heritage Conservancy. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 275 18.1 Map showing the area subject to the Supreme Court of Canada’s declaration of proven Aboriginal title in the Tsilhqot’in case. Drawn by Clover Point Cartographies 314 18.2 Mountain potato, or spring beauty (sunt’iny, Claytonia lanceolata). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 318 18.3 Yellow avalanche lily, or bear tooth (Ɂesghunsh, Erythronium grandiflorum). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 319 19.1 Hat of twined Sitka spruce root (Picea sitchensis) from Haida Gwaii, 1774. No. 13571, Museo de America, Madrid, Spain. Photo by Stuart Rush, 28 September 2018 335 19.2 Contemporary hat of Sitka spruce root (Picea sitchensis). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 335 20.1 Edible blue camas (Camassia quamash) in flower. Photo by Nancy J. Turner 358 20.2 Bulbs of edible blue camas (Camassia quamash). Photo by Brenda Beckwith 359 22.1 Northern riceroot (Fritillaria camschatcensis). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 395 22.2 Bulbs and rice-like bulblets of northern riceroot (Fritillaria camschatcensis). Photo by Nancy J. Turner 396

xvi | Tables and Figures

b e n e d i ct i o n

The Teachings of Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick and the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) Dance Douglas Deur (Moxmowisa), Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa), and William White (Kasalid/Xelimulh) Like the symposium that inspired this book,1 its contents are preceded by the words of Chief Kwaxsistalla wath-thla2 Adam Dick (see figure B .1 and https:// www.kwaxsistalla.org). His name, Kwaxsistalla – bequeathed to him by his father and grandfather, who had inherited the name from generations going back to the beginning of remembered time – is a chiefly title that means “smoke from his fire reaches around the world.” He was chief of the Qawadiliqalla (Wolf) Clan of the Dzawada7enuxw (Tsawataineuk) Kwakwa’kawakw from Kingcome Village on the mainland coast of British Columbia. The late Chief Kwaxsistalla opened the ethnoecology symposium, held at the University of Victoria and sponsored by the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation, with blessings and a presentation of his sacred property – principally, the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance cycle, which he directed on the floor of the First Peoples House for the benefit of all symposium attendees. He did so to acknowledge Nancy J. Turner’s monumental lifetime contributions to the respectful documentation of First Nations’ ethnobotanical practices, as well as her kinship to him as an adoptee of the Qawadiliqalla Clan. Chiefly obligations sometimes include visiting the home village of an honoured person and presenting chiefly possessions and teachings in that person’s home before witnesses to validate that this is a person we view as our family and that this is a person who is worthy of respect. Chief Kwaxsistalla has often done this to honour Dr Turner at the University of Victoria in years past. With her retirement and the chief ’s passing a little over a year later, this event was his last

b.1 | Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick.

ceremony at the university – a final event that the symposium participants were fortunate enough to witness. The presentation of the Atla’gimma dance was a gift of incalculable value. As is said in the Kwakwaka’wakw idiom, the dance is one of the many items that Chief Kwaxsistalla pulled from his chiefly “box” for such occasions. To understand this concept, we must appreciate that coastal First Nations’ oral tradition describes a giant flood that washed over the land in ancient times. The Kwaxsistalla of that day placed his chiefly goods in a giant box atop a mountain near Kingcome Village for protection. The box was said to hold tangible things, such as regalia and sacred objects, but it also contained many intangible things, namely the songs, ceremonies, edifying dance cycles, and profound teachings that are held by the chief of each generation to help sustain the people, the environment, and the many delicate balances of the world. Until his death, on very special occasions, Chief Kwaxsistalla opened his box to share those chiefly belongings as well as those ancient teachings and possessions with fortunate witnesses. At those times, the songs and voices of his teachers came forward for a new day and time as though time stood still. This fidelity to the teachers, who conveyed the ancestors’ precise teachings and words, was why the old people valued the listening practised by Adam Dick and by all the other young people who would one day ascend to roles of prominence in the Kwakwaka’wakw world.   In this manner, Chief Kwaxsistalla opened his box for this event. The Atla’gimma dance and all the protocols associated with it come from that place. They also emerge from the deepest well of traditional knowledge, as Chief Kwaxsistalla was a man of unique circumstances and training. He was born during the Canadian government’s potlatch ban, a time marked by forced enrolment in residential schools and by the “underground potlatch” that quietly kept ceremonial traditions alive in villages along the coast. In his youth, children were taken by force from their families as part of a larger national effort to subdue First Nations by prohibiting the intergenerational transmission of knowledge, language, and culture. In the Kwakwaka’wakw world, police – travelling aboard a boat called Black Raven – snatched children off the beaches without parental consent, taking them by force to residential schools. In Chief Kwaxsistalla’s home of Kingcome Village, certain families actively contested the colonial efforts to break their culture, keeping alive one of the most active resistance movements on the coast. They posted lookouts during ceremonies, who watched the inlet for incoming police boats. When police boats did arrive, the Kwakwaka’wakw had places near the village to which they would run in order to hide their ceremonial regalia and sometimes their children. Potlatches were commonly postponed until winter cold had frozen the river below the village, preventing the passage of police boats. This was an age of prophecies, when elders asserted that these events would eventually cease and that the culture

Benediction | xix

had the potential to heal, with certain specially trained children carrying sacred knowledge forward into the times ahead. And then came an ola’galla mee’kie’ya (prophetic dream) that Adam Dick, born of chiefly lineage, would be one of those children to receive special training. The elders of his time took him into hiding in his childhood, and they began to educate him in all forms of traditional knowledge appropriate to a clan chief, including every dimension of the ceremonies, the protocols and language of the potlatch, the traditional ecological knowledge of his people, and ancient teachings in many other domains. Living with his grandparents, he moved from place to place with the seasonal round, going to clam gardens and root gardens, to areas for picking berries and seaweed, to Kingcome Village, and to all the other places of importance to the Qawadiliqalla Clan over the course of each year – always staying a step ahead of the Black Raven. Other traditionally trained elders of his time, all people born in the nineteenth century, were assembled to educate him in specific skills that a clan chief would need in the times ahead. This was a traditional form of training for a clan chief but was undertaken with an unusual urgency that reflected the recognition that Adam Dick was unique, a conduit to a future time, and a keystone figure in their own cultural survival. In his adulthood, Chief Kwaxsistalla served as a highly significant conduit of traditional knowledge. He spoke not as a single man but as a living manifestation of an unbroken chieftainship and cultural tradition that has come to us from very ancient times. Because of his background, he was uniquely knowledgeable about all aspects of his culture, from mundane matters such as making bentwood boxes to weighty spiritual matters such as the proper ways to show respect to game species or the protocols that guide ceremonies within the Big House. He was widely sought out by Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuu-chah-nulth, and other Indigenous peoples, as well as by scholars, for his knowledge of matters of cultural protocol related to the potlatch, traditional naming, social and economic systems, important ceremonial aspects of life, and the intricacies of the Kwak’wala language and Kwakwaka’wakw history. In recent decades, he had a transformative effect on the practice of ethnobotany in British Columbia and beyond. This is another reason he served as an honoured guest, and host, of the ethnoecology symposium. Entire theses, dissertations, books, and articles based on his teachings have been written, especially but not exclusively by students and professors associated with the University of Victoria. The book Keeping It Living (Deur and Turner 2005), the first edited overview of traditional plant management on Canada’s West Coast, took its title from a Kwak’wala term learned from Chief Kwaxsistalla for all forms of plant cultivation – qw’aqw’ala’owkw (“keeping it living”) – which implies the mutually sustaining practice of looking after the well-being of culturally preferred plants so that they will look after the people. Working in collaboration with an entire generation of scholars, he was largely responsible for the re-entry into public

xx | Benediction

and academic discourse of many important things that were nearly forgotten on the coast: clam gardens (loxiwey), estuarine root gardens (tekilakw), the traditional management and harvest of crabapple groves, edible seaweed patches, eelgrass meadows, and more. He could name these things and describe their importance and traditional management all based on his specialized childhood training. For a time, he worked as a consultant for museums, serving as one of the only individuals who could name and identify artifacts, masks, and other items in their collections, gathered a century or more earlier. In recent times, archaeologists often brought him artifacts related to fishing and other subsistence practices for identification; he could not only name each item but also reproduce many of them perfectly by hand, drawing on the instructions provided by his grandparents and his other teachers long ago. He also hosted multiple University of Victoria students in his home in an ongoing traditional ecological knowledge symposium they affectionately called “Adam’s School.” His influence on western Canadian ethnobotany continues to be truly transformative, a gift to all of us from him and from the elders of his youth. Our experience with Chief Kwaxsistalla the teacher suggests the importance of traditionally trained knowledge holders to the whole enterprise of ethnoecology and the richness of their real and potential contributions. But what of the Atla’gimma dance? The dance cycle relates the fundamental lessons of a vision experienced long ago by a man from Wuikinuxv (Rivers Inlet). Oral tradition indicates that the man had been hunting grouse – originally for food but, over time, increasingly for sport – killing more and more grouse even when he did not need to do so for sustenance. His reckless killing, which marked his departure from the material and ceremonial respect shown game species, brought growing imbalances to himself and to the living beings around him. In time, in his sleep, he was visited by the spirit of the grouse (see figure B .2) and by several spirits in succession, each of them imparting key lessons about how to reform himself and about how humanity might maintain and sustain balance in the human and natural worlds. The masks brought forward in the Atla’gimma dance represent the spirits that appeared successively in this vision and carry with them the teachings and powers imparted by each. To demonstrate the weight of this dance cycle, we consider just one example: the Stump. In the Atla’gimma, this being is represented by a blocky, stump-man face with a small tree growing from his top; it is a popular mask, often charming and playful in its carved representation of this being as revealed in that vision long ago (see figure B .3). If we unpack the meaning of the stump, we can begin to glimpse the profound and multilayered teachings suggested by the larger dance cycle. As with a seedling growing from a nurse log in the coastal forest, the stump shows us that within destruction there is the seed of rebirth and of resurrection. The stump not only imparts hope but also brings a revelation that – with effort and nurturing – all manner of past destruction can be restored. Not only can

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b.2 | Grouse dancer, representing the spirit of the grouse.

a forest be healed, but everything can be healed. And that power is sacred. One can restore a damaged habitat, an endangered species, or an entire forest given the time and political will. Yet, if we systematically review the damage around us, we begin to recognize that we might heal other things too, such as damaged relationships with other communities and nations or between First Nations and settler societies. Within that historical destruction, there lies the seed of potential healing. In our personal lives, with regard to our fractured relationships and the people we have loved who now live estranged from us – even at difficult and tenuous personal distances – there is a capacity to heal, to make peace, and to rebuild what was broken. This capacity to heal lies latent in all forms of destruction. The stump shows us this power and asserts that it is sacred. And that is only a small portion of what we are taught by a single stump! In this beautiful and complex dance, each masked figure who comes forward similarly carries layers upon layers of meaning, knowledge, and potential healing. Received through dowry by the Kwakwaka’wakw generations ago and inherited by Chief Kwaxsistalla, the Atla’gimma was his chiefly possession, which

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b.3 | Stump dancer, a blocky, stump-man face with a small tree growing from his top.

is now carried forward by his successor. Its performance was also a powerful mechanism for introducing a symposium devoted to the future of Canada with respect to land management and protection, relations between settlers and First Nations, and indeed our shared survival in this place we call home. By bringing forward the Atla’gimma dance, Chief Kwaxsistalla expressed his heartfelt hope that we will continue to strive to restore broken and unbalanced relationships of all kinds. The Atla’gimma is just one tool in the chiefly box that can help with the healing; it is like a prayer for hope and for all who embrace this mission going forward by doing what they can to bring that healing into the world – biologically, culturally, socially, and personally. One can plant a native species in a blighted piece of ground, work for national reconciliation and healing, or call an estranged loved one in an effort to make peace. All healing is welcome. We all exist together in a transitional point in time. The past spans out behind us infinitely, and the future spans out before us infinitely as well. Here we are, at this moment, doing what we can to make sure that the future direction is the right direction, that the damage of the past goes away, and that

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ahead of us all lies a healthy and balanced future of our choosing. Soon enough, we will hand off our landscapes, cultures, and knowledge to the next generation. The contents of the ethnoecology symposium and the present book drawn from it give us hope that this might yet happen in a way that will bring greater health and balance to the natural world and to Indigenous and settler communities alike. Like Chief Kwaxsistalla’s teachers a lifetime ago, we deeply invest ourselves in a future that we will not live to see, knowing that this is so very profoundly the right thing to do.

notes 1 See the Preface and Acknowledgments for a more detailed description of the May 2017 symposium on “Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future.” 2 Clan Chief Adam Dick passed away on 30 July 2018 as this manuscript was going to press. The chiefly name “Kwaxsistalla” must therefore be qualified with the term “wath-thla,” indicating that he is no longer of this worldly realm. Throughout the remainder of this Benediction, we retain the original Kwaxsistalla name without clarification.

reference Deur, D., and N.J. Turner, eds. 2005. Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press.

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P r e fac e a n d ac k n ow l e d G M e n ts Nancy J. Turner

A symposium entitled “Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future” was held during the first week of May 2017 at the University of Victoria within the First Nation territories of Lekwungen (including Songhees and Esquimalt) and W̱ SÁNEĆ (Saanich) for over two and a half days and then, on the last day, in the T’Sou-ke Nation community in Sooke. There were approximately forty speakers at the symposium and many other participants and volunteers, totalling over 150 people. The symposium was sponsored by the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation through my 2015 fellowship with the foundation and was supported by the University of Victoria’s School of Environmental Studies, Faculty of Social Sciences, and First Peoples House, by a Canada 150 Grant through the Dean’s Office of the Faculty of Social Sciences, and by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada through a Connections Grant (file number 611-2016-0286). The purpose of the symposium was to bring together people with a range of perspectives in order to consider the roles of ethnobotany and ethnoecology in policy, planning, and decision making in the legal and governance arenas related to Indigenous peoples’ land rights and title. Participants included Indigenous leaders, knowledge holders, and legal experts; ethnoecologists; archaeologists; historians; secondary and university students; government, industry, and NGO representatives; national and international land-use experts; and members of the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation community. Nuu-chah-nulth leader and scholar Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek), from the House of λaaqišpiił in Ahousaht, was a major advisor in the development of the symposium. Due to his insights and advice, the event included far more than just lectures or papers. The symposium began at the First Peoples House with a

P .1 | Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa) presents T’Sou-ke chief Gordon Planes with a blanket in recognition of his status and role as a witness to the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance performance and other ceremonies at the opening of the symposium.

welcoming to Lekwungen territory by Joan Morris (Sellemah) of the Songhees Nation. Kwakwaka’wakw visitors to the territory – Clan Chief Adam Dick (Kwaxsistalla wath-thla),1 Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa), Chief George Shaughnessy (Maxwxwadziy), Dr Daisy Sewid-Smith (Mayanilth), and their families and community members – responded by presenting Sellemah and distinguished guests, including Dr David Suzuki and T’Sou-ke chief Gordon Planes, with blankets (see figure P .1). Chief Kwaxsistalla then officiated over the presentation of memorial songs for family members, followed by the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance performance,2 which conveyed profound lessons on the complexity of forest ecosystems and human responsibilities to other species (described in the Benediction). Several children and youth performed in this dance, along with expert dancers like Chris Cook III , Fred Speck (Iwa’nukw’dzi), and Sammy Dawson. Following a light dinner, there was a participatory demonstration

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P .2 | The symposium group led by Chief Gordon Planes along the trail up the Sacred Mountain of T’Sou-ke territory.

on making cedar bark roses by W̱ SÁNEĆ First Nation experts Belinda Claxton (Seliliye), Stella Underwood, and Linda Elliott. During the symposium, there were conversation circles and presentations, as well as a keynote public lecture by renowned philosopher John Ralston Saul, Umeek’s friend and colleague (see chapter 24). Students from three different secondary schools attended and presented posters on the topic of First Nations’ land rights and relationships with the environment. The Mount Douglas Ecoclub guided a hike up Mount Tolmie during one of the lunch breaks in order to show the results of their work in removing invasive broom and thus restoring the camas meadows there. The final day was spent with Chief Gordon Planes and other members of the T’Sou-ke Nation in their home territory, including a spectacular hike up their Sacred Mountain (see figure P .2) and a salmon barbecue dinner at the Band Office building. We learned firsthand about some of the T’Sou-ke people’s interactions with their home territory and about issues they have faced in maintaining their relationships with their lands, waters, and

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resource species since the time of colonization by European newcomers. Chief Planes gave an inspiring talk about the hopes and dreams of his people. He reminded us about the importance of education and Indigenous languages: And the other thing, too, is that if we had our Senchathen language, that’s strong, and [if] we taught that in the school system. Our language actually takes care of the environment . . . That’s what it was there for, to take care of it. So if we can, with our children and all the children in our territory, if we’re all thinking like that, what could we do to make that change? Chief Planes also talked about the importance of partnerships: [I]n the future, let’s think about doing something in a partnership. Because if you do something in a partnership, that’s more strength. If you have more strength, then you can actually get the education out there quicker and faster and better. And actually you can get everybody together to join in and say, “What are we doing?” And, in our territory, going full circle . . . And I think we have an opportunity to do that [education and outreach] if we have a land base, [if] we have a backup from the school system that really works well with us, if we have the kids that are involved more in their culture, and our language, and the kids in turn send it over and share it with the other kids. When they grow up, guess what? We’ve got something. I think that’s where we’re going to go! In taking us to the T’Sou-ke Nation’s Sacred Mountain, and in introducing us to T’Sou-ke territory and sharing T’Sou-ke aspirations, Chief Planes summarized the essence of the entire symposium for us: “The thing is . . . we can’t be denied access to our territories, and that’s what it all stems down to.” Participants were also given the opportunity to travel to Clayoquot Sound with Eli Enns of the Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation (Nuu-chah-nulth), to visit the Tla-o-qui-aht tribal parks, to discuss Indigenous conserved areas, and to learn from celebrated Tla-o-qui-aht artist and canoe maker Joe Martin about the importance of western redcedar and other plants. Throughout the symposium, at Umeek’s suggestion, plants were present as symbolic witnesses and representatives of all of the region’s flora and their cultural significance. Plants were represented not only in the form of cedar bark and other plant materials but also as living cedar trees, cottonwoods, ferns, shrubs such as red-flowering currant and evergreen huckleberry, edible camas, wild onions, springbank clover, q’exmin (“wild celery”), and other culturally important species, all in pots, donated by growers of native plants and presented as gifts to the participants and volunteers.

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This book, with chapters authored by participants, is one of the outcomes of the symposium. It reflects the range of topics discussed and presented, many from an Indigenous perspective and with a focus on the roles of ethnoecology and ethnobotany in policy, planning, and decision making in the legal and governance arenas. Collectively, we examine the trend toward and the potential for recognizing land use and occupancy as reflections of Indigenous peoples’ traditional ecological knowledge and of their fundamental and longstanding connections to the plants and habitats of their homelands. We cover treaties and treaty negotiations, land- and resource-use deliberations, traditional management and governance systems, existing policy and legislation, the role of education, the concepts of social justice, health, and well-being, and food sovereignty and sustainability, all in the context of people’s relationships with plants and places. Given that December 2017 was the twentieth anniversary of the landmark Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997) court case, described as “one of the most important court cases in the history of Indigenous land and title rights” (Kurjata 2017), the symposium was timely. This volume will hopefully set the stage for greater recognition of Indigenous peoples of Canada, of their relationships to their homelands and to the plants and other lifeforms on which they rely, and of their rights to use and care for them into the future. acknowledGMents All of the contributors to this book and to the symposium on which it is based are indebted to the Indigenous knowledge holders and plant experts across Canada and worldwide who have contributed to our understanding of plants and environments. Special thanks go to Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) (Ahousaht, Nuu-chah-nulth), Clan Chief Adam Dick (Kwaxsistalla wath’thla), Kim RecalmaClutesi (Oqwilowgwa), Dr Daisy Sewid-Smith (Mayanilth), and Chief George Shaughnessy (Maxwxwadziy) (all Kwakwaka’wakw), Bill White (Xelimuxw/ Kasalid) (Coast Salish, Snuneymuxw) (see figure P .3), Dr Nicholas Claxton (XEMŦOLTW) (W̱ SÁNEĆ First Nation), Chief Gordon Planes (T’Sou-ke Nation), Barbara Wilson (Kii’iljuus) (Skidegate, Haida), Eli Enns (Tla’oquiaht, Nuu-chahnulth), and Nadine Crooks (Ahousaht, Nuu-chah-nulth), as well as to all the Indigenous authors of the chapters in this volume, who have enriched both the symposium and the book with their perspectives. I am indebted to the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation for supporting the symposium and the creation of this book, especially Morris Rosenberg (president at the time of the symposium), Pascale Fournier (succeeding president), Illa Carrillo Rodriguez (program officer at the time of the symposium), Jennifer Petrela (director of Content and Strategic Engagement at that time), Elizabeth Rivera, Gina Beltrán, Josée St-Martin, Gwenola Appéré, Elise Comtois, Sarah

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P .3 | Bill White (left) and Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick (right) at the First Peoples House, University of Victoria.

Saublet, and all of the foundation staff, past and present. As well as Ms Rodriguez, several members of the foundation community attended and participated in the symposium, including Dr Catriona Sandilands (2016 fellow), Dr James Tully (2003 fellow), Professor Jeremy Webber (2009 fellow), Rebeccah Nelems (2015 scholar), Anelyse Weiler (2015 scholar), and Aaron Mills (2014 scholar). Funds from my 2015 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation fellowship helped to support the publication of the book, as well as the provision of extra copies for all of the authors, the Assembly of First Nations, and various libraries. I am also indebted to Drs Eric Peterson and Christina Munck, founders of the Tula Foundation and Hakai Institute, for their support of my Hakai Chair in Ethnoecology (2011–16) through the School of Environmental Studies at the University of Victoria, which provided me with the time and inspiration to initiate the symposium.

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So many people helped to make the symposium a success and in turn to produce this book. Pamela Spalding was a co-organizer and served as a liaison with the secondary schools and the T’Sou-ke Nation leading up to and during the event. As well as Umeek, Barbara Wilson (Kii’iljuus) (Skidegate, Haida), Dr Marlene Atleo (Ɂeh Ɂeh naa tuu kʷiss) (Ahousaht), and Melissa Hadley (Cortex Consulting) were valued advisors and moderators. At the University of Victoria, providing both logistical support and encouragement were Dr Catherine Krull, dean of the Faculty of Social Sciences; Dr Karena Shaw, director of the School of Environmental Studies; Dr Robina Thomas (Qwul’sih’yah’maht) (Lyackson Nation), director of Indigenous Academic and Community Engagement; and Carly Cunningham, the First Peoples House secretary. Volunteer coordinator Elaine Hopkins, financial administrator Alina Fisher, and administrator Lori Erb, all of the School of Environmental Studies, were crucial in organizing and administering the event, as was event organizer Patricia McGuire. Monica Shore developed and maintained the symposium website. Trevor Bennett of Kingtide Studios created a video about the symposium.3 Julian Hockin-Grant recorded the talks, and Hannah Roessler took photographs of the event. Roberto E. Alvarez, executive assistant to John Ralston Saul, helped to organize Dr Saul’s participation, and later he and executive assistant Stephen Clarke facilitated the recording and editing of the conversation between Drs Saul and Atleo featured in chapter 24 of this volume. Kristen Miskelly and James Miskelly (Saanich Native Plants), Fiona Hamersley Chambers (Metchosin Farm & Seeds), and Jay Rastogi (Swan Lake Christmas Hill Nature Sanctuary) provided the living plants for the symposium. Other symposium participants and volunteers included Shirley Alphonse (T’Sou-ke Nation), Wendy Anthony, Judith Lyn Arney, Dr Michael Asch, Dr Brenda Beckwith, Nejma Belarbi, Dr Jonaki Bhattacharyya, Greg Bryan, Tracy Bulman, Trenis Cahoose (Yinka Dene), Craig Candler (Firelight Group), Patrick Canning, Jennifer Carpenter (Heiltsuk Naiton), Fiona Hamersley Chambers, Dr John Chapman, Tracy Charlie (Pacheedaht First Nation), Nadine Crooks (Ahousaht First Nation and Parks Canada), Bradley Cunningham, Dale Donovan, Laurance Donovan, Deidre Duquette, Angela Easby (Métis Anishinaabe), Eli Enns (Tla-o-quiaht First Nation), Ann Garibaldi, Thor Gauti (T’Sou-ke Nation), Jennifer Gibson, Melissa Golinski, Jesse Howardson, Valerie Huff, Pamela Jones (Pacheedaht First Nation), Dr Dara Kelly (Leq’á:mel/Stó:lō First Nation), Dr Leslie King, Ami Kingdon (Hakai Magazine), Amelita Kucher, Sylvia Kuzyk, Robyn Laba, Dave Lock, Lesley Long, Kim Dertien-Loubert, Kathleen Matthews, Wayne Matthews, Dr Glen McCabe (Métis), Dr Murdith McLean, Lili Munn, Dr Michelle Nelson, Graham Nicholas, Nicole Ogen (Yinka Dene), Dr Audrey Pearson, Kristine Pearson (Pacheedaht First Nation), Dr Sandra Peacock, Dr Ana Maria Peredo, Paul Petrie, Chris Rhodes, Dr Vish Satgar (Wits University, South Africa), Melissa Scott, Christy Shaw, Shaunna Morgan Siegers, Pano Skrivanos, Megan Spencer,

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Heather Stirling, Hilary Strang, Dr Leila Sujir, Dr David Suzuki, Jake Tynan, Phil Vernon, Laura Wee Lay Laq (Ts’elxweyeqw Tribe), Dr Priscilla Wehi (Māori), Dr. Hēmi Whaanga (Māori), Carolyn Whittaker (Firelight Group), Nicole Wilson, and Melissa Worth. I am indebted to all the authors featured in this volume and to all the participants in the symposium on which it was based. Pamela Spalding helped with the planning, organization, and review of the chapters. Dr Nancy Mackin drew the map of Indigenous “culture areas” of Canada (figure 1.1). My husband, Robert D. Turner (Curator Emeritus, Royal BC Museum), supported both the symposium and the development of this book in countless different ways and was an integral part of the entire enterprise. Finally, I thank McGill-Queen’s University Press, especially senior editor Kyla Madden for her encouragement and advice from the inception of this book project onward and associate managing editor Lisa Aitken for her help in preparing the final manuscript for submission. Thank you, too, from all of the contributing authors to the two anonymous reviewers of this book for their helpful suggestions and insights. The index was compiled by François Trahan, and the final copy editing was undertaken by Robert Lewis. Thanks to Kathleen Fraser, managing editor at the press, for bringing the book to fruition.

notes 1 As noted in the Benediction, Clan Chief Adam Dick passed away in the summer of 2018 and is now referred to as Kwaxsistalla wath-thla, indicating that he is no longer of this world, although the name Kwaxsistalla will continue in his family line. 2 Kwaxsistalla inherited the Atla’gimma from his father’s side through Chief Pasa’lathl of Wuikinuxv (Rivers Inlet). 3 See https://vimeo.com/218231558. references Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1997] 3 SCR 1010. Kurjata, Andrew. 2017. “20 Years Ago, This Court Case Changed the Way Canadians Understood Indigenous Rights.” CBC News, 11 December. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ british-columbia/delgamuukw-vs-british-columbia-20-years-rights-titles-1.4440703.

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Plants, People, and Places

1 Introduction: Making a Place for Indigenous Botanical Knowledge and Environmental Values in Land-Use Planning and Decision Making Nancy J. Turner, Pamela Spalding, and Douglas Deur introduction Ours was an abundant land. Our forests, meadows, creek sides, marshes, and sea shores offered many plants for our use. – Dave Elliott Sr, W̱ SÁNEĆ elder, 1980 (in Turner and Hebda 2012, 11) [B]efore reconciliation, we really need to look at decolonization . . . Decolonization starts with land . . . Do indigenous people have the ability to live freely on and with relationship to the land, as we did prior to confederation? And the answer right now is no. – Ryan McMahon, Anishinaabe comedian and writer (in CBC News 2016, emphasis added)

Native plants and their habitats are fundamental to the maintenance and quality of life. Yet many people, especially in urbanized societies, seldom consider or value our shared botanical heritage. For the Indigenous peoples of Canada, plants are not only of utilitarian importance but also hold a place of honour, as reflected widely in traditional narratives, ceremonies, and day-to-day teachings that persist into the present. This contrast in values between Indigenous and mainstream societies is evident not only in differing perceptions of the natural world but also in how each cares for plants and other living things (Brown and Brown 2009; M.S. Geniusz 2015; W.M. Geniusz 2009; Kimmerer 2013). The differences are deep and ancient, rooted not only in distinct economic traditions but also in fundamental assumptions and ontologies that are culturally bound. These different traditions must be carefully considered as Canada reassesses Indigenous peoples’ rights and title to their homelands, the future of land and

resource use, and ongoing decolonization and reconciliation efforts nationwide. In the past, Canada and many other nations have sought to monetize Indigenous peoples’ land and resource interests in order to resolve Indigenous land claims principally or exclusively with cash settlements. Yet it is clear that such efforts have been misguided. They ignore the depth of Indigenous connections to the natural world and reflect an imposed logic emanating largely from the values and conventions of colonial descendants. The assumption that Indigenous peoples’ interests in lands and resources are reducible to a monetary “lowest common denominator” is itself a cultural construction of the non-Native industrialized world that deserves critical re-examination. In this volume, however, we focus especially on Indigenous people’s perspectives and experiences. We do so seeking to foster a more productive and nuanced conversation across these cultural boundaries and to illuminate pathways toward meaningful reconciliation and resolution of perennial disputes. We also acknowledge recent advances in Canada and beyond in engaging the multifaceted nature of human-plant interactions when assessing Indigenous land and resource claims. In British Columbia, governments are beginning to recognize that modern treaty making must go beyond land and cash settlements to better include the health and well-being of First Nations and their spiritual, cultural, economic, and political relationships with lands and resources. Recent efforts at resource planning and co-management guided by First Nations stakeholders in contexts such as Clayoquot Sound (Clayoquot Sound Scientific Panel 1995) and the Central Coast Land and Resource Management Plan arguably added momentum to this change (British Columbia 2004). Yet First Nations’ relationships with plants, their use, and their traditional management are only tenuously represented in the current BC treaty process and in current land- and resource-planning activities. Indeed, these highly significant relationships are just now being explored in the Canadian courts – a point discussed more thoroughly later in this chapter. This book draws on the botanical knowledge of many Indigenous elders and plant specialists across Canada – especially in British Columbia, where the symposium that gave rise to this book was held and where Indigenous land rights and title have a particularly high profile – and in other parts of the world to demonstrate the deep relationships Indigenous peoples have had, and continue to have, with the plant world.1 Their accounts, presented in this volume, illuminate the myriad ways that plants are important to Aboriginal peoples in Canada not only as food, medicine, and materials but also as a cornerstone of artistic, cultural, and ceremonial practices. These accounts also suggest how human communities and plant communities have engaged in enduring, mutually sustaining relationships, shaping Indigenous societies and natural environments throughout Canada and beyond. Diverse and growing evidence suggests that settlers’ notions of “wilderness” were misapplied to North America and that the

4 | n.J. turner, P. sPaldinG, and d. deur

biological character and diversity of North America bears the indelible imprint of long-term Indigenous management and stewardship. For many reasons, these human connections with plants and the places they grow have been ignored or downplayed by colonial governments and settler society, as well as more recently in research and educational institutions and in resource-use deliberations. In assessing these past trends, this volume’s contributors also look forward, examining successful applications of ethnobotanical and ethnoecological knowledge that have informed deliberations on Indigenous peoples’ land rights and title in Canada and internationally, illuminated potential legal and policy mechanisms for sustaining human-plant relationships, facilitated ecological restoration planning, and helped us to develop conservation ethics and values that might allow human communities and biotic communities to thrive interdependently into the foreseeable future. This work, supported by the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation, was inspired by a growing body of research focused on plants and their importance. This expanding literature reflects in part the increasing attention of academic and applied researchers in recent decades – several of the contributors to this volume being key figures in this inquiry (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Atleo 2004, 2011; Corntassel 2012; Deur 2002b; Deur and Turner 2005b; M. Ignace and R.E. Ignace 2017; Kuhnlein et al. 2013; Lepofsky 2004; Mulrennan, Mark, and Scott 2012; Napoleon 2015; Östlund, Bergman, and Zackrisson 2005; Saul 2014; Tully 2009; Turner 2014; Vaughan and Caldwell 2015). First Nations’ voices, long ignored in past academic literatures on such topics, have become increasingly central as authors and as advisors to such research. Over time, this work has found new relevance and has been augmented considerably in the course of legal cases affirming Aboriginal land rights and title in British Columbia (Haida Nation v. British Columbia (Minister of Forests) 2004; Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia 2007, 2014; see also chapters 16, 18, and 19, this volume). As John Ralston Saul (2014) suggests, efforts to address the current environmental crisis, and to reconcile colonial-industrial society’s deep injustices toward Indigenous communities, are at best disorganized and fragmentary. The time has clearly arrived to address longstanding discrimination and to acknowledge, respect, and affirm the rights of Indigenous societies and their distinct caretaking relationships with the lands and waters in each of their domains (see chapter 23, this volume). The legal rights of First Nations in Canada have special recognition in the Canadian Constitution. Furthermore, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), to which Canada and 143 other nations are signatories, stresses the rights of Indigenous peoples everywhere “to maintain and strengthen their distinctive spiritual relationship with their traditionally owned or otherwise occupied and used lands, territories, waters and coastal seas and other resources and to uphold their responsibilities to future generations in this regard” (article 25.1). The declaration also affirms Indigenous peoples’ rights

Introduction | 5

“to maintain, control, protect and develop their cultural heritage, traditional knowledge and traditional cultural expressions, as well as the manifestations of their sciences, technologies and cultures, including human and genetic resources, seeds, medicines, [and] knowledge of the properties of fauna and flora” (article 31.1). The “Calls to Action” of Canada’s recent Truth and Reconciliation Commission (2015, 244) appeal to “federal, provincial, territorial, and municipal governments to fully adopt and implement the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples as the framework for reconciliation.” The commission also instructs governments to “[r]epudiate concepts used to justify European sovereignty over Indigenous lands and peoples such as the Doctrine of Discovery and terra nullius” (ibid., 252), which was the erroneous notion, addressed more fully in the pages that follow, that the land was not effectively occupied prior to European colonization. Despite both national and international legal support for Indigenous peoples to sustain their ties with culturally valued plants and places, these relationships have seldom received due recognition. As several court challenges have demonstrated over the past four decades, provincial and federal governments have routinely undertaken land-use decisions that affect Indigenous communities’ interests while consulting only minimally with those communities and giving little attention to their many interdependencies with other species and their habitats. In turn, this lack of consultation has contributed to severe deterioration of lands and waters, as well as having adverse impacts on Indigenous communities’ social, economic, dietary, and cultural integrity (Turner and Spalding 2013). Recognizing and reversing the resulting adverse human and environmental effects remain high priorities, alongside the closely related goal of affirming Indigenous Canadians’ legal rights and title. Such efforts will require integrated contributions from many different organizations and specialties, reflecting the complexity and vastness of the challenge. The closely linked fields of ethnobotany and ethnoecology represent valuable, and arguably necessary, elements of this effort if Canada is to meet its legal and moral obligations to the nation’s Indigenous peoples and the environments on which they depend. the iMPortance of Plants and Places: ethnobotany and ethnoecoloGy The fields of ethnobotany (i.e., the study of human-plant relationships) and ethnoecology (i.e., the study of humans’ relationships with their local environments) focus significantly on documenting the rich environmental knowledge of people with enduring relationships to particular plants and habitats. These fields of study record not only practical, factual knowledge (e.g., which plants and animals can be used for food, when and where they are found, and how they are harvested and prepared) but also people’s values and perceptions of

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plants and environments and the modes of communicating knowledge about them within and between communities, including stories, the use of specialized vocabulary, and approaches to training and experiential learning for children and youth. In turn, interdisciplinary methodologies are often used to illuminate the human and ecological ramifications of these phenomena through time. Ethnobotanical and ethnoecological knowledge systems are critical to understanding many things, including environmental processes and patterns witnessed by human communities over deep time, cultural values related to land rights and title, responsibilities to reduce environmental risk and avenues toward environmental resiliency, the potentials and limitations of land-use planning, and avenues toward successful resource deliberations, to name a few. Often housed in academic departments of anthropology or environmental studies, these fields are also closely tied to other disciplines, including archaeology, linguistics, geography, history, and law. The methods of ethnobotanical and ethnoecological research are multifaceted. They include some combination of interviews with botanical specialists; participant observation; analysis of texts and narratives, including origin stories; botanical and ecological surveys; examination of historical documents, photos, and survey maps; archaeological investigations of ancient plant remains; linguistic analysis of plant names and botanical vocabulary, place names, and other terms related to environmental knowledge and activities; documentation of herbarium specimens; analysis of basketry and other artifacts in museum collections; chemical and nutritional analysis of food and medicine plants; surveys of culturally modified trees and other human-modified plants and plant communities; experimental replications of plant-processing methods and plant management methods, including controlled burns and harvesting regimes; experimental restoration of key species and habitats; and DNA analysis of plant populations and ancient plant remains. All of these methods have been undertaken in various ways and increasingly involve Indigenous cultural experts as research leaders, advisors, and collaborators. The results of such undertakings have been applied in educational programs and reported in legal proceedings, including resource-use hearings and cases concerning land rights and title. This book demonstrates how some of these approaches can be, and have been, applied. We address the history of Indigenous-settler relationships and conflicts over plant-use traditions, sites, and access, seeking to comprehend the material, textual, and legal effects of colonial occupation on pre-existing human-plant relationships. We identify positive cases in Canada and beyond where human relationships with plants and habitats have been recognized by legal processes and effectively integrated into planning, management, and land tenure systems. Finally, we explore how institutions can affirm and support Indigenous peoples’ knowledge systems and relationships with plants and their habitats in policy, planning, decision making, restoration, and education, such

Introduction | 7

as in support of food security and food sovereignty among Indigenous peoples and Canadians generally (Kuhnlein, Erasmus, and Spigelski 2013; Kuhnlein and Turner 1991; Kuhnlein et al. 2009), language revitalization (Galley 2012; Truth and Reconciliation Commission 2015), environmental and social justice (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Tully 2009), and biocultural diversity, sustainability, and ethnoecological restoration (Cuerrier et al. 2015; Senos et al. 2006). The chapters in this volume cover many of these topics in detail. indiGenous land and resource ManaGeMent Indigenous peoples’ roles in creating and maintaining their productive landscapes – so coveted by later settlers – were largely overlooked. Plant resources and gathering sites were generally regulated by traditional patterns of ownership and control, yet even James Douglas, the first governor of the Colony of British Columbia, who acknowledged land ownership by Indigenous peoples, regarded them as mere “wandering denizen[s] of the forest” (letter to Secretary of State for the Colonies, 15 March 1859, in British Columbia 1875, 16). This view is ironic at best, considering that the site where he established Fort Victoria – rich prairies, blue with flowering camas in the spring – was a reflection of Indigenous inhabitants’ intergenerational proprietorship, intensive management by landscape burning, and selective harvesting of camas and other species, all carefully timed according to the seasons (Armstrong et al. 2016; Beckwith 2004; Boyd 1999; Deur et al. 2013; George Henry Raley Fonds; Joseph 2012; Lutz 2008; Suttles 2005; Turner 2005, 2014; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013; Wyllie de Echeverria 2013; see also chapter 7, this volume). Recent research with First Nations in northwestern North America has challenged assumptions of simple “hunter-gatherer” lifestyles imposed on these groups and many others worldwide (Anderson 2005; Baker, Davies, and Young 2001; Balée 1994; Basso 1996; Deur and Turner 2005b; Lepofsky 2009; Menzies 2006; Minnis and Elisens 2000; Turner and Berkes 2006; Turner et al. 2009, 2013). Groups once classified as solely hunters, fishers, and gatherers are now recognized as astute caretakers and promoters of their food and other resources – actively enhancing not only plant communities but also the fish, shellfish, birds, and mammals of importance to traditional subsistence (see Campbell and Butler 2010; E. Claxton and Elliott 1994; N.X. Claxton 2003, 2015; Deur et al. 2015; Lepofsky et al. 2015; Lewis and Ferguson 1988; Mathews and Turner 2017; Moller, Kitson, and Downs 2009; Recalma-Clutesi 2005; Thornton 1999; Thornton and Deur 2015; Thornton, Deur, and Kitka 2015; Williams 2006). Examples of traditionally managed plant communities include the previously mentioned camas prairies of southeastern Vancouver Island as well as in the Kootenays; eelgrass meadows, seaweed-harvesting sites, and edible root meadows along the Northwest Coast; high-elevation berry patches and edible root production areas in

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montane meadows; riparian berry and orchard gardens; cranberry and blueberry bog patches; and cedar forests used for producing canoes, posts, and planks, as well as bark for weaving (Anderson 2009; Deur and Turner 2005b; Hartley Bay School 1997; Mathews and Turner 2017; Suttles 2005; Turner 2014; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013; Wyllie de Echeverria 2013; Zahn et al. 2018). These management regimes are deeply embedded in people’s belief systems. They reflect an ethos of responsibility for other lifeforms and natural entities that provide for the needs of humans – lifeforms that are sentient and have agency, requiring gratitude and reciprocity in response to their generosity (Atleo 2011; Claxton and Elliott 1994; Deur 2009; M.S. Geniusz 2015; W.M. Geniusz 2009; Kimmerer 2013; Peacock et al. 2016; Thornton, Deur, and Kitka 2015; Turner 2005; Turner and Mathews 2020). These systems are also embedded in learning and teaching practices, social institutions such as the potlatch, narratives, ceremonies, social organization, and socio-economic systems – all of which both sustain and are sustained by the labour and products associated with traditionally managed plant communities (Boas and Hunt 1906; Brown and Brown 2009; Hunn et al. 2003; Mathews and Turner 2017; Trosper 2009; Turner and Berkes 2006). As previously noted, one of the main reasons why mainstream Canadian society has been slow to acknowledge First Nations’ sophisticated practices for use and management of plant resources is the assumption of the superiority of European cultures. Even when the newcomers recognized Indigenous peoples’ plant practices and realized their importance, they often ignored or sought to prevent them, asserting their own means of control over the land (see chapter 7, this volume). First Nations’ land and resource management systems – especially for plant resources – are underrepresented in the historical, ethnographic, and archaeological record (Deur and Turner 2005b; Howard 2003; Lepofsky, Moss, and Lyons 2001; Norton 1985; Suttles 2005; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013). Although there are many reasons for this lack of documentation, two overriding explanations are that plant knowledge and management fall into the realm of women’s work and that most of the culturally significant species in British Columbia were not of economic importance to the new capitalist economy, with many of the cultivation practices involving mechanisms and timescales unfamiliar to the peoples of Europe. Regarding the first point, almost all of the early colonial government, church, and business officials were men. And although these men valued Indigenous women’s labour in fish canneries, industrial agriculture (e.g., fruit, vegetable, and hop picking), the sex trade, and domestic spheres, most overlooked their intricate knowledge of native plant use and management. Furthermore, much as colonial policies of assimilation undermined traditional modes of leadership, these policies also targeted women’s traditional roles of parenting and teaching through various mechanisms, including the imposed residential school system. The impediments to the intergenerational

Introduction | 9

transmission of plant knowledge and practice would in turn undermine traditional botanical knowledge and land and resource management institutions broadly within Indigenous communities. Exacerbating this erasure of women’s knowledge, many historians, ethnographers, and archaeologists who studied Indigenous cultures and who held their own research biases and access limitations either did not include or significantly discounted women’s activities in their studies – focusing on men’s hunting and fishing methods, for example, to the exclusion of plant harvesting by women.2 Thus Indigenous women and their knowledge, interests, and activities related to plants have been routinely overlooked and underappreciated, which in turn has contributed to an overall underestimation of the importance of plants in Indigenous subsistence, economy, and culture (Brown 1868; Deur and Turner 2005a; Hunn 1981; Lepofsky, Moss, and Lyons 2001; Norton 1985; Turner 2003, 2006; Turner and Turner 2008; see also chapter 21, this volume). canada’s recoGnition of indiGenous PeoPles’ relationshiPs with Plants and environMents: treaties and their liMitations The Indigenous peoples in what is today called Canada are diverse linguistically, culturally, and geographically. Their traditional territories extend from coast to coast to coast, covering a wide range of different ecosystems and vegetation zones, each with its own suite of specialized habitats containing myriad distinctive species. Between approximately fifty and sixty Indigenous languages are recognized in Canada, representing nine different language families (Goddard 2006). Based on general similarities in cultures and environments, many sources identify roughly six “culture areas” in Canada, within which peoples generally share many aspects of culture and environmental practice (see figure 1.1). The Arctic region is the homeland of Inuit peoples speaking various dialects of the Inuktitut language. Languages of the Algonquian and Iroquoian families are spoken mainly east of central Manitoba. Algonquian, Siouan, and Dene are the main language families of the Great Plains, and Algonquian, Dene, and Inuit languages are spoken in the Subarctic. In British Columbia, which includes the Northwest Coast, Plateau, and Subarctic culture areas, there is high linguistic diversity, with Salishan, Ts’msyenic, Wakashan, Dene, and Algonquian families represented, as well as two language isolates, Haida/Xaad Kil and Ktunaxa/ Kutenai (J.D. Davis and Banack 2012; Goddard 2006; Griffin 2001). Blended trade languages such as Chinook Jargon, spoken on the West Coast, and Michif, spoken by Métis, have added to the linguistic richness of Canada. Plants play an important role in the lifeways and languages of all of these Indigenous peoples, with the species available to them determined mainly by

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1.1 | Indigenous “culture areas” of Canada.

the ecosystems within their homelands, although in many cases plant products were also traded across different territories. In the Arctic, the vegetation consists mainly of treeless tundra, with low-growing berries such as lingonberries (Vaccinium vitis-idaea), bakeapples (Rubus chamaemorus), and crowberries or “black berries” (Empetrum nigrum). These berry types, along with edible greens, marine algae, and a few root vegetables, comprise the main plant foods. Willows (Salix spp.) and other woody shrubs are also important materials, as are mosses and lichens (Andre, Karst, and Turner 2006; Kuhnlein and Turner 1991). The Subarctic region, immediately to the south and stretching across the continent from the Bering Sea to Labrador, is comprised mainly of mixed boreal forest dotted with rivers, lakes, and wetlands. It extends southward to the mountains, plains, and deciduous forests in the midsection of the country. Subarctic peoples rely heavily on pines (Pinus spp.), spruces (Picea spp.), birches (Betula spp.), and other trees of the boreal forest for fuel and materials for construction. They harvest many berries, as well as greens and root vegetables, and consume the nutritious inner bark of trees like lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta). They also have used many different plants for medicinal purposes (Andre 2006;

Introduction | 11

Andre and Fehr 2000; Andre, Karst, and Turner 2006; Karst 2010; Marles et al. 2000). The Indigenous peoples of the prairie lands of central Canada, including Métis, have also harvested many kinds of berries. One of the most important is the “saskatoon berry” or serviceberry (Amelanchier alnifolia).3 The chokecherry (Prunus virginiana) is another important prairie fruit. Prairie turnip (Pediomelium esculentum) and a number of greens and other root vegetables have provided nutritional diversity, and Indigenous peoples of central Canada, too, traditionally utilize numerous medicinal plants. They have also used a variety of plant materials, including willows, Manitoba maple (Acer negundo), and shrubs such as saskatoon berry, for baskets, tools, and many other purposes (Kindscher 1987, 1992; Kuhnlein and Turner 1991). The Indigenous peoples of the eastern hardwood forests, from west of the Great Lakes to the Maritimes, have relied on other plants that were part of elaborate food production systems developed by Anishinaabe and others: blueberries (Vaccinium spp.) and many other fleshy fruits; a number of different kinds of nuts, such as hickory (Carya spp.) and black walnut (Juglans nigra); green vegetables and root vegetables; and wild rice (Zizania spp.) in the wetlands areas. The Haudenosaunee, Wendat, and some other peoples practised field agriculture, growing varieties of maize (Zea mays), beans (Phaseolus spp.), and squash (Cucurbita spp.), as well as sunflowers (Helianthus annuus) and tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum), while harvesting many wild species as well (Kuhnlein and Turner 1991; Waugh 1916). A host of different plants have been used medicinally, and many different woods and fibres have been employed as materials (Arnason, Hebda, and Johns 1981). British Columbia is a region of topographic extremes – from wide beaches, rocky shorelines, and deep fjords along the coast to multiple immense ranges of snow-capped mountains across the interior to the Rocky Mountains and relatively dry plateau lands between the ranges in the southern interior. The area is drained by monumental rivers, most notably the Columbia, Fraser, Bella Coola, Skeena, Nass, and Stikine. The Northwest Coast culture area includes the northwestern coast of North America and territory slightly inland along the major rivers. The Plateau culture area extends in the interior from the Tsilhqot’in territory southward and east to the Rocky Mountains. Northward in the interior is the Subarctic culture area, described earlier, reaching north into Yukon and east to the northern Atlantic coast. The First Nations of the Northwest Coast and Plateau areas are especially diverse and, living in environmentally complex regions, have had access to many useful and culturally important plants – with approximately 150 species used as food alone. In all, Indigenous peoples of Canada have utilized approximately 500 plant species as food of one type or another (Kuhnlein and Turner 1991), including roughly 145 edible berry or fleshy fruit species. About 300 plant species have been documented as being used medicinally, and about 200 to 300 plant species

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have been documented as being used in technology as materials for construction, fuels, basketry, nets and cordage, dyes and stains, glues, and preservatives (see Moerman 2003; Turner 2014). Many species have multiple cultural roles, providing combinations of different foods, medicines, and materials. All have a long history of sustaining peoples in the past, including European newcomers, who adopted many of these plants into their own lives and often had histories of using similar plants, such as different species of the same genus, in their original homelands. In time, settlers turned to some native plants – especially the forest trees – for industrial-scale exploitation (Prescott-Allen and Prescott-Allen 1986; Turner and von Aderkas 2012). Despite our overall reliance on native plants and habitats, mainstream Canadian society has a limited understanding of people-plant relationships in Indigenous societies. Furthermore, wide acknowledgment of the differing worldviews of many Indigenous peoples is lacking – worldviews reflected in people’s close and enduring ties with ancestral lands and with a “kincentric” view of plants and other species, which are seen as generous relatives of humans, to be treated with care, deep appreciation, and reciprocity (Borrows 2002; Cajete 2000; Chan et al. 2016; Dolan 2016; Deur 2009; M.S. Geniusz 2015; Kimmerer 2013; Nelson 2006; Sewid-Smith, Dick, and Turner 1998; Thornton, Deur, and Kitka 2015; Turner 2005; see also chapters 2 and 24, this volume). Assumptions that Indigenous peoples’ knowledge is inferior to Western scientific knowledge are widespread. Equally problematic, due to fundamental differences in worldview, scientific and Indigenous knowledge systems do not always mesh neatly when called upon for legal arguments or public-planning processes. Too often, Indigenous knowledge must be documented and validated using the methods of Western science before it is accepted as legitimate in the courts and academy. The lack of understanding of and respect for Indigenous knowledge, we argue, is rooted in the British and French newcomers’ perceptions of First Nations people as “uncivilized” and in need of conversion in both religious beliefs and lifestyles. In A History of Treaty-Making in Canada, under a subsection titled “Civilising the Indian,” Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (2010, 6) describes this issue succinctly: As military threats upon the colonies passed with the end of the War of 1812, so did the military role of First Nation allies. As that role waned, new ideas and approaches towards this relationship began to take hold. Fed by a belief in the superiority of British ideals and society, and a missionary fervour, initiatives were created to bring British “civilisation” to indigenous people throughout the British Empire. In the colonies of Upper and Lower Canada, the Indian Department became the vehicle for the expression of the new plan of “civilisation.” Based upon the belief that it was Britain’s duty to bring Christianity and agriculture to the First Nations

Introduction | 13

people, Indian agents shifted their roles from solidifying military alliances towards encouraging First Nations people to abandon their traditional ways of life and to adopt a more agricultural and sedentary, more British, life style. Christianity and the righteousness attributed to agriculture went hand in hand. And with them came a plethora of coercive actions that were imposed upon Indigenous peoples across the country through colonial governments and reinforced by the churches. Treaties changed from the friendship and peace treaties characteristic of early European-Indigenous interactions – which focused on economic and military alliances – to treaties involving land takeovers in exchange for sums of money or gifts and promises. These treaties did not mention plants or Indigenous peoples’ relationships with their home places at all, nor did they reflect any appreciation or respect for Indigenous peoples’ detailed environmental knowledge, developed over generations of observation and experience (Berkes 2012; Turner et al. 2013). This phenomenon, with deep historical roots, had remarkably broad implications in the legal and physical displacement of Indigenous peoples by Europeans. As explorers mapped the coastlines of North America, colonial powers began to make claims on the territory under the legal doctrine of terra nullius, which, within the legal systems of Europe, granted European powers the right to claim land that was not being utilized by another civilized people. The Indigenous inhabitants of North America, depicted as being devoid of true “civilisation” on the basis of Eurocentric criteria, were deemed to hold no rightful title to their lands, no matter the depth of their occupancy. This doctrine, in turn, was enshrined in the governance traditions of the North American colonies. In North America the earliest legal precedents based on this point in cases related to Indigenous land claims arguably can be traced back to the doctrine of vacuum domicilium, established in 1629 by Massachusetts Bay governor John Winthrop. Believing Indigenous peoples had failed to subdue the land meaningfully through such mechanisms as intensive agriculture, Winthrop reasoned Indigenous peoples could claim a natural right of possession but not a civil, legally binding right of possession. Within the context of the colonial legal system, with its racialized logic and territorial ambitions, European modes of human-plant interaction became a litmus test for civilization and, by extension, meaningful claims to the land. The continent was widely held to be a “wilderness” that awaited human occupation and husbandry, but the concept of “wilderness” was in fact a colonizer’s fiction in many respects. Indeed, the civilizations of North America did have traditions of clearing the land, planting large agricultural fields, and constructing villages of impressive scale, even by the standards of preindustrial Europe. The Eurocentric biases that girded the concepts of terra nullius and vacuum domicilium were rooted in a pervasive Western mythos, which researchers have variously termed the “myth of emptiness” or 14 | n.J. turner, P. sPaldinG, and d. deur

the “pristine myth.” Such fictional declarations of “emptiness” were among the most powerful textual devices employed both to displace Indigenous communities and to make claims on their lands and resources (Blaut 1993; Borrows 2005; Denevan 1992; Deur 2002a; Doolittle 2000; Jennings 1975; Willems-Braun 2002). Manifesting the same fundamental cultural logic and impulses, the British Crown followed a policy in North America, enshrined within the Royal Proclamation of 1763, whereby only the Crown could acquire lands from First Nations and then only by treaty. In accordance with this policy, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s chief factor, James Douglas, was instructed by the British Crown to purchase lands from Indigenous groups in order to secure property on southern Vancouver Island for incoming European settlers. The Douglas Treaties of Vancouver Island, signed between 1820 and 1854, document fourteen such land purchases from Coast Salish and Kwakwaka’wakw groups. Through these new arrangements, Douglas recognized that it was “in the interests of both justice and harmony that Native village sites, fields, and fisheries should be reserved and fully secured by law” (Harris 2002, 18). Unfortunately, there was no consensus between the British Colonial Office and senior Hudson’s Bay Company officials as to the degree and nature of property rights held by First Nations, and Douglas’s more inclusive and consultative views were rejected by those who followed (Harris 2002; Ormsby 2003; Tully 2009). The First Nations signatories of the Douglas Treaties were left with only a small fraction of their traditional territories, including village sites, a few fishing stations, and any “enclosed fields” that had been “cultivated” in the European sense (British Columbia 1875). The people were told they could “hunt over the unoccupied lands, and . . . carry on our fisheries as formerly,” although later, in 1916, reef net fishing – the major salmon fishing technology of the Straits Salish peoples – was banned in Canada (E. Claxton and Elliott 1994; N.X. Claxton 2015). Notably absent from the treaties was any mention of Indigenous peoples’ traditional plant use for food, medicines, materials, or spiritual purposes, their plant harvesting sites, and their sophisticated methods of plant food production and traditional land and resource management that had supported them since time immemorial (Deur and Turner 2005b; Te’mexw Treaty Association n.d.; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013; see also chapter 7, this volume). In any case, as Britain’s colonies expanded across the globe, the British colonial office shuffled the costly burden of treaty making onto the emerging colonial governments of British Columbia and Canada. Neither had interest in nor sympathy for treaty making, particularly when it involved purchasing lands and resources from First Nations. Indeed, those who succeeded Douglas in the new and rapidly growing Colony of British Columbia set out an aggressive policy of assimilation of Indigenous peoples, which continued on a formal basis for at least a century. Racist attitudes of entitlement were reflected in the disputes over land that became commonplace. Beginning with Joseph Trutch, who succeeded James Douglas as commissioner of lands and works in the 1860s, British Introduction | 15

Columbia passed laws over Indigenous peoples’ traditional lands without their consent. Trutch’s attitude toward Indigenous people, whom he referred to as “bestial rather than human” and as “uncivilized savages” (Fisher 1992, 161), was nothing short of appalling. Seeing no need for them to occupy lands that could be used by settlers, Trutch cut back substantially on reserve lands delineated by Douglas. Those officials who succeeded Trutch between 1870 and 1938, overseeing two commissions, countless meetings, reports, and negotiations, overrode the resistance of First Nations and, in the end, marked out about one-third of 1 per cent of the provincial land mass as Indian reserves. This imposed geography, largely the result of a settler society mindset that was dismissive of Aboriginal rights and title, established “lines around a great many little spots” as Indian reserves, with the remainder of Indigenous peoples’ traditional territories and their ecosystems encroached on in a multitude of ways (Harris 2002, 261). As their territories were sold or leased to be logged, diked, dammed, drained, cleared, and built over for the profit and well-being of settler populations and industry, the loss of culturally important plants was barely acknowledged, if at all, by the newcomers (Harris 1997; Thomas, Turner, and Garibaldi 2016; Turner and Turner 2008). To cite one example of this phenomenon, when Kwakwaka’wakw communities attempted to make claims to the McKenna-McBride Royal Commission, they identified a number of traditionally managed root grounds that had been actively weeded, transplanted, and owned by clan chiefs. The Kwakwaka’wakw, for instance, petitioned the commission for some twenty-nine such estuarine “garden” sites in 1914. The transcripts from the McKenna-McBride proceedings make it abundantly clear that the dismissive misrepresentation of Indigenous plant management practices undermined land claims. When Kwakwaka’wakw chief Humseet testified before the commission regarding longstanding use and ownership of garden sites that his people’s “forefathers had planted,” the commission responded that Indigenous peoples lacked such sophisticated management practices prior to European influence and officially designated management of such sites as a “proposed” or “potential” use of the land (McKenna-McBride Royal Commission 1913–16, 181–2). The commission may have recognized that, if unchecked, these claims would hamper colonial resettlement along much of the coast. Invoking the Northwest Coast anthropological literature and the federal government’s Indian agents alike, the commissioners concluded that access to the sea was necessary for the survival of Native people, but resource lands were not “reasonably required” (in Galois 1994, 74). The commission summarily denied the inclusion of such intensively managed plant communities within the Indian reserve system, except in those few cases where a site claimed for gardens coincided with other protected property classes, such as village sites. This is just one of many examples.4 Through the formal exclusion of such managed terrestrial resource sites along the coast

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in the early 1900s, Indigenous peoples’ lands were subject to alienation and colonial occupation on a scale not seen in the previous century (Deur et al. 2013; Galois 1994; McKenna-McBride Royal Commission 1913–16; Tennant 1990). Although these historical examples may seem remote in time, Indigenous peoples’ perceived lack of management of the land has persisted as a litmus test of occupation and “civilisation” in North American legal discourse and has continued to undermine recent efforts by Indigenous communities to restore rights to land and resources. The 1991 decision by Canada’s chief justice, Allan McEachern, in the First Nations land case Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1991) provided a clear case in point. Noting the assumed absence of intensive land management practices and other trappings of European life within the Indigenous societies of Canada, McEachern (1991) suggested that Indigenous “civilizations, if they qualify for that description, fall within a much lower, even primitive, order.” The claims made by First Nations on particular lands and terrestrial resources were therefore invalid, McEachern reasoned, because he believed that these lands had not been meaningfully occupied through such mechanisms as intensive agriculture. The critique embodied by much of the recent revisionary literature addressing Indigenous land and resource practices in Canada can be understood as an effort to correct these kinds of misconceptions and the policies grounded upon them. Such research, as reflected in the chapters of this book, has illuminated practices long suppressed or forgotten and has helped to unpack Indigenous-colonial conflicts over lands and resources that have been little examined until recently (Deur 2002a; Deur and Turner 2005b; Harris 1997). deGradation of indiGenous land and resource systeMs It is not surprising that Europeans coming to Canada did not have the same beliefs about or attachments to its lands as did the Indigenous peoples living there for centuries, even millennia. Most newcomers had been displaced by industrialization in Europe, and many were motivated by the promise of land with resources to be extracted for profit in the New World. The differences between the First Nations and settler mindsets regarding the value attributed to plants and habitats is exemplified in a prime wetland area on the Saanich Peninsula north of Victoria in the territory of the W̱ SÁNEĆ people: The local Saanich swampy ground was seen to be a nuisance to the new arrivals to this land. So, consequently a huge, deep ditch was dug to drain the water away, without consideration to those who would be affected . . . When the immigrant people drained the swamp . . . the late Cecelia Elliott [1865–1933] who was a Saanich elder at the time, cried and said, “I wonder if these people know what they are doing?” . . . She knew that this was the end of the place where the Saanich people gathered the willow bark for

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their reef nets and cedar bark for their anchor lines, baskets and their ceremonial dress . . . Medicines, herbs, berries, ducks . . . swamp reeds for travel mats and house linings, cedar for canoes and . . . the boards [that] covered our homes . . . All this, she could see and she could see the end of a beautiful way of life disappearing before her eyes. She knew that troubled times lay ahead for her people. (E. Claxton and Elliott 1994, 51–2) The newcomers justified themselves through their assumptions of God-given rights. As Atleo (1997, 1) explains through his description of the Nuu-chah-nulth nawtch-nawtch-cha (vision quest), “Through these visions people knew that the Creator made all things to have sacred life. Therefore all life forms were treated with respect. Then everything changed. Newcomers came with new teachings, the chief of which might be expressed as ‘maximum exploitation of resources for maximum profit.’ Profit took precedence over people, communities and environmental integrity. This single-minded teaching about profit has created an environmental crisis” (emphasis added). The disruption of the longstanding care of resource species and their habitats not only brought environmental damage but also contributed significantly to the displacement and economic “underdevelopment” of Indigenous communities in the industrial era (McDonald 1987, 1994). In Canada and elsewhere, we are witnessing the results of centuries of emphasis on profits, driven by Western ideologies that allowed the destructive exploitation of other species, Europeans’ domination of other peoples, and an assumption of mechanized human control over our environments (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Tully 2009). As a result, there has been an unprecedented erosion of biocultural diversity, with loss of languages and cultural knowledge paralleled by loss of species, habitat destruction and fragmentation, pollution, climate change, and economic and continuing social inequality (Carlson and Maffi 2004; Crosby 1986; J.D. Davis and Banack 2012; Maffi and Woodley 2010; Thomas, Turner, and Garibaldi 2016; Turner et al. 2013). Environmental disasters play out at multiple scales: there are single occurrences, such as the breach into Polley Lake of the Mount Polley mining tailings pond in British Columbia in 2014 and the fuel spill into the waters of the central coast of British Columbia in 2016 (Moskowitz 2014; O’Neil 2016); there are also impacts that are more widespread and prolonged, such as the environmental devastation caused by the Alberta oil sands and the associated contamination of the Athabasca River and other waterways (Kelly et al. 2010; see also chapter 10, this volume). Almost always, no matter the scale, the impacts accumulate over time. For example, consider the landscape-scale habitat fragmentation caused by the escalation of road development and drilling in areas of natural gas extraction, as well as the multiple “hits” of one development after another – pipelines, tanker routes, industrial operations – within First Nations’ homelands, each adverse impact undermining Indigenous resource sovereignty while also demanding Indigenous peoples’ 18 | n.J. turner, P. sPaldinG, and d. deur

time, attention, and energy to research and combat (Turner et al. 2013). Then, of course, all of these effects are compounded by the most all-encompassing impact of all: global climate change. For many Indigenous peoples, the devastation of ancient forests from commercial logging, the vast degraded lands and waters in northern Alberta polluted by oil sands development, the forests eliminated by mining and smelting, and the obliteration of productive lands by hydroelectric dams have cumulatively had riveting impacts upon pre-existing diets, economies, cultural and ceremonial practices, and worldviews. These industrial activities and their corollaries – such as urbanization and the consequences of introduced species and climate change – have compounded other adverse effects of colonization on Indigenous peoples by accelerating the loss of access to traditional harvesting areas and traditional food. In many cases, this situation has pressured communities to hasten their entry into the cash economy, compounding their economically marginal position within Canada. Taken together, these impacts represent an underrecognized source of multigenerational trauma, paralleling the distresses of colonization, residential schools, and other shocks that have left lasting imprints on Indigenous societies (Booth and Skelton 2011; W. Davis 2011; Geddes 2017; Saul 2014; Thomas, Turner, and Garibaldi 2016; Turner et al. 2008, 2013). Opportunistically displaced from their traditional lands, occupations, and worldviews, Indigenous people have also been increasingly compelled to participate in environmental destruction while in search of jobs and income in fields such as logging, commercial fishing, oil patch work, and dam construction. Nuuchah-nulth chief Earl Maquinna George (2003b; see also George 2003a), who in his youth worked for the forest industry, dragging logs downstream through salmon spawning beds on the West Coast of Vancouver Island – habitats that he had been trained to assiduously protect – describes this experience and asks, “Can you imagine what that did to me as a young man?” Witnessing violence toward the environment needs to be considered in environmental health discourse, especially as it affects people who are closely tied to their traditional lands and to other lifeforms that are destroyed. For those who regard trees and salmon as their living relatives, the destruction of forests and rivers may arguably be as difficult as losing multiple human family members. Participation in the industrial exploitation of natural resources places many Indigenous people on a collision course with their own values, which assert that humans should be caretakers of these other species and that we have a responsibility to ensure their survival and well-being, just as they provide for us (Comberti et al. 2015; Dolan 2016; M.S. Geniusz 2015; Kimmerer 2013). When a cherished place or culturally important community of plants or animals is destroyed, communities also find themselves unable to pass on knowledge about this heritage to younger generations. Learning how to find key species, to harvest and process them sustainably, and to use associated vocabulary and stories generally takes place through participatory and experiential Introduction | 19

intergenerational learning. This transmission of knowledge is not possible once the species and the places where they live are destroyed or become inaccessible (Snively and Williams 2016; Turner 2005, 2014). This situation has been clearly explained for Cherokee in the United States, with huckleberry harvesting being a case in point: [T]he cumulative effects of encroachment, fences, fire suppression, manmade lakes, and environmental degradation have had profound effects on Cherokee cultural reproduction due to the resulting restrictions they place on resource access and availability. Once a widespread activity among Cherokee families in the late summer, huckleberry gathering has significantly declined over the years due to limited access, inundated gathering areas (by both water and underbrush), and decreased mobility through the woods. Although huckleberry gathering is still practiced by some, many Cherokees would rather not battle the scrub, ticks, chiggers, snakes, and angry landowners / forest rangers in order to obtain them. What is lost is an important opportunity for intergenerational bonding, cultural transmission, environmental education, and identity-building that was once a part of the Cherokee seasonal round . . . Thus enabling subsistence as a vital component of cultural continuity requires healthy ecosystems and increased access to them. (Carroll 2015, 142) the situation today From the earliest treaties to recent hearings for pipeline construction, mine development, and dam construction, the connections between Indigenous peoples, plants, and their habitats have been misunderstood and generally ignored. In British Columbia, for example, modern treaty agreements between the Crown and First Nations acknowledge plant gathering as an ongoing right but still lack a fuller recognition of culturally important plants, their traditional significance, associated traditional ecological knowledge, and the roles of human communities in sustaining the integrity of certain habitats. Just as there is little understanding of how plant uses and management practices constitute a form of Aboriginal right, these modern treaty references do not clarify how plant practices will be translated as ongoing treaty rights. The gaps in knowledge and lack of respect regarding Indigenous plant practices are now becoming a subject of vigorous discussion and debate in the context of establishing Aboriginal rights to lands and resources and also in environmental politics (Braun 2002; Diver 2014; Natcher, Davis, and Hickey 2005; Trosper 2009). Indigenous rights related to plants and plant habitats are increasingly recognized in law, most notably in the Supreme Court of Canada decision regarding Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2014) (Rosenberg and Woodward 2015; see also chapter 18, this volume). 20 | n.J. turner, P. sPaldinG, and d. deur

Indigenous peoples across Canada, the United States, and elsewhere have implemented such approaches in resource use, but knowledge of these systems is declining. Still, they can serve as models for renewed relationships between humans and habitats that work with and enhance natural processes. Justice David H. Vickers’s decision in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2007) was affirmed in a unanimous (8–0) landmark decision from the Supreme Court of Canada in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2014), confirming the Tsilhqot’in First Nation’s Aboriginal title to over 1,700 square kilometres of its traditional territory (see chapters 18 and 24, this volume). How plants and plant practices fit into the contemporary interests of First Nations within their territories is a subject requiring further discussion and thoughtful community-based research (McIlwraith and Raymond 2015). Although First Nations leaders recognize the importance of economic enterprise for the well-being and growth of their communities, they continue to voice concerns over the implementation, growth, and pace of resource development with respect to their ongoing cultural interests, such instances being the Tsilhqot’in opposition to the New Prosperity Mine in the Chilcotin district and the Tsleil-Waututh Nation’s steadfast opposition to the Kinder Morgan Trans Mountain pipeline expansion, among other resource-based conflicts (see chapters 5 and 8, this volume). Although understanding how defining plant practices and knowledge in support of Indigenous legal action is valuable, as Alfred and Corntassel (2005, 600) suggest, focusing limited First Nations’ resources on proving Indigenous rights diverts energy and attention away from essential cultural resurgence activities and “frames community relationships in state-centric terms.”5 The “politics of distraction” that ensues from this legal focus, they say, serves as another form of “shape shifting” colonialism rather than facilitating the decolonization goal it purports to achieve. After all, why should the burden of evidence to prove occupancy always be on Indigenous peoples within the settler legal system (Borrows 2015)? Not only do legal activities distract First Nations from resurgence activities, but the legal arguments for Aboriginal rights and title also tend to present a relatively static picture of First Nations’ land and resource use anchored to the time of contact (Butler 2006; Mack 2011). Alternatively, practical resurgence activities have the potential both to support decolonization of landscapes at the everyday, community level and to provide concrete examples of Indigenous cultural activities that, in turn, can inform new policies and legislation at the political level in government-to-government negotiations (Corntassel 2012). The need to sustain or restore existing resources and habitats – rather than only describing historic landscapes – is paramount. In a recent symposium at Tsawout near Victoria, W̱ SÁNEĆ elder Tom Sampson (2016) spoke about the importance of restoring what has been lost: I took part in T &R [Truth and Reconciliation] Commission talks. And the items that they came up with were interesting. They talked about Introduction | 21

reconciliation: reconcile, reconstruct, recognition. But they didn’t say anything about restoration. That’s what we’re talking about. You cannot have these things to reconcile until restoration is in place. Because I need it and you need it. It’s not just for us First Nations. And it’s not about the treaty right. It’s about what was there before the treaty. It was there before everyone else started to do the things that are happening today. If we can’t have what was there before, the Saanich Inlet, it’s dead. At the ecosystem level of restoration, there is a growing movement toward Indigenous peoples’ co-management, co-creation, and independent creation of protected and conserved areas (Enns 2014; Premauer and Berkes 2015; K.L. Turner and Bitonti 2011; Vaughan and Caldwell 2015). Recent examples from British Columbia include the Marine Plan Partnership for the North Pacific Coast, conservancies as a class of provincial park, and Indigenous communityconserved areas. All of these undertakings contribute to biodiversity conservation efforts while still serving local needs, thus providing local communities with opportunities to manage access to resources as an integral element of their own responsibilities to their territories and other species. Alongside increased opportunities for co-management and resource governance is the potential for greater recognition of, respect for, and adoption of Indigenous management principles and practices within a contemporary context (Berkes 2012; Mulrennan and Scott 2000; Vaughan and Caldwell 2015; see also chapter 17, this volume). To support this new direction, the burgeoning field of Indigenous law may provide the most influential tool for re-establishing human-plant relationships in First Nations’ communities by recognizing and involving Indigenous legal traditions in land and resource management planning now and into the future (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Borrows 2010; Napoleon 2015; see also chapters 8 and 16, this volume). The rather large task ahead, then, involves restoration and forging new relationships on multiple levels – ecosystem, community, law, and governance – in order to achieve true reconciliation between Indigenous and other Canadians. the book unfolds This book and the symposium that inspired it have brought together some of the key scholars and practitioners with interests in these questions. Collectively, we examine the trends toward and potentials for recognizing Indigenous peoples’ land use and occupancy not merely as a means of economic provision but also as reflection of people’s traditional ecological knowledge and their fundamental and longstanding connections to homelands. The book tells the story of the importance of plants to First Nations in Canada and to all of us. It is recounted through chapters written by those experienced in

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the richness that plants offer and by those who have documented how plants are overlooked, the history of plant use and knowledge by Canadians, the changes that have taken place, and some of the reasons for these trends. Presented are examples of court cases and legal hearings that have challenged the neglect of botanical and environmental knowledge and practice, examples of Indigenous laws regarding relationships with plants and environments, and examples of how Indigenous knowledge and practice related to plants and environments can be revitalized and made more visible, as well as better understood. The volume is divided into five sections, preceded by a Benediction and this introductory chapter and followed by a concluding chapter and Epilogue. Each section begins with a short introductory overview. The first section introduces four compelling personal accounts of the importance to Indigenous peoples of having access to and knowledge about plants as well as the ability to care for them in their own homelands. Chapters in the second section treat components of the deep history and antiquity of Indigenous peoples’ attachment to place, as reflected in the archaeological record, in managed landscapes, in ancient stories, and in situated knowledge about plants and plant populations and their variability. The third section presents five chapters exemplifying some of the recent challenges, concerns, and resolutions affecting Indigenous peoples internationally in relation to their use of and access to plant and animal resources within their respective traditional homelands. The fourth section focuses on the ethical, political, and legal context in considering Indigenous peoples’ rights to land and resources and the roles of ethnobotany and ethnoecology. The fifth and final section encompasses perspectives on current and future options for more effective and just recognition of botanical and environmental knowledge in affirming First Nations’ land rights and future prosperity, as well as the importance of values and relationships in determining the ways we manage and care for the earth. Finally, the last chapter presents a retrospective conversation between philosophers Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) and Dr John Ralston Saul that summarizes the lessons and recommendations drawn from the participants’ collective contributions, including the importance of inclusiveness, diversity, innovation, and empathy in fostering sustainable living for future generations of humans and for all of the living earth. The Epilogue presents concluding thoughts with reference to Canada’s future. It is our hope that the relationships built during the symposium and while working together on this book can help to ensure that the ethnobotanical and ethnoecological knowledge and wisdom of Indigenous cultural specialists will continue to be recognized and applied in culturally appropriate ways for the benefit of Indigenous knowledge holders and their communities – and of all Canadians – long into the future. There are signs of hope in projects of restoration and renewal (e.g., Augustine and Dearden 2014; Senos et al. 2006), in the

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high levels of interest in the “Calls to Action” of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (2015), and internationally in Canada’s signing of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). Cumulatively, these chapters point toward the relevance of Indigenous plant knowledge and traditions in many domains – not only in the contesting of land claims and in treaty negotiations but also in the advancement of alternative models for land management and in the illumination of paths to renewable and resilient subsistence systems that might foster the long-term well-being of Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities alike.

notes 1 This plant world includes vascular plants, bryophytes, algae, lichens, and fungi. 2 Even Franz Boas, who included women’s plant harvesting and preparation in his Kwakiutl Ethnography (1966), had to be persuaded to do so by his colleague George Hunt since Boas himself evidently did not recognize the value of this information (Bruchac 2014). 3 The city of Saskatoon is named after the Cree word for this sweet, juicy fruit: misâskwatômina. Saskatoon berries have been a key ingredient in pemmican. 4 As another example, see the George Henry Raley Fonds regarding Haisla “Crab Apple Gardens” in the “Kat-a-maat” (Kitimat) River Valley and in Kil-dala (see also chapter 10, this volume). 5 The amount of resources diverted to responding to consultation requests from the provincial and federal governments regarding whether or not a proposed development will infringe on Aboriginal rights is hugely disproportionate to the size of First Nations governments in British Columbia. references Alfred, T., and J. Corntassel. 2005. “Being Indigenous: Resurgences against Contemporary Colonialism, Government and Opposition.” Government and Opposition: An International Journal of Comparative Politics 40, no. 4: 597–614. Anderson, M.K. 2005. Tending the Wild: Native American Knowledge and the Management of California’s Natural Resources. Berkeley: University of California Press. – 2009. The Ozette Prairies of Olympic National Park: Their Former Indigenous Uses and Management. Port Angeles, WA: Olympic National Park. Andre, A. 2006. “Nan T’aih Nakwits’inahtsih (The Land Gives Us Strength): The Medicine Plants Used by Gwich’in People of Canada’s Western Arctic to Maintain Good Health and Well Being.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. Andre, A., and A. Fehr. 2000. Gwich’in Ethnobotany: Plants Used by the Gwich’in for Food, Medicine, Shelter and Tools. Inuvik, NT: Gwich’in Social and Cultural Institute, Tsiigehtchic, and Aurora Research Institute. Andre, A., A. Karst, and N.J. Turner. 2006. “Arctic and Subarctic Plants.” In Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 3, Environment, Origins and Population, ed. D.H. Ubelaker and W.C. Sturtevant, 236–50. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution.

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Armstrong C.G., D. Lepofsky, L.M. Johnson, and N.J. Turner. 2016. “Village Life at Dałth Gyilakyaw: A Cultural Keystone Place for the Gitsm’geelm, Tsimshian.” Paper presented at the Society of Ethnobiology Meeting, Tucson, Arizona. Arnason, T., R.J. Hebda, and T. Johns. 1981. “Use of Plants for Food and Medicine by Native Peoples of Eastern Canada.” Canadian Journal of Botany 59, no. 11: 2189–325. Asch, M., J. Borrows, and J. Tully, eds. 2018. Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Atleo, E.R. (Umeek). 1997. Nawtch-nawtch-cha [“To Have a Vision”] from Seeing the Ocean through the Trees. Vancouver: Ecotrust Canada. – 2004. Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2011. Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis. Vancouver: UBC Press. Augustine, S., and P. Dearden. 2014. “Changing Paradigms in Marine and Coastal Conservation: A Case Study of Clam Gardens in the Southern Gulf Islands, Canada.” Canadian Geographer/Le Géographe canadien 58, no. 3: 305–14. Baker, R., J. Davies, and E. Young. 2001. Working on Country: Contemporary Indigenous Environmental Management in Australia. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Balée, W.L. 1994. Footprints of the Forest: The Historical Ecology of Plant Utilization by an Amazonian People. New York: Columbia University Press. Basso, K.H. 1996. Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Beckwith, B.R. 2004. “‘The Queen Root of This Clime’: Ethnoecological Investigations of Blue Camas (Camassia quamash, C. leichtlinii; Liliaceae) Landscapes on Southern Vancouver Island, British Columbia.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Berkes, F. 2012. Sacred Ecology: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resource Management. 3rd Edition. Philadelphia: Taylor & Francis. Blaut, J. 1993. The Colonizer’s Model of the World: Geographical Diffusionism and Eurocentric History. New York: Guilford. Boas, F. 1966. Kwakiutl Ethnography. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Boas, F., and G. Hunt. 1906. Kwakiutl Texts – Second Series. Vol. 10, part 1. New York: Publications of the Jesup North Pacific Expedition. Booth, A.L., and N.W. Skelton. 2011. “‘You Spoil Everything!’ Indigenous Peoples and the Consequences of Industrial Development in British Columbia.” Environment, Development and Sustainability 13, no. 4: 685–702. Borrows, J. 2002. Recovering Canada: The Resurgence of Indigenous Law. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2010. Canada’s Indigenous Constitution. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2015. “The Durability of Terra Nullius: Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia.” UBC Law Review 48, no. 3: 701–42. Boyd, R.T., ed. 1999. Indians, Fire and the Land in the Pacific Northwest. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. Braun, B. 2002. The Intemperate Rainforest: Nature, Culture, and Power on Canada’s West Coast. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. British Columbia. 1875. Papers Connected with the Indian Land Question, 1850–1875. Victoria: Government Printer. – 2004. Central Coast LRMP Completion Table: Report of Consensus Recommendations to the Provincial Government and First Nations. https://www2.gov.bc.ca/assets/gov/farmingnatural-resources-and-industry/natural-resource-use/land-water-use/crown-land/ land-use-plans-and-objectives/westcoast-region/centralcoast-lrmp/central_coast_ lrmp_completion_table_recommendations.pdf.

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Brown, R. 1868. “On the Vegetable Products Used by the North-West American Indians as Food and Medicine, in the Arts, and in Superstitious Rites.” Botanical Society of Edinburgh Transactions 9: 378–96. Brown, F., and K. Brown. 2009. Staying the Course, Staying Alive: Coastal First Nations Fundamental Truths. Victoria: Biodiversity BC. Bruchac, M.M. 2014. “My Sisters Will Not Speak: Boas, Hunt, and the Ethnographic Silencing of First Nations Women.” Curator: The Museum Journal 57, no. 2: 153–71. Butler, C. 2006. “Historicizing Indigenous Knowledge: Practical and Political Issues.” In Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Natural Resource Management, ed. C. Menzies, 107–26. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Cajete, G. 2000. Native Science: Natural Laws of Interdependence. Santa Fe, NM: Clear Light. Campbell, S.K., and V.L. Butler. 2010. “Archaeological Evidence for Resilience of Pacific Northwest Salmon Populations and the Socioecological System over the Last ~7,500 Years.” Ecology and Society 15, no. 1, art. 17. http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol15/ iss1/art17. Carlson, T.J.S., and L. Maffi, eds. 2004. Advances in Economic Botany, vol. 15, Ethnobotany and Conservation of Biocultural Diversity. Bronx: New York Botanical Garden Press. Carroll, C. 2015. Roots of Our Renewal: Ethnobotany and Cherokee Environmental Governance. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. CBC News. 2016. “We Need Decolonization before Reconciliation, Argues Ryan McMahon.” 27 May. https://www.cbc.ca/radio/the180/how-safe-cities-can-be-dangerous-theproblem-with-reconciliation-and-stop-saying-cuba-will-be-ruined-1.3507402/ we-need-decolonization-before-reconciliation-argues-ryan-mcmahon-1.3507589. Chan, K.M.A., P. Balvanera, K. Benessaiah, M. Chapman, S. Díaz, E. Gómez-Baggethun, R. Gould, et al. 2016. “Opinion: Why Protect Nature? Rethinking Values and the Environment.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 113, no. 6: 1462–5. https://www.pnas.org/content/113/6/1462. Claxton, E., Sr (YELḰÁTŦE), and J. Elliott Sr (STOLȻEȽ). 1994. Reef Net Technology of the Saltwater People. Brentwood Bay, BC: Saanich Indian School Board. Claxton, N.X. 2003. “The Douglas Treaty and W̱ SÁNEC Traditional Fisheries: A Model for Saanich Peoples Governance.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. – 2015. “To Fish as Formerly: A Resurgent Journey Back to the Saanich Reef Net Fishery.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Clayoquot Sound Scientific Panel. 1995. First Nations’ Perspectives Relating to Forest Practices Standards in Clayoquot Sound. Victoria: Cortex Consulting. Comberti, C., T.F. Thornton, V. Wyllie de Echeverria, and T. Patterson. 2015. “Ecosystem Services or Services to Ecosystems? Valuing Cultivation and Reciprocal Relationships between Humans and Ecosystems.” Global Environmental Change 34: 247–62. Corntassel, J. 2012. “Re-Envisioning Resurgence: Indigenous Pathways to Decolonization and Sustainable Self-Determination.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 1, no. 1: 86–101. Crosby, A.W. 1986. Ecological Imperialism: The Biological Expansion of Europe, 900–1900. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Cuerrier, A., N.J. Turner, T. Gomes, A. Garibaldi, and A. Downing. 2015. “Cultural Keystone Places: Conservation and Restoration in Cultural Landscapes.” Journal of Ethnobiology 35, no. 3: 427–48. Davis, J.D., and S.A. Banack. 2012. “Ethnobotany of the Kiluhikturmiut Inuinnait  of Kugluktuk, Nunavut, Canada.” Ethnobiology Letters 3: 78–90.

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Davis, W. 2011. The Sacred Headwaters: The Fight to Save the Stikine, Skeena, and Nass. Vancouver: Greystone Books. Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, 1991, CanLII 2372 (BCSC). Denevan, W. 1992. “The Pristine Myth: The Landscape of the Americas in 1492.” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 82, no. 3: 369–85. Deur, D. 2002a. “Contested Lands, Contested Identities: Reexamining the Historical Geography of North America’s Indigenous Peoples.” Historical Geography 30: 5–14. – 2002b. “Rethinking Precolonial Plant Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America.” Professional Geographer 54, no. 2: 140–57. – 2009. “‘A Caretaker Responsibility’: Revisiting Klamath and Modoc Traditions of Plant Community Management.” Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 2: 296–322. Deur, D., A. Dick, K. Recalma-Clutesi, and N.J. Turner. 2015. “Kwakwaka’wakw ‘Clam Gardens’: Motive and Agency in Northwest Coast Mariculture.” Human Ecology 4, no. 23: 201–12. Deur, D., and N.J. Turner. 2005a. “Introduction: Reconstructing Aboriginal Resource Management, Reconstructing the History of an Idea.” In D. Deur and N.J. Turner, eds, Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America, 3–34. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. – eds. 2005b. Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Deur, D., N.J. Turner, A. Dick, D. Sewid-Smith, and K. Recalma-Clutesi. 2013. “Subsistence and Resistance on the British Columbia Coast: Kingcome Village’s Estuarine Gardens as Contested Space.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 13–37. Diver, S. 2014. “Negotiating Knowledges, Shifting Access: Natural Resource Governance with Indigenous Communities and State Agencies in the Pacific Northwest.” PhD diss., University of California. Dolan, J.M. 2016. “The Restorative Ecology of Peace: Haudenosaunee Environmental Knowledge and Philosophies of Stewardship.” PhD diss., McGill University. Doolittle, W. 2000. Cultivated Landscapes of Native North America. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Enns, E. 2014. “Tla-o-qui-aht Tribal Parks: A Different Conception of Humanity.” American Indian Magazine 15, no. 2: 14–15, 18. https://watersheds2016forum.files.wordpress. com/2016/08/enns-tribalparks-americanindianmagazine.pdf. Fisher, R. 1992. Contact and Conflict: Indian-European Relations in British Columbia, 1774–1890. 2nd ed. Vancouver: UBC Press. Galley, V. 2012. “Reconciliation and the Revitalization of Indigenous Languages.” In “Speaking My Truth”: Reflections on Reconciliation and Residential School, ed. S. Rogers, M. DeGagné, J. Dewar, and G. Lowry, 243–58. Ottawa: Aboriginal Healing Foundation. Galois, R. 1994. Kwakwaka’wakw Settlements, 1775–1920: A Geographical Analysis and Gazetteer. Vancouver: UBC Press. Geddes, G. 2017. Medicine Unbundled: A Journey through the Minefields of Indigenous Health. Victoria: Heritage House. Geniusz, M.S. 2015. Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have to Do Is Ask. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Geniusz, W.M. 2009. Our Knowledge Is Not Primitive: Decolonizing Botanical Anishinaabe Teachings. New York: Syracuse University Press. George, E.M. 2003a. Living on the Edge: Nuu-chah-nulth History from an Ahousaht Chief’s Perspective. Winlaw, BC: Sono Nis.

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– 2003b. Personal communication with author. George Henry Raley Fonds. Haisla petition, 10 November 1897, BC Archives, H/D/R13/ R13.11. Goddard, I., ed. 2006. Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 17, Languages. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. Griffin, D. 2001. “Contributions to the Ethnobiology of the Cup’it Eskimo, Nunivak Island, Alaska.” Journal of Ethnobiology 21, no. 3: 91–127. Haida Nation v. British Columbia (Minister of Forests), 2004 SCC 73. Hartley Bay School. 1997. Hartley Bay School Presents to You Molks [Crabapples]. Prince Rupert, BC: Hartley Bay School and School District No. 52. Harris, R.C. 1997. The Resettlement of British Columbia: Essays on Colonialism and Geographical Change. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2002. Making Native Space: Colonialism, Resistance, and Reserves in British Columbia. Vancouver: UBC Press. Howard, P., ed. 2003. Women and Plants: Case Studies on Gender Relations in Local Plant Genetic Resource Management. London: Zed Books. Hunn, E.S. 1981. “On the Relative Contribution of Men and Women to Subsistence among Hunter-Gatherers of the Columbia Plateau: A Comparison with Ethnographic Atlas Summaries.” Journal of Ethnobiology 1, no. 1: 124–34. Hunn, E.S., D.R. Johnson, P.N. Russell, and T.F. Thornton. 2003. “Huna Tlingit Traditional Environmental Knowledge, Conservation, and the Management of a ‘Wilderness’ Park.” Current Anthropology 44, no. S5: S79–S103. Ignace, M., and R.E. Ignace, eds. 2017. Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓skucw. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Indian and Northern Affairs Canada. 2010. A History of Treaty-Making in Canada. https://www.rcaanc-cirnac.gc.ca/DAM/DAM-CIRNAC-RCAANC/DAM-TAG/STAGING/ texte-text/ap_htmc_treatliv_1314921040169_eng.pdf. Jennings, F. 1975. The Invasion of America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Joseph, L. 2012. “‘Finding Our Roots’: Ethnoecological Restoration of Lhásem (Fritillaria camschatcensis (L.) Ker-Gawl), an Iconic Plant Food in the Squamish River Estuary, British Columbia.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Karst, A. 2010. Conservation Value of North American Boreal Forest from an Ethnobotanical Perspective. Vancouver: David Suzuki Foundation; Ottawa: Boreal Songbird Initiative. Kelly, E.N., D.W. Schindler, P.V. Hodson, J.W. Short, R. Radmanovich, and C.C. Nielsen. 2010. “Oil Sands Development Contributes Elements Toxic at Low Concentrations to the Athabasca River and Its Tributaries.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 107, no. 37: 16178–83. Kimmerer, R. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass, Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed. Kindscher, K. 1987. Edible Wild Plants of the Prairie: An Ethnobotanical Guide. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas. – 1992. Medicinal Wild Plants of the Prairie: An Ethnobotanical Guide. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas. Kuhnlein, H.V., B. Erasmus, and D. Spigelski, eds. 2009. Indigenous Peoples’ Food Systems: The Many Dimensions of Culture, Diversity, and Environment for Nutrition and Health. Montreal: Centre for Indigenous Peoples’ Nutrition and Environment, McGill University; Rome, Italy: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Kuhnlein, H.V., B. Erasmus, D. Spigelski, and B. Burlingame, eds. 2013. Indigenous Peoples’ Food Systems for Health: Interventions for Health Promotion and Policy. Montreal: Centre for

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Indigenous Peoples’ Nutrition and Environment, McGill University; Rome, Italy: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Kuhnlein, H.V., and N.J. Turner. 1991. Traditional Plant Foods of Canadian Indigenous Peoples: Nutrition, Botany and Use. Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach. Lepofsky, D. 2004. “Paleoethnobotany in The Northwest.” In People and Plants in Ancient Western North America, ed. P.E. Minnis, 367–464. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Books. Lepofsky, D. 2009. “The Past, Present, and Future of Traditional Resource and Environmental Management.” Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 2: 161–6. Lepofsky, D., M.L. Moss, and N. Lyons. 2001. “The Unrealized Potential of Paleoethnobotany in the Archaeology of Northwestern North America: Perspectives from Cape Addington, Alaska.” Arctic Anthropology 38, no. 1: 48–59. Lepofsky, D., N.F. Smith, N. Cardinal, J. Harper, E. White, A.K. Salomon, M. Morris, M. Puckett, and K. Rowell. 2015. “Ancient Mariculture on the Northwest Coast of North America.” American Antiquity 80, no. 2: 236–59. Lewis, H.T., and T.A. Ferguson. 1988. “Yards, Corridors and Mosaics: How to Burn Boreal Forest.” Human Ecology 16, no. 1: 57–77. Lutz, J.S. 2008. Makúk: A New History of Aboriginal-White Relations. Vancouver: UBC Press. Mack, J. 2011. “Hoquotist: Reorienting through Storied Practice.” In Storied Communities: Narratives of Contact and Arrival in Constituting Political Community, ed. H. Lessard, R. Johnson, and J. Webber, 287–307. Vancouver: UBC Press. Maffi, L., and E. Woodley. 2010. Biocultural Diversity Conservation: A Global Sourcebook. London: Earthscan. Marles, R.J., C. Clavelle, L. Monteleone, N. Tays, and D. Burns. 2000. Aboriginal Plant Use in Canada’s Northwest Boreal Forest. Vancouver: UBC Press. Mathews, D.L., and N.J. Turner. 2017. “Ocean Cultures: Northwest Coast Ecosystems and Indigenous Management Systems.” In Conservation for the Anthropocene Ocean: Interdisciplinary Science in the Support of Nature and People, ed. P.S. Levin and M.R. Poe, 169–206. London: Academic Press. McDonald, J.A. 1987. “The Marginalization of a Cultural Ecology: The Seasonal Cycle of Kitsumkalum.” In Native Peoples, Native Lands, ed. B. Cox, 109–218. Ottawa: Macmillan. – 1994. “Social Change and the Creation of Underdevelopment: A Northwest Coast Case.” American Ethnologist 21, no. 1: 152–75. McEachern, A. 1991. “Delgamuukw v. A.G.: Reasons for Judgment of the Honorable Justice Allan McEachern.” No. 0843 Smithers Registry, British Columbia Court of Appeals. Victoria: Queen’s Printer. McIlwraith, T., and C. Raymond. 2015. “Making Place for Space: Land Use and Occupancy Studies, Counter-Mapping, and the Supreme Court of Canada’s Tsilqot’in Decision.” BC Studies, no. 188: 35–53. McKenna-McBride Royal Commission. 1913–16. “Evidence, Exhibits, Applications, and Reports of the McKenna-McBride Royal Commission.” Unpublished documents on file with the BC Archives and Records Service, Victoria. Moerman, D.E. 2003. Native American Ethnobotany: A Database of Foods, Drugs, Dyes and Fibers of Native American Peoples Derived from Plants. http://naeb.brit.org. Moller, H., J.C. Kitson, and T.M. Downs. 2009. “Knowing by Doing: Learning for Sustainable Muttonbird Harvesting.” New Zealand Journal of Zoology 36, no. 3: 243–58. Moskowitz, P. 2014. “Mount Polley Mine Spill: A Hazard of Canada’s Industry-Friendly Attitude?” Guardian (London), 13 August 2014. https://www.theguardian.com/ environment/2014/aug/13/mount-polley-mine-spill-british-columbia-canada.

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Mulrennan, M.E., R. Mark, and C.H. Scott. 2012. “Revamping Community-Based Conservation through Participatory Research.” Canadian Geographer/Le Géographe Canadien 56, no. 2: 243–59. Mulrennan, M.E., and C.H. Scott. 2000. “Mare Nullius: Indigenous Rights in Saltwater Environments.” Development and Change 31, no. 3: 681–708. Napoleon, V. 2015. “Tsilhqot’in Law of Consent.” UBC Law Review 48, no. 3: 873–902. Natcher, D.C., S. Davis, and C.G. Hickey. 2005. “Co-Management: Managing Relationships, Not Resources.” Human Organization 64, no. 3: 240–50. Nelson, M. 2006. Original Instructions: Indigenous Teachings for a Sustainable Future. Rochester, VT: Bear and Company. Norton, H.H. 1985. “Women and Resources of the Northwest Coast: Documentation from the 18th and Early 19th Centuries.” PhD diss., University of Washington, Seattle. O’Neil, P. 2016. “Ottawa Considers Compensating Heiltsuk Nation over Tug Boat Spill near Bella Bella.” Vancouver Sun, 27 October. http://vancouversun.com/news/local-news/ b-c-first-nation-angered-by-federal-ministers-response-to-sunken-tug. Ormsby, M.A. 2003. “Douglas, Sir James.” Dictionary of Canadian Biography, vol. 10, 1871– 1880. http://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/douglas_james_10E.html. Östlund, L., I. Bergman, and O. Zackrisson. 2005. “Trees for Food – A 3000 Year Record of Subarctic Plant Use.” Antiquity 78, no. 300: 278–86. Premauer, J.M., and F. Berkes. 2015. “A Pluralistic Approach to Protected Area Governance: Indigenous Peoples and Makuira National Park, Colombia.” Ethnobiology and Conservation 4, no. 4: 1–16. http://ethnobioconservation.com/index.php/ebc/article/ view/64/pdf. Prescott-Allen, C., and R. Prescott-Allen. 1986. The First Resource: Wild Species in the North American Economy. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Recalma-Clutesi, K., dir. 2005. Ancient Sea Gardens: Mystery of the Pacific Northwest. Documentary film. Toronto: Aquaculture Pictures. Rosenberg, D., and J. Woodward. 2015. “The Tsilhqot’in Case: The Recognition and Affirmation of Aboriginal Title in Canada.” UBC Law Review 48, no. 3: 943–70. Sampson, T. 2016. Salish Sea & W̱ SÁNEĆ Gathering. Video. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=uxFQMPYCVro&feature=em-share_video_user. Saul, J.R. 2014. The Comeback: How Aboriginals Are Reclaiming Power and Influence. Toronto: Penguin Random House. Senos, R., F. Lake, N.J. Turner, and D. Martinez. 2006. “Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Restoration Practice in the Pacific Northwest.” In Encyclopedia for Restoration of Pacific Northwest Ecosystems, ed. D. Apostol, 393–426. Washington, DC: Island. Sewid-Smith, D. (Mayanilth), and A. Dick (Kwaxsistalla), interviewed by N.J. Turner. 1998. “The Sacred Cedar Tree of the Kwakwaka’wakw People.” In Stars Above, Earth Below: Native Americans and Nature, ed. M. Bol, 189–209. Pittsburgh: Carnegie Museum of Natural History. Snively, G., and L.W. Williams, eds. 2016. “Knowing Home”: Braiding Indigenous Science with Western Science. Victoria: University of Victoria Publishing Services. Suttles, W.P. 2005. “Coast Salish Resource Management: Incipient Agriculture?” In Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America, ed. D. Deur and N.J. Turner, 181–93. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Te’mexw Treaty Association. n.d. “Douglas Treaties – 1850–1854.” http://www.temexw.org/douglas-treaty/.

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Thomas, M., N.J. Turner, and A. Garibaldi. 2016. “‘Everything Is Deteriorating’: Environmental and Cultural Loss in Secwepemc Territory.” In Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 365–401. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Thornton, T.F. 1999. “Tleikw Aaní, the Berried Landscape: The Structure of Tlingit Edible Fruit Resources at Glacier Bay, Alaska.” Journal of Ethnobiology 19, no. 1: 27–48. Thornton, T.F., and D. Deur. 2015. “Introduction to the Special Section on Marine Cultivation among Indigenous Peoples of the Northwest Coast.” Human Ecology 43, no. 2: 187. Thornton, T.F., D. Deur, and H. Kitka Sr. 2015. “Cultivation of Salmon and Other Marine Resources on the Northwest Coast of North America.” Human Ecology 43, no. 2: 189–99. Trosper, R.L. 2009. Resilience, Reciprocity and Ecological Economics: Northwest Coast Sustainability. New York: Routledge. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2007 BCSC 1700. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2014 SCC 44. Tully, J. 2009. Public Philosophy in a New Key, vol. 1, Democracy and Civic Freedom. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Turner, K.L., and C. Bitonti. 2011. “Conservancies in British Columbia, Canada: Bringing Together Protected Areas and First Nations’ Interests.” International Indigenous Policy Journal 2, no. 2, art. 3. Turner, N.J. 2003. “‘Passing on the News’: Women’s Work, Traditional Knowledge and Plant Resource Management in Indigenous Societies of Northwestern North America.” In Women and Plants: Case Studies on Gender Relations in Local Plant Genetic Resource Management, ed. P. Howard, 133–49. London: Zed Books. – 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre; Seattle: University of Washington Press. – 2006. “Lessons from the Grandmothers: Women’s Roles in Traditional Botanical Knowledge and Wisdom in Northwestern North America.” In Ethnobotany: At the Junction of the Continents and Disciplines, ed. Z.F. Ertug, 27–38. Conference proceedings of the Fourth International Congress of Ethnobotany, 2005. Istanbul, Turkey: Yeditepe University, Yayinlari. – 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., Y. Ari, F. Berkes, I. Davidson-Hunt, Z.F. Ertug, and A.M. Miller. 2009. “Cultural Management of Living Trees: An International Perspective.” In Indigenous Resource Management: Past, Present and Future, ed. D. Lepofsky. Special issue of Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 2: 237–70. Turner, N.J., and F. Berkes. 2006. “Coming to Understanding: Developing Conservation through Incremental Learning.” In Developing Resource Management and Conservation, ed. F. Berkes and N.J. Turner. Special issue of Human Ecology 34, no. 4: 495–513. Turner, N.J., F. Berkes, J. Stephenson, and J. Dick. 2013. “Blundering Intruders: Extraneous Impacts on Two Indigenous Food Systems.” Human Ecology 41, no. 4: 563–74. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia’s First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33.

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Turner, N.J., R. Gregory, C. Brooks, L. Failing, and T. Satterfield. 2008. “From Invisibility to Transparency: Identifying the Implications.” Ecology and Society 13, no. 2, art. 7. http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol13/iss2/art7/. Turner, N.J., and R.J. Hebda. 2012. Saanich Ethnobotany: Culturally Important Plants of the W̱ SÁNEĆ (Saanich) People of Southern Vancouver Island. Victoria: Royal BC Museum. Turner, N.J., and D. Mathews. 2020. “Serving Nature: Completing the Ecosystem Services Circle.” In Cultivating Ecovirtues, ed. H. Bai, D. Chang, and C. Scott. Regina, SK: University of Regina Press. Turner, N.J., and P. Spalding 2013. “‘We Might Go Back to This’: Drawing on the Past to Meet the Future in Northwestern North American Indigenous Communities.” Ecology and Society 18, no. 4, art. 29. http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol18/iss4/art29/. Turner, N.J., and K.L. Turner. 2008. “‘Where Our Women Used to Get the Food’: Cumulative Effects and Loss of Ethnobotanical Knowledge and Practice; Case Study from Coastal British Columbia.” Botany 86, no. 2: 103–15. Turner, N.J., and P. von Aderkas. 2012. “Sustained by First Nations: European Newcomers’ Use of Indigenous Plant Foods in Temperate North America.” Acta Societatis Botanicorum Poloniae 81, no. 4: 295–315. https://pbsociety.org.pl/journals/index.php/asbp/ issue/view/88/showToc. United Nations. 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-therights-of-indigenous-peoples.html. Vaughan, M.B., and M.R. Caldwell. 2015. “Hana Pa’a: Challenges and Lessons for Early Phases of Co-Management.” Marine Policy 62: 51–62. Waugh, F.W. 1916. Iroquois Foods and Food Preparation. Ottawa: Government Printing Bureau. Willems-Braun, B. 2002. The Intemperate Rainforest: Nature, Culture, and Power on Canada’s West Coast. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Williams, J. 2006. Clam Gardens: Aboriginal Mariculture on Canada’s West Coast. Vancouver: New Star Books. Wyllie de Echeverria, V. 2013. “Moolks (Pacific crabapple, Malus fusca) on the North Coast of British Columbia: Knowledge and Meaning in Gitga’at Culture.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Zahn, M., M.I. Palmer, and N.J. Turner. 2018. “‘Everything We Do, It’s Cedar’: First Nation and Ecologically-Based Forester Land Management Philosophies in Coastal British Columbia.” Journal of Ethnobiology 38, no. 3: 314–32.

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section one Indigenous Peoples’ Relationships to Plants and Territory in Canada

introduction

Nancy J. Turner In a book that examines the land rights of Indigenous peoples and the roles of ethnoecology and ethnobotany, it is fitting that the voices of Indigenous people and the interests and perspectives of Indigenous communities should lead the discussions. The four chapters in this section thus set the stage for those to follow. They are compellingly personal accounts that show, with examples and individual and community experiences, the significance of plants and environments in people’s lives and their role in the well-being not only of past generations but also of present and future generations. These accounts describe everyday activities around plant use and being out on the land, as well as revealing some of the underlying Indigenous laws, philosophies, and values that underpin and guide these activities. Ways of learning and teaching, along with ways of caring for the land and tending to the needs and well-being of other species, are also presented. Themes that are carried throughout the book are introduced in these accounts: ethics of respect and responsibility for the lands and waters of one’s homelands; ways of sustaining and enhancing plants and other lifeforms and their habitats; cultural protocols and ceremonies that reflect values; and personal experiences of lessons learned. Two of the chapters – those by Jeannette Armstrong and Arthur Adolph – also describe conflicts that have occurred as newcomers have entered Indigenous lands and imposed their laws, values, and economic systems on the Indigenous communities, causing immense stress

and grief. The resulting loss of lands, resources, and food security are only now, in some cases, starting to be recognized and addressed through treaties, international laws and conventions, consultations, and calls for reconciliation. New partnerships and management initiatives, along with language revitalization and the reawakening of cultural practices, are described in these chapters, foreshadowing the focus and discussions in the chapters to come. The narrative style of these chapters – especially those of Marlene Atleo and Aaron Mills – aptly reflects the storytelling traditions of societies where oral teachings, along with experiential learning, have been the norm until very recently. These stories align with the presentation of the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance by Clan Chief Kwaxsistalla wath-thla Adam Dick (see Benediction, this volume), as well as with the cedar bark rose workshop with W̱ SÁNEĆ elders Belinda Claxton (Seliliye), Linda Elliott, and Stella Underwood, the western redcedar tree and other plants that were present during the symposium, and the fieldtrip day and hike up the Sacred Mountain in T’Sou-ke Nation territory with Chief Gordon Planes and other community members on the last day of the symposium. All of these undertakings represented our efforts to provide a diversified experience of embodying and sharing knowledge, even within a largely academic setting. The narrative form of these chapters reflects these endeavours. Jeannette Armstrong’s chapter is an affirmation of the complementarity of Indigenous knowledge and Western academic knowledge since she both holds a Canada Research Chair at the University of British Columbia Okanagan and is a traditional knowledge keeper of her own Syilx Nation and a fluent speaker of Nsyilxcn, with generations of teachings and her own experiences informing her perspectives. As well as working with her own family and Syilx community to care for and protect their lands, waters, and species, she holds a doctorate in environmental ethics, is a renowned author of a variety of books and academic articles, and serves on the board of the Committee on the Status of Endangered Wildlife in Canada. Acknowledging the trauma of the impacts of development on her people’s culture, lifeways, and traditional foods, she brings a hopeful message of revitalization and restoration, as well as reconciliation toward a better future for “all of our children and the beautiful living things we have been gifted with.” Marlene Atleo also writes from a unique personal perspective. As a young woman and mother of German Canadian heritage, she was initiated into the Nuu-chah-nulth community of Ahousaht on the West Coast of Vancouver Island through her marriage to Chief E. Richard Atleo (Umeek). She experienced a “cultural immersion,” being carefully and lovingly trained in the Nuu-chah-nulth lifeways and culture, particularly in the roles of women and their relationships with plants and places. She gained an immense appreciation of the stories and experiential opportunities in which she was immersed.

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Her fascination with her new culture and its teaching approaches developed into an academic study of “storywork” and its importance to people’s cultural identity, governance, and relationships to their lands, eventually leading to an academic position in education at the University of Manitoba. As she acknowledges, deep lessons offered by Nuu-chah-nulth narratives – also the subject of Umeek’s writings (see Atleo 2004, 2011) – underpin the entire knowledge system and the ways of relating to plants and environments. These lessons are fundamental to the overall messages represented in this volume. Aaron Mills’s chapter is an account of a single, life-changing event he experienced: becoming lost with an elder from his Anishinaabe community. This served as an occasion for profound learning – both about himself and about the critical importance of knowing one’s environment, its dangers, and its gifts. Told with humour and humility, his story embraces major insights about our relationships with each other, with our home places, and with the other species that support us. At the time of the symposium, Mills, who already held law degrees from the University of Toronto and Yale University, was completing his doctorate in law at the University of Victoria. His academic career, including his current position in the Faculty of Law at McGill University, complements his Anishinaabe learning path, exemplified by the story he offers here. Finally, in his chapter, Arthur Adolph brings his own perspectives and analysis to questions of land use and protection as a past elected chief, policy analyst, negotiator, researcher, and coordinator of a traditional use study, on the one hand, and as a person raised in a traditional lifestyle by respected and knowledgeable members of the Xáxli’p (St’at’imc/Lillooet) community, on the other hand. He traces the history of land use, contrasting the damage to Xáxli’p lands by industrial development and environmental degradation with the traditional approaches to caretaking and stewardship that the Xáxli’p have fought to maintain. One of the lessons he shares is their success in engaging scientists and other academics to complement the work and knowledge of the Xáxli’p cultural and environmental experts in order to develop an ecosystem-based land-use plan that will help to support and provide for future generations of Xáxli’p by protecting and sustaining their beautiful and diverse territory.

references Atleo, E. Richard (Umeek). 2004. Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2011. Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis. Vancouver: UBC Press.

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2 Living from the Land: Food Security and Food Sovereignty Today and into the Future Jeannette Armstrong introduction Humans are living as though they are not part of nature. Society is coming to the realization that this way of life is the main source of the problems cumulatively producing a global crisis today. The understanding that conducting development in any form without the requirements of reconciling human economics with values related to all lifeforms is slowly bringing into focus the magnitude of today’s human ethical crisis. Green economist Herman Daly (1996, 1) points to the necessity of a profound form of collective social will, such as is solicited by deep philosophical clarifications and even religious renewal, in order to serve the institutionalizing of ethical practice in light of the enormous forces of denial aligned against a shift in vision. Awareness is coming to all people in the form of the current global humanitarian crisis of social injustices resulting from the irreversible catastrophic environmental changes taking place. Regardless of systemic denial by business, the graveness of the situation is evidenced not only by different areas of science but also by the fact that it is happening in our midst on an everyday basis, with all of us feeling the weight of the consequences. It is there in the droughts and excessive heat that are causing explosive forest fires and destroying lives and livelihoods on every continent. It is there in the warming of the oceans, resulting in more frequent and massive storms that are laying waste and destruction to aquatic and land foods, consequently dispossessing millions and wreaking poverty in their wake. The summer and fall of both 2017 and 2018 gave us clear examples of these terrible disasters, featured in the news almost every day.

“Food security” is the right of all people to good, affordable food, and “food sovereignty” is the right of all people to define their own, culturally appropriate food production systems. These intertwined concepts need to be understood together, today and into the future, as the one area of environmental focus in which the intersection of human beings and nature can be changed. The idea of food sovereignty as an essential aspect of food security is not a new concept for any Indigenous peoples living interdependently with other lifeforms in the areas they occupy. In fact, the maintenance of food security for Indigenous peoples is known to be an incredibly important cornerstone in the assertion and exercise of Indigenous food sovereignty. For Indigenous peoples who hunt, tend and harvest plants, and engage in other forms of living from the land, food sovereignty is the protection, maintenance, and regeneration of food sources. The concepts of security and sovereignty are inextricably tied together since ensuring the regeneration of food ultimately means both respecting internally how lands are used and, at the same level, protecting the land from external misuse. In today’s society, that translates into Indigenous peoples having to protect and assert our rights through a quagmire of our own decolonization, as well as being compelled to mount effective resistance to historical and current colonial policies of dispossessions biased toward settler and corporate land use. Whether land is opened for housing, agribusiness, forestry, or other forms of extractive industry, Indigenous food sources are always at stake and are unprotected in the apparent co-dependency between government and corporate interests. In fact, the immense losses by all peoples globally of a lived experience of Indigeneity, as an interdependent relationship of people to land, is directly accompanied by the massive global loss of living nature. Suzuki, McConnell, and Mason (1997, 11) point out that “in the last century, Homo sapiens has undergone a radical transformation into a new kind of force . . . For the first time in the 3.8 billion years that life has existed on Earth, one species – humanity – is altering the biological, physical and chemical features of the planet on a geological scale.” Focusing on Indigenous food sovereignty is one way to protect the environment by bringing into balance the skewed view that commercial interests are the only value that must be protected for the people by those in governance. Recognizing Indigenous food sovereignty is also a way to reconcile past injustices against Indigenous peoples. One of the clear social mandates of this decade is evident in the people of Canada’s desire for reconciliation with its Indigenous peoples. Another clear social mandate of this decade is evident in the people of Canada’s move toward political changes in the wake of climate alarm bells increasingly going off here at home in the form of destruction of crops, burning forests, and flooding cities and towns. My own intense interest in the subject of food security and food sovereignty is fuelled by the need for a clear path through to reconciliation for all of us here in this place called Canada as a part of humans’ reconciliation with nature.

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Here, I offer some thoughts on how the two social conscience issues of reconciliation with Indigenous peoples and environmental protection may be brought together to produce mutually beneficial actions that institute food security and actualize food sovereignty today and into the future. The work of both can be exponentially strengthened by bringing the two together under a constructive strategic process of reconciliation based on acting as one within a mindful approach to both. Non-Indigenous environmental strategies will require development of solidarity with Indigenous peoples in the assertion and defence of the lands and waters they use to continue hunting, fishing, tending, and harvesting. The protection of food security and food sovereignty for Indigenous peoples will require the maintenance and reintroduction of their ancestral cultural food practices. In offering thoughts on such strategies, my intention is to share information on the practices of my own Indigenous group, the Syilx, or Okanagan, as an example. The reality is that the current state of the environment in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia clearly reflects a desperate need for a better human ethic. The Okanagan River is listed as the third most endangered river in Canada. The South Okanagan Similkameen Valley is recognized as a biodiversity hotspot in Canada, yet as the South Okanagan Similkameen Conservation Program (2012, 3, 18) reports, it has an extremely high number of endangered species and species at risk. The perspective of the Syilx on environment, which has remained fiercely protective, brings clarity to our contemporary efforts to continue to maintain a strong intervention role in the assertion and exercise of food security and stewardship within our territory. The work to continue to assert political jurisdiction over our rights is just one aspect of the expression of an ongoing Syilx ethic. One desired outcome is to reinstitute the foundational concept of this ethic, namely that environmental responsibility is a right in the assertion of food security. Increasingly, the engagement of Syilx people in the process of reclaiming their right to hunt, fish, and harvest throughout their traditional territories has led to a reinstitution of the spirituality that characterizes Syilx cultural lifeways. The work to revitalize Syilx harvest practices entails a process of reintroducing Syilx cultural protocols and ceremonies related to food in order to achieve a conscious rekindling of the Syilx culture as a daily norm. As Corntassel (2012, 89) has wisely instructed, “These daily acts of renewal, whether through prayer, speaking your language, honoring your ancestors, etc., are the foundations of resurgence. It is through this renewal process that commitments are made to reclaim and restore cultural practices that have been neglected and/or disrupted.” livinG froM the land In the past, the Syilx practised a sophisticated model of regenerative permaharvesting. Ethnohistorians and anthropologists have observed, recorded, and 38 | J. arMstronG

studied the seasonal round of harvest practices of the Syilx since European contact. What is clear from my examination of such records, as well as from the Syilx oral record, is that we clearly were a sedentary people who resided in, cared for, and harvested a vast natural garden. Our ancestors did not rove around searching for food in the manner defined as semi-migratory. Walters (1938, 87), among other ethnographers, concurs that the Syilx communities and families maintained permanent resource areas and sites whose plant foods they tended and harvested each year. The harvest areas, which were in different locations and whose resources were available at different times, required travel to each site in its appropriate season. Walters and others note that different harvest sites were occupied for about equal periods of time each year. Sites for spring root digging and plant gathering, summer berry picking and fishing, and fall gathering and hunting, as well as the villages near winter fishing and whitetail deer habitats, were occupied consistently throughout the territory. He reports that, in all seasons of the year, families lived in the hills, that single families moved throughout the year at all times, although villages along the rivers had the densest populations in winter, and that “four or five sites were inhabited simultaneously by one band” (ibid.). Similarly, Turner, Bouchard, and Kennedy (1980, 5) mention that in any given village area, the Okanagan-Colville had easy access to at least one, and more often two or three, of the major vegetation zones and to numerous habitats such as swamps, meadows, talus slopes, river banks, and rocky outcrops. Post (1938, 11–22), in his research on the Southern Okanagan Syilx, reports that each family went to the same vicinity each year for hunting, fishing, or digging and wintered at the same site, changing location only if wood was scarce. He goes on to explain that most families went to the same hunting ground every fall and that their sons continued to do so after their fathers died. He also reports that women gathered plant foods as a group and went to many of the same places year after year. At each of their villages, the Syilx utilized and maintained permanent occupation of a huge seasonal natural garden in which they lived and that they maintained by using and enhancing it in various ways. The garden can be thought of as being vertical rather than flat, with harvests beginning in the spring on the valley floor and then, as the season progressed to summer, moving up to the benchlands. In early fall, people moved up to the subalpine forest and alpine levels, and then, in late fall, they returned to lower elevations. Nothing has changed other than the shorter length of time spent at each location in modern times as travel by car has allowed for easier access. Throughout my childhood, I looked forward to returning to the same places each year with extended family to dig roots, pick berries, fish, and hunt. I had a favourite boulder in the saskatoon berry (síyaɁ) location that I greeted and sat on above the camp. A huge ponderosa pine (sɁatqʷłp) (see figure 2.1) stood in just the right spot for the summer evening updrafts to sing through its needles at our main bitterroot (sp’itł’m) field. I was always awed by the beautiful waterfall at the Deep Creek Living from the Land | 39

2.1 | Ponderosa pine (sɁatqwłp, Pinus ponderosa) in Syilx/Okanagan territory with young forest in the background.

kokanee fishing station, and I couldn’t wait for the crisp air filled with the smell of balsam, or subalpine fir (meríłp, “medicine-plant”), in the high-country place at Tulameen for hunting deer and gathering huckleberry (st’xałq) (see figure 2.2). Now, my grandchildren enjoy the stories of our times in those places with our grandmother and parents. They are happiest when we are back home in those places each year. In Okanagan Syilx territory, many of the plant foods have short harvest windows as a result of the dry interior summer heat. When travel by foot or horse was the only means available, the use of specific places by each community was therefore consistent and exact in terms of when and at which altitudes different harvests were carried out. In the same way, knowledge held by each community was related to the times when bird-migration and fish-spawning cycles occurred in specific locations in their proximity. The grazing, calving, and mating movement patterns of deer, moose, and elk as well as the hibernating behaviours and

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2.2 | Black huckleberry (st’xałq, Vaccinium membranceum), a prized berry of higher elevations.

lifecycles of other mammals were crucial local knowledge resulting from a community’s long-term interaction with a specific area. It is important to note, too, that animals, fish, roots, and berries were not gathered without regard for their own right to exist. A deep social conscience of that right was maintained in the social institutionalization of gratitude rituals and public ceremonial observance in honour of the lives of the animals and plants taken for food. Ethnographic reports widely document that all the Okanagan communities held formal firstfruits ceremonial feasts and prayers to acknowledge the life that was harvested, hunted, or fished. Other more informal means of recognition and reverence directed toward the lives of animals and fish are also commonly practised by the Syilx. Teit (1975, 291) relates a story in the Similkameen area of a hunting chief who, taking off his cap, waved it at the cliffs where the mountain sheep were and spoke to them, asking for their pity. Animals, especially large game, were treated with great

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respect. Syilx oral knowledge and anecdotal information on plant-harvesting methods include sound regulatory practices, observed as living knowledge. Such practices confirm that deep respect for plants and plant communities is a core foundational element in Syilx gathering practices. Turner, Bouchard, and Kennedy (1980, 150) include my parents, an aunt, and two uncles among the expert informants in their research on Okanagan ethnobotany. They note that all plants, particularly those important as foods and medicines, are regarded with the utmost respect and reverence and that medicines of all types are still treated in the modern day with reverence and respect, being spoken to and asked for help as they are gathered and prepared. They also report that about 130 of the 260 species of plants known to the Okanagan-Colville were used as medicines (ibid., 152–3). Although these practices might be attributed to an unsophisticated belief system, the fact that they remain a prevailing, common, and contemporary custom of Syilx harvesters, hunters, and fishermen suggests that the nature of the practices reflected a deeper social purpose than ancient mysticism. In the Syilx view, a profound knowledge of living nature provides for an understanding that regeneration is the foundation of such practices of respect. I accompanied my mother, my uncle, and my aunt to gather medicines that gave the gift of health, and because I learned the care of those same plants, I have the same reverence. Ethnographic studies of the Syilx reveal evidence of practices, visible and recognizable in modern systems as valuable forms of conservation, exercised by fisheries and hunting chiefs and village subchiefs whose regulatory powers were law. Chance (1973, 20) refers to subchiefs as “subsistence governors” and makes specific explanatory reference to the “Salmon Chief,” who supervised the distribution of salmon from the main traps to the women at sundown each day. The timing, he speculates, coincided with knowing the extent of the day’s catch. Other regulators, such as local head men and head women, determined and monitored harvest takes, decided on the annual harvest areas that were open for roots, berries, fresh fish, and mammals, and left other sites to regenerate. Post (1938, 14) explains that each Sylix village had a head man, not appointed by the chief, who directed the communal hunting and fishing of the village. He also reports that salmon weirs could be built at only a few places on the Okanagan River, with the first step being an announcement by a head man or a head woman, which occurred at a winter dance with the permission of the chief, and that the resulting trap was to be communal. My family has conducted winter dances throughout my life, and I have witnessed, even in recent times, the announcements at winter dances of salmon work by the Okanagan Nation fisheries. Oral and written records reveal similar common practices in every area of the Okanagan Syilx territory, as well as for neighbouring Interior Salish peoples (see Teit 1909). Invisible to external eyes are the traditional best-practice schemes

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and regulations. One of the more recently understood of these approaches, being considered by ecologists today, is the use of fire for regenerative purposes. Post (1938, 19), among others, reports the use of this practice by the ColvilleOkanagan, who were said to have set fire to the underbrush in the late fall, a process repeated over the same territory every three years to prevent the dead logs and underbrush from accumulating. Contemporary oral knowledge further expands on this explanation. From personal observation in the Armstrong family, I can attest that my grandmother, Christine Armstrong, directed the men to set fires to forested areas in specific places close to the Penticton village. Her clear explanation of the importance of burning was that it took care of the land by feeding the soil and initiating new growth that would provide forage for the deer and increase the productivity and quality of berries for the birds, the bears, and ourselves. Personal observations and my own life-long experiences of best practice include common field-harvest protocols held by community women harvesters. Like gardening folk wisdom, Syilx field-harvest practices are simply passed on in the field as the best way to do it. Few such best-practice methods regarding customs known to most Syilx harvesters even in the modern day are in the published records of research. Methods are observed informally for diverse plant harvests and include many forms of maintaining and enhancing the regeneration of different crops. Examples include counting how much to take from within an eye-measured standing radius, measuring step distances between plants to harvest, learning how to discriminate regarding the size that a plant must be in order to harvest its underground tubers, taking only one individual root from twinned or tripled root plants, determining how big of a patch must be left intact between harvested patches or plots, harvesting from alternate fields or slopes, and skipping harvesting from a particular area for a year or for several years to let it rest and regenerate, perhaps similar to fallowing land in agriculture. Enhancement of older root-field sections is carried out by poking dig holes to allow seeds to better take hold as well as through broadcast reseeding of discarded, damaged berries. Some families practise ritual bush beating or shaking after harvesting to release the remaining berries with their seeds for regeneration. In the southern part of the Okanagan, seedpod beating ceremonially months after harvesting roots is a practice that brings family members together to care for their area. The need to protect newly productive areas from any harvest or disturbance in order to strengthen and encourage growth is communicated among hunters and harvesters by word of mouth. These kinds of practices are the result of long-term, “deep” knowledge utilized in the annual harvesting of very specific sites, and they clearly demonstrate how people assure food security and assert their food sovereignty, reinforced and passed on by being out there on the land. In short, Syilx land use is identified and characterized by permanent tending practices that ensure local sustainability and is

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expressed through long-term occupancies and formal local authorities as regulatory measures. food security is food sovereiGnty Despite the disastrous dispossessions and domination of traditional lands, waters, and food-harvesting areas during the colonial period, most Syilx families have never abandoned their caretaking practices. We have always held the right to tend and harvest foods from all areas of our unceded territory despite the many decades of persecution through provincial conservation laws limiting and obstructing our harvesting on Crown lands. A good example of the legal attitude against our traditional harvesting rights is the case of Jacob Kruger and Robert Manual, both Syilx men of the Penticton Indian Band, charged in 1966 for killing four deer for food outside of the provincially determined hunting season and outside of our formal reserve lands. Kruger and Manual chose to assert their right to hunt on the lands on which the Syilx had always hunted and within the hunting season of the Syilx. The case took twelve years to reach a final appeal, adjudicated by the Supreme Court of Canada in 1977. Giving reasons for finding against the defendants, Justice Brian Dickson noted, “However abundant the right of Indians to hunt and to fish, there can be no doubt that such right is subject to regulation and curtailment by the appropriate legislative authority” (Kruger v. Regina 1978). Similarly, in 1975 a Syilx chief, Noel Derriksan of the Westbank Indian Band, was charged for fishing at an important Syilx kokanee salmon fishing station in the middle of Okanagan territory. By fishing and being charged, he chose, on behalf of the families who were being obstructed and harassed at the site, to challenge the province’s right to impose its regulations. His case also went to the Supreme Court of Canada, and his final appeal was denied. The statement from Justice Boris Laskin said, “[W]e are all of the view that the Fisheries Act, R.S.C 1970, c. F -14, and the Regulations thereunder which, so far as relevant here, were validly enacted, have the effect of subjecting the alleged right to the controls imposed by the Act and Regulations” (Regina v. Derriksan 1976). The countless such cases tried and prosecuted in the province’s lower courts over the past century, almost all ending in fines and incarcerations, remain in the memories of elders and knowledge keepers and in our oral and local historical records. I recall a heart-wrenching incident in my own family when the older women – aunts and cousins – were stopped by conservation officers while out picking berries and had their full baskets dumped on the ground. They had gathered some of the few dollars they had among them for gas to go to their remote Syilx traditional berry-picking area at the Arrow Lakes, over 240 kilometres from Penticton, in order to camp and pick huckleberries, called st̕ xaɬq (“sweet fruit,” Vaccinium membranaceum). Huckleberries are the most treasured

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of berries among the Syilx because of their sweetness, the long distances to access such high-country crops, and the extremely hard work of harvesting them. That story of how these precious berries were thrown away by conservation officials is still tearfully retold, recounting how those old women tried to fight those officers in order to protect the berries they were so happily bringing home to their families, to be served at the feasts and ceremonies to come. Until the final appeal decision in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997) – three years before the twentieth century ended – the legal attitude was that provincial laws overrode Aboriginal rights held by the Indigenous peoples of the province. As the summary of the reasons for judgment outlined, the appeal case found that the provinces have not possessed the jurisdiction to extinguish Aboriginal rights held by First Nations (Blake, Cassels & Graydon 1998). The Supreme Court of Canada held that from Confederation to 17 April 1982, only the federal government retained the jurisdiction to extinguish Aboriginal rights, as per section 91(24) of the British North America Act, which granted the federal government jurisdiction to legislate in relation to “Indians and Lands Reserved for Indians.” I recall the happiness expressed by the hunters, fishers, and harvesters in our extended family when this decision came down. How they talked into the night about being able to travel to their favourite traditional camps to get good food without hiding and without the fear of losing their meat, fish, roots, or berries. The fear of food being confiscated for evidence or dumped by conservation officers was not fear of the officers themselves but fear of losing self-control and reacting violently upon witnessing such disrespect toward themselves and the food they had harvested. The weight of the years of such fierce suppressed anger and the trauma that arose in the hearts of our men and women were to be left in the past. Our family and others in the Syilx communities would now go home to their harvest areas in big extended groups to do their traditional harvesting, fishing, and hunting together and without persecution. The Syilx people strongly defend the local resource areas they use as a responsibility to food security and as a right to protect the environment in adherence to their own laws. A good example is how the Syilx blocked traffic on roads to a local ski resort in 1994 in order to protest an intended expansion of the resort. The Globe and Mail, in a national flashback, reported that the protest lasted for two months until the resort and the Penticton Indian Band signed a peace accord aimed at resolving outstanding environmental issues connected with the expansion (Clarke 2009). Such a personalized level of responsibility has become embedded in our social institutions, our political leadership, and our governance. This institutionalizing of the Syilx ethic is possible only through accessible and localized knowledge of the requirements of the living things within our territory. Other First Nations have similar ethical practices embedded within their own laws and ways of being on their lands (see Ignace and Ignace 2017).

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revitalizinG beinG out on the land Gathering our foods in the same places year after year and generation after generation has created specific knowledge of the requirements of the places where we live. We have experienced firsthand, as well as through the sharing of older generations, how each place requires us to act reciprocally as a necessary part of our own well-being. Being out on the land gives us an inner feeling of stability and security – a sense that it will always be there to take care of us and that it is the only thing on which we can fully depend. The land speaks through its bounty and generosity to us. It speaks to us of belonging to it and gives us hope for the future. When we are out there, it brings us an incredible feeling of happiness, freedom, and being loved. In that way, it is the spiritual guiding force for our human interactions within it. Although most Syilx families have never abandoned hunting, fishing, and harvesting, many have lost essential knowledge of the land as a result of the generations of removals of children from families to residential schools during the most essential formative years of a child’s learning and development. Over the past twenty-five years, there have been increased efforts to revitalize Syilx culture by fostering a resurgence in celebrating and introducing the daily eating of our own foods, not just for ceremonial purposes but also as normalized into our day-to-day diets. Although this revitalization is challenging, the Syilx model of asserting rights through food sovereignty is flourishing and is achieving remarkable outcomes. Gathering our food is essential to our diets not only in terms of physical wellness but also, and more importantly, in terms of healing the long years of psychological and spiritual damage affecting the lives of our families, which is especially evident in our youth at risk. Syilx leaders, knowledge keepers, and teachers have found ways to integrate knowledge and use of our own foods into all aspects of community development, including language, cultural education, health, economic development, and the governance of our nation. In particular, ceremonies, which were part of the “governance” system as institutionalized public displays of gratitude and sharing, are being revitalized. Throughout my youth and as a young parent as well as later during my own time of similar work, one of my duties was to take my elders to our four food ceremonies, which are held in various communities each year: the first-roots feast in the spring, the berry feast in the summer, the salmon and deer feasts in the early fall, and the sal̕luscin (four foods feast) in the late fall. I always looked forward to the large public dinners for the first-roots feast held by the cousin-aunt whom I am named after. While she lived, Aunt Jeannette set a model in place in the way that she recruited young men and women who were seeking sobriety and healing to go with her through the entire year to gather foods at all the places she knew. She taught them how to observe the gratitude protocols of each place

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and how to gather, preserve, and prepare the foods for the feasts and giveaways at her winter dance and food feasts. She asked the young men to provide deer meat and salmon for the feasts, to be prepared in the traditional manner of smoking and drying. She brought health and healing through the simple act of maintaining the responsibility for holding the public feasts of gratitude and sharing. In a rare interview, she said, “I have my spring root feast, I have my salmon feast, I have my Indian thanksgiving feast and I have my winter dances. I belong to the four seasons” (Timentwa 1999, 53). Gathering food presents a framework of experiential education that builds community and community-mindedness. Working together to harvest food out on the land provides opportunities to embed the ethic of caring for one another as members of one community and is an essential component of learning the benefits of mutual support. The work of travelling to camping areas, protecting the children from the animals whose home we share, and working hard together builds skills in cooperation. The direct experiencing of protocols of respect in food gathering allows members of the next generation to receive the gift of understanding their role by reclaiming their own unique identity as a valued part of family, community, and land. Instilling these food preferences in our children at an early age is core to good health as well as to promoting system-wide protection, restoration, and preservation of our food-harvesting areas. A learned experience of gathering, preparing, and eating our food engrains the truth that ours is the “right food” for us. The culture of Indigenous food knowledge provides a deeper interaction with our specific places of identity. It also ensures health through practical, spiritual, and psychological fulfilment. Through the Okanagan Nation Alliance (2017a), the Syilx people have developed and offer many programs to support “[r]eclaiming and restoring Syilx ways of being and knowing (world view) through the development of holistic wellness programs and services grounded in a Syilx-centered framework” (see also Okanagan Nation Alliance 2017b). The En’owkin Centre in Penticton, the adult learning and cultural centre of the Syilx people, was mandated in 1982 to develop educational materials and programs aimed at revitalizing language and cultural practice and has been instrumental through all of its courses, workshops, and conservation projects in the work of bringing the people back to living from the land. The En’owkin Centre’s (2017) clear statement of educational philosophy – “Our knowledge and customs are understood and practiced through our relationships to our land and in the way it protects and ensures our continuance and survival” – has been the foundation of over forty years of programs that have successfully embedded the Syilx ethic. Our sovereignty over our own food is ensured by reinvigorating healthy hunting practices so that our young providers understand that the protection of our lands is necessary for food security. That is the strongest form of food security.

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Although reclaiming food-crop lands is a strategic assertion of food sovereignty for Indigenous peoples, a broader sensible reintroduction of abundantly available Indigenous foods into future lifestyles provides better food security for all. Beyond the concept of allowing open “foraging” for aquatic and land foods, leading to examples like the unmanaged and devastating “commercialization” of huckleberries, we need a new public framework that prioritizes reconciliation with Indigenous peoples based on the preservation of the lands they need, use, and protect in very specific ways. Affirming protection and secure access to lands and waters that are specific to Indigenous peoples’ use is an investment in health, local food autonomy, environmental protection, and conservation of the earth’s biodiversity. It is an exciting area of change, one in which actualizing reconciliation will transform society as creative thinking and new collaborations are achieved. As Indigenous peoples, we are committed to our own food sovereignty, which ultimately requires collaboration and reconciliation with our surrounding tribal relatives and with our non-Indigenous settler relatives. into the future Revitalizing food security has opened up ways to restore our health and culture, build community, and reinstate Syilx water ceremonials through food celebrations, feasts, and traditional sharing. Wild sockeye salmon raised by the people of the Okanagan Nation, including the children in all local schools, now feed the whole Columbia River system. Indigenous and non-Indigenous people worked together to make this happen, reflecting a Syilx view of reciprocity, responsibility, and food sovereignty. Salmon are once again a major Syilx food harvest. Youth are relearning fishing methods, and adults are relearning how to prepare and preserve one of the most important foods of our peoples. Okanagan sockeye restoration has been a Syilx Nation effort since 1996 in collaboration with international and federal departments of fisheries and oceans, Washington State public utility districts, three municipalities, and eight First Nations and tribal groups on the great Columbia River system. Sockeye now return to the Okanagan River in numbers not seen in the past sixty years. The project inspired two long-term collaborative land conservation projects to restore large tracts of original river system along with the river’s riparian forests. I saw the first salmon return in over sixty years at the Okanagan Falls traditional fishery (see also chapter 16, this volume). I will cherish the day that I watched the salmon jump, thinking of the possibilities for the future in other places. Indigenous food sovereignty is good for the whole earth. It is a proactive way to implement article 8J of the United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity (1992) and to actualize the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007) here in Canada. Food sovereignty projects require cooperation

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and the support of allies who care about the earth. A recent historic treaty to bring back wild bison provides an example of a powerful model. The Northern Tribes Buffalo Treaty, signed in Montana on 23 September 2014 by eleven Indigenous nations and tribes on both sides of the Canada-US border, established intertribal alliances for the restoration of free-roaming bison on reserves and co-managed lands within the United States and Canada, collectively making up more than 2.6 million hectares throughout the two countries (Derworiz 2014). There are many other animals, fish, birds, and plants that we could call upon to bring us together in order to address the necessity of stabilizing food security and food sovereignty. Helping to restore these lifeforms to their former abundance will serve both the purposes of reconciliation with Indigenous peoples and the restoration of the environment. In this time of global climate change and humanitarian crisis, we have one of the best opportunities in Canada and in British Columbia to stand together and to actualize a commitment in ourselves to a better future for all of our children and the beautiful living things we have been gifted with in these lands.

references Blake, Cassels & Graydon. 1998. “Paper: Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (SCC) – Summary of the Reasons for Judgment of Chief Justice Lamer – 1998.” http://nativemaps.org/?p=2151. Chance, D.H. 1973. Influences of the Hudson’s Bay Company on the Native Cultures of the Colville District. Moscow, ID: University of Idaho. Clarke, B. 2009. “Flashback / 15 Years Ago / 25 Years Ago.” Globe and Mail, 13 November. https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/flashback-15-years-ago-25-yearsago/article4215386/. Corntassel, J. 2012. “Re-Envisioning Resurgence: Indigenous Pathways to Decolonization and Sustainable Self-Determination.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 1, no. 1: 86–101. Daly, H.E. 1996. Beyond Growth: The Economics of Sustainable Development. Boston: Beacon. Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1997] 3 SCR 1010. Derworiz, C. 2014. “Historic Buffalo Treaty Signed by First Nations to Bring Back Bison.” Calgary Herald, 23 September. http://www.calgaryherald.com/news/Historic+Buffalo+ Treaty+signed+First+Nations+bring+back+bison/10229219/story.html. En’owkin Centre. 2017. “About En’owkin.” http://www.enowkincentre.ca/about.html. Ignace, M., and R.E. Ignace. 2017. Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓s-kucw. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Kruger v. Regina, [1978] 1 SCR 104. Okanagan Nation Alliance. 2017a. “Wellness.” https://www.syilx.org/wellness/. – 2017b. “n’titxw Chief Salmon.” https://www.syilx.org/fisheries/okanagan-sockeye/. Post, R.H. 1938. “The Subsistence Quest.” In The Sinkaietk or Southern Okanogan of Washington, ed. L. Spier, 9–34. Menasha, WI: George Banting. Regina v. Derriksan, 1976, CanLII 1270 (SCC).

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South Okanagan Similkameen Conservation Program. 2012. Keeping Nature in Our Future: A Biodiversity Conservation Strategy for the South Okanagan Similkameen. Penticton, BC: South Okanagan Similkameen Conservation Program. Suzuki, D., A. McConnell, A. Mason. 1997. The Sacred Balance: Rediscovering Our Place in Nature. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre. Teit, J.A. 1909. The Jesup North Pacific Expedition. Vol. 2, part 7, The Shuswap. Ed. Franz Boas. Leiden: E.J. Brill; New York: G.E. Stechert and Co. – 1975. The Salishan Tribes of the Western Plateaus: An Extract from the 45th B.A.E. Annual Report 1927–28. Seattle: Shorey Book Store. Timentwa, J. 1999. “Native Songs and Food Gathering Traditions.” Interview by R. Chamberlain. In Spirit of the First People: Native American Music Traditions of Washington State, ed. W. Smith and E. Ryan, 50–61. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Turner, N.J., R. Bouchard, and D. Kennedy. 1980. Ethnobotany of the Okanagan-Colville Indians of British Columbia and Washington. Victoria: BC Provincial Museum. United Nations. 1992. United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity. https://www.cbd.int/convention/text/. – 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/ development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenouspeoples.html. Walters, L.V.W. 1938. “Social Structure.” In The Sinkaietk or Southern Okanogan of Washington, ed. L. Spier, 71–99. Menasha, WI: George Banting.

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3 Nuučaan̓ uł Plants and Habitats as Reflected in Oral Traditions: Since Raven and Thunderbird Roamed Marlene Atleo (Ɂeh Ɂeh nah tuu kʷiss) When QuɁušinmit (Son of Raven) flew over the dark waters, he was looking for the light. All over the world he flew. As the story of the Northwest Coast is told, Son of Raven saw a ḥaw’ił (chief)1 keeping the light in a huupakʷan’um (bentwood box) in which the ḥaw’ił kept his treasures. The ḥaw’ił would open the chest now and again to admire his greatest prize, the light. As he admired it, some light leaked out. QuɁušinmit, keen-sighted and possibly the smartest bird on the coast, caught a glimpse and vowed to get it at any cost. – Based on E.R. Atleo (2004, 6–10)

overview This chapter provides an intimate account of people-plant relationships from my perspective as a member of the Nuučaan̓uł (Nuu-chah-nulth) community of Ahousaht. As my contribution to this volume, it focuses on the role of botanical and environmental knowledge in considering First Nations’ land rights and title. This reflection takes a storywork approach to learning about plants and their role in the everyday life and culture of the Nuučaan̓uł (Archibald 1997, 2008; M.R. Atleo 2001) and is based on some of the learnings from over half a century of participating in lifeways, relations, and ceremonial living in the Ahousaht community. It is about my experience of how the Ahousaht elders welcomed me into the lineage of the House of Klaaq-ish-peethl/ƛ’aaq-iš-piił by socializing me into the tsawalk/čawaak (oneness) of relationships in which the people, the plants, the animals, and the territory exist in the indivisible unity of story over time.

Ahousaht First Nation is located on Flores Island at the ancient site of Maaqtusiis, a remote Nuučaan̓uł community on the west coast of Vancouver Island. I married E. Richard Atleo (Umeek), the elder descendant of the Atleo lineage and the third chief of Ahousaht, becoming “Mrs Richard,” who needed schooling in her role as wife, mother, sister, cousin, aunt, grandmother, granddaughter, and friend. Fresh off the plane from Vancouver with my four-monthold son, Shawn, I stepped onto Mark Atleo’s troller, the Shamrock, at the dock in Tofino for the two-hour ride to Maaqtusiis. In many ways, I was just another woman coming into the community from afar who needed to be schooled in the local knowledge. As we moved into a house on stilts with Nan (Grace) Margaret Atleo, the matriarch of the family, and Teddy George, a prominent Kelsemaht chief, it was clear from the beginning that I was expected to be able to learn how to fit in – initially in their home and then in the larger community – and so I did. The focus of this chapter is the role of specific plants in the life to which I was introduced in the territory where Nuučaan̓uł women have lived for millennia. It is my version of the story as it was shared with me so that I would be able to nourish and nurture my family through the sacred teachings of family, community, and mythos, which emphasize the riches of the surrounding life. Thus my schooling is grounded in the kinship into which I married and in the relations that I have developed in Ahousaht over a lifetime. In this context, I need to acknowledge the relational logic of the training. This storywork is based on the knowledge embedded in the human and territorial relationships in which plants are embedded, which is often a vehicle for what Turner (1979) calls “Indian technology.” The storywork is anchored by my experience as a person who has long been expected to actively participate in narrating the story of the lineage to which I belong. In fact, the storywork is a complex of epistemology, ontology, and axiology manifest in lineage, time, territory, social roles, positions, and the stories that weave culture into lived experience (Archibald 1997, 2008; M.R. Atleo, 2001, 2008a). The Nuučaan̓uł elders oriented me (M.R. Atleo 2009) to engagement with the living world, the intimacy of which Armstrong (2008, 2009; see also chapter 2, this volume) so effectively articulates and Bourdieu (1990) characterizes sociologically as habitus. In this habitus, cultural capital is developed. It may be embodied (e.g., knowing how to recognize basket materials, where to pick them, and how to physically manage their production), objectified (e.g., creating a basket to give), and institutionalized (e.g., being known as the best cedar hat weaver on the coast or being able to lead others in the development of aspects of cultural capital). In this case, it reflects my education about the relationships between Ahousaht people and plants, which are regarded as companions in the territory, providers of medicine, food, shelter, clothing, transportation, and names, and sources of cultural meaning. This work has augmented the cultural and social capital of the lineage and has become a part of the treasures of the huupakʷan’um. Knowledge is recognized as

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3.1 | Marlene Atleo (centre) with Nan (Grace) Margaret Charlie Atleo (her husband’s paternal grandmother) (left) and Mary Hamilton Little (her husband’s maternal grandmother) (right) in ceremonial dance regalia for the January 1971 birthday celebration of Shawn Atleo (Chiikwsiktin) in Ahousaht, British Columbia.

a special treasure that reproduces the social and cultural capital of the lineage, which is celebrated in designs, songs, stories, dances, landmarks in the territories, or amulets, all of which serve as memory aides or heuristics. Thus my perspective is positioned in the House of ƛ’aaq-iš-piił (liquid fat all over the floor), Hiimix ƛ’aaq (tallow), and Humiis (western redcedar). Because this house is the steward of three resource domains, it has three names and, with its many seats, overflows with the riches, or “fat,” of the sea life, the land mammals, and red cedar respectively. This house thus also overflows with people who are socialized and dedicated to developing competencies needed to manage such riches for their community. As the wife of the head of the house, I was expected by Nan Margaret Atleo to learn all that was needed to support the many people in the house and to aid in managing its riches. It was the role of the grandmothers to teach me so that I might fulfil their expectation that I should embody enstoried living (M.R. Atleo 2009) through my role as an educator (see figure 3.1). These women were my premier models for familial engagement in the everyday and ritual lives of the Atleo family. They were the matriarchs of the Atleo and Little families respectively. Nan Margaret Atleo came from a chiefly family in Kelsemaht and had married George Atleo (Shamuck George), who was the

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3.2 | Mary Hamilton Little’s famous ch’itapt (slough sedge) basketry, with a foundation of pits’up (inner cedar bark) and woven around a tall bottle, showing the iconic thunderbird and whale design, c. 1972.

third chief of Ahousaht, the father of Eugene, and a grandfather of Richard. Mary Hamilton Little’s father was Chief Dick of Manhousaht. She was an only child who had five children. She was proud because her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were many who had come from one. She was a consummate basket weaver (see figure 3.2). Their combined perspective framed the curriculum that shaped the lens through which I entered into knowledge of the Ahousaht territory and its history. Thus my life lens is shaped by my experience as a German toddler in my paternal grandparents’ extended family and semi-rural household, by my Canadawide experience of living in more than two dozen homes in Ontario, Alberta, and British Columbia, and then by my immersion in Ahousaht teachings as a teenaged wife and mother. Through the embrace and teachings of the elders, lineage, and community, Ahousaht became my heartfelt and official home. I recall canoe trolling with my husband on my birthday that first summer in Ahousaht. My new husband rowed me out across the wide channel in front of

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the village. We landed the canoe on a small pebble beach with a grove of fruit trees. Someone’s apple and plum trees, planted within sight of the village, were decades old and scraggly. Now, they provided food to share with the bears that had marked the trees and deposited scat around them. It was a little scary for this city girl but also exciting since it was a new, fresh experience. The sight of abandoned cultivation was familiar to me. I had lived in remote areas of British Columbia where the “plant people” had swiftly reclaimed spaces abandoned by humans. In that grove across the channel, the wild miłk’iw̓ um (gooseberries, Ribes divaricatum) and y̓am̓ a (salal, Gaultheria shallon) that were reclaiming the space were still green in early August. There was detritus at the tidal zone, promising good things to come, which were still invisibly embedded in the territory, to be embodied in experience and enstoried in memory. We were enjoined by the elders to “watch until it becomes clear to you” (M.R. Atleo 2008b). Umeek speaks of the concept of hišukiš čawaak (“everything is one”) (E.R. Atleo 2004, 117), and so it is when experience, memory, territory, and kinships are relationally understood in cultural context. Thus oral knowing is narrative knowing (Polkinghorne 1988) that results in narrative explanations, converts “congeries of events into concatenations, and emphasizes and increases the scope of synoptic judgment in our reflection on experience” (Mink 1968, 191, quoted in Ricoeur 1990, 157). In short, narrative is a powerful cognitive instrument with which to create meaningful wholeness. We make sense of a jumble of events by turning them into a narratology in story in order to create meaning (Fludernik 2002). This chapter follows suit, as it offers a narrativizing of my life in relation to the plants in the ecology of the Nuučaan̓uł people. To do so in English, I also need to acknowledge that I am operating within a crossparadigmatic/cross-cultural logic, akin to what might be identified as the logic displayed on a two-row wampum belt, except that mine has three strands of history rather than just two (M.R. Atleo 2012). Kuhn (1962) claims that operating within logics across paradigms is not possible because they are incommensurable, but people do it everyday as they externalize their inner worlds. How do they do it? They do it through relational logic, which moves toward or away from oneself in some way – in my case, through a triple cycle of knowing (M.R. Atleo 2012). Thus my story proceeds by moving through the annual cycle of the West Coast to illustrate how Nuučaan̓uł plant teachings and use entered into my life story in the Ahousaht territories. Humiis/western redcedar The annual round starts by acknowledging the Atleo lineage house name of Humiis – named for the western redcedar (Thuja plicata), the life-giving tree that makes possible the culture of winter feasts (Stewart 1984). The redcedar is acknowledged as the life-giver because it allows its transformation into the

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čapac (canoe) for travelling far and wide on the highways of the sea; provides the pits’up (inner bark) that is woven into mats for eating and sleeping on and that is worked into all manner of woven textiles, including capes, hats, dancing shawls, and soft pounded fibres for diapers; is used for the carved welcome figures on the beach and in the feast halls; and furnishes the very boards of the halls themselves, which are built with a uniquely West Coast architecture anchored in the mighty stands of humiis. So important is humiis that it is one of the names of the Atleo lineage house. After the feasting, in the winter when the salmon are scarce, the ƛusmit (herring) becomes the life-giver, being smoked, boiled, and dried. Girls coming of age are taught not to despise eating herring because they are bony and so labour-intensive to preserve but to rejoice in the gift of their flesh, which is able to feed the family in winter. The shape of the head of the deer’s ulna bone provides the perfect handgrip for extended herring gutting, making it possible to fill the rows of cedar or alder (Alnus rubra) sticks used in the smokehouse. I gave my granddaughters such čiimaak (knives), along with the story that cultivates the love of ƛusmit, for their Ɂiičt’uuta (female coming of age) ceremony, as a reminder of the vital importance to their families of herring during winter scarcity. Herring is a hedge against starvation. K’ʷaqmis (herring spawn) announces the early spring, when the shoals of fish begin to surface in the bays. At the first sign of the herring, young qʷiƛ’aqmapt (hemlock) trees (Tsuga heterophylla) on which they can lay their spawn are anchored in the bays. Schooling herring release milt that creates milky shoals as the eggs are fertilized to create spawn, dressing the trees in a creamy icing-like layer of goodness. Families take up the trees to strip the spawn, which are plump and sound crunchy: “kʷaq, kʷaq, kʷaq.” Today, kʷaqmis is salted, bagged in plastic, and often frozen. In the past, it was dried in the March winds and sunshine on hemlock branches stripped from the trunk. Sometimes, it was gathered on long ribbon-like leaves of ćaaÿimc (seagrass, Zostera marina) or surfgrass (Phyllospadix spp.). In days gone by, when steamed, it may have been dressed with ƛ’iińa (oolichan grease) or ƛaaq (whale oil) stored in bulbs of husmin (bull kelp, Nereocystis luetkeana). Today, it may be dressed with butter or perhaps Yamasa soy sauce. It is a singular treat! Spring usually comes early to the West Coast, announcing itself in the greening of the landscape. Bracken ferns (šiƛmapt, Pteridium aquilinum) spring up, their fiddleheads unfurling. Shoots of skunk cabbage (tima’t, Lysichiton americanus) burst into broad leaves, providing plenty of fronds for the pit cooking, berry drying, and food preparation of the year. Possibly, because of their waxy coating, they function like parchment paper in baking and cooking. Today, the leaves are usually replaced by less hygenically offensive brown cardboard, gunny sacks, Handi Wipes, newspaper, parchment paper, or other wraps and fiber products that are imported, sometimes incidentally, to the community.

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3.3 | Using a č’it’aqƛ, fashioned from a piece of Swede-saw blade and some cedar wood. Note the use of cardboard as a cutting surface for salmon.

These other materials do not have the anti-microbial qualities of the fern fronds (Lee and Shin 2011), which had inhibited spoilage when they were used to wipe the mucus and dirt off the many species of salmon processed during the year. Teddy George helped me to fashion my č’it’aqƛ from a piece of Swede-saw blade, using a scrap of redcedar for the handle. The photo in figure 3.3 was taken during a staff demonstration of how to cut fish for tl’upč’as, or barbecuing on a split stick that mimics the feeding grip of the tl’upisum (raccoon). The photo is a good example of how cardboard is used in the cutting of salmon. In this case, it was a Somass River sockeye, donated by Wilma Keitlah for the North Island College Barbecue in Port Alberni, British Columbia, in the late spring of 2003 that permitted this demonstration of traditional salmon processing, complete with the teachings that follow. For the most part, the canon of Victorian hygiene instilled in residential school operations and training (Kelm 1999) robbed community members of their cultural confidence in using local plants and processing knowledge. That canon required food to be processed by washing everything with fresh water, which was contra to the traditional food-processing technology. The oral tradition that fresh water should never touch salmon was observed during the processing of the fish for smoking and drying. In our family, this tradition continues to be

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observed. The mucous film encasing the salmon is scraped off with the č’it’aqƛ (D-shaped fish knife) and wiped away with paper, whereas traditionally fronds of šiƛmapt (bracken fern, Pteridium aquilinum) would be used. Because salmon is a salt water fish, fresh water was never consumed with ocean-caught salmon. According to custom, doing so would have been disrespectful to the spirit of the salmon. The cultural norms that were instilled by such teachings created a foundation for interaction between species based on mutual survival and sustainability. The mucus that covers salmon protects the fish physically and immunologically, whereas fresh water degrades the mucus. Merely scraping the mucus off meant that some would remain for the smoking and drying process, possibly as a protection against spoilage. In the early 1980s, I was working in the shipping department of a major BC fishing company when commercial trollers were encouraged not to wash their salmon catch but to retain the mucous film encasing the whole fish because it preserved the freshness longer for air shipments to markets. Science had caught up with oral tradition! Qaawii/berries The greening of spring brought with it new growth on the qaawii (berry) bushes. Qaawii were highly prized and anticipated by all. Of interest, first, were the tender m̓ aayi (shoots) of salmonberry (Rubus spectabilis). I remember the young children who came to sit on Nan Margaret Atleo’s porch peeling the outer layer from the shoots to expose the tender inner core and asking her for sugar to dip them into. Ah, bliss! Tender m̓ aayi were so highly desirable that when Raven was attempting to get into the chief ’s house to steal the light, he disguised himself as a giant m̓ aayi to tempt the chief ’s daughter to eat it – so that she might become pregnant with him, but that is another story! Of course, m̓ aayi are usually thin and delicate. Raven gave himself away! The chief ’s daughter saw through the ploy and did not eat the fat m̓ aayi. M̓ aayi heralds the berry-growing season. There are many desirable berries that yield their nutritional bounty, including qawii (salmonberries), tł’aachɁaał (thimbleberries, Rubus parviflorus), kałkintapiih (strawberries, Fragaria spp.), hisɁinwa (red huckleberries, Vaccinium parvifolium), situp (blueberries, V. alaskaense, V. ovalifolium), hisshitł (blackberries, R. ursinus), y̓am̓ a (salal), quɁušinamapt (Oregon-grape, Mahonia aquifolium), p’ap’aɁis (bog cranberries, V. oxycoccos), and late in the fall, siinamuxsɁits (evergreen huckleberries, V. ovatum). Almost six months or more of nutritious, ripe berries are available in the territory. Traditionally, berries would be dried and formed into cakes to be consumed over the winter as a bountiful source of vitamins A and C. In my day, cases of blackberries and cranberries were jarred for use in sweet desserts, and salal and blackberries were made into jam. Even today, the value of the “sweet” called

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3.4 | Evergreen huckleberries (siinamuxsɁits, Vaccinium ovatum) in fall.

chumas starts with berries and other fruit. Especially after a feed of seafood, some chumas is always served. In late August, a week-long gathering of Nuučaan̓uł hawii (chiefs) at Friendly Cove was an occasion for Umeek and me to be invited for a dip in the deepbrown, tannin-rich depths of the ritual pool of the Muwač’ath Yuquot Whaling Shrine (Jonaitis and Inglis 1999). Along the well-trodden path above the beach, I spied a veritable hedge of siinamuxsɁits (evergreen huckleberries) the like of which I had never seen because they are usually lone-growing plants. The ripening berries were also larger than any I had ever seen (see figure 3.4). The hedge has been clearly cultivated over years. Even today, the huckleberry plants that line the pathway grow tall and thick in the face of the winds in the area; indeed, Yuquot (“windy place”) derives its name from the word yuiɁiɁis (windy). Plant Materials in nuučaan̓ uł technoloGy Whether wood, sedges, roots, withes, or reeds, both fibrous and nonfibrous plants have provided the raw materials for fashioning the goods needed for

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daily life. The embodied knowledge of the Nuučaan̓uł brings the territory alive as a storehouse of materials that are culturally encoded to be recognizable as required. The yew, or “ironwood,” tree – referred to as ƛatmapt (“wedge plant,” Taxus brevifolia) – once provided wood for digging sticks, bailers, and wedges. Ceremonial implements were also fashioned from the wood to last, and the leaves were part of the medicine storehouse. Even today, extracts from yew bark have become part of modern oncological medicinary, of which Taxol is one such brand (Bryan 2011). The rhizomes of hihit’a (licorice fern, Polypodium glycyrrhiza), readily available growing in the moss patches on the trees, provided an important appetite suppressant. All manner of kelps are available on the shoreline. The beach keeper in Ahousaht, the second chief, manages the shoreline. I have witnessed children fashioning toys from the husmin (bull kelp, Nereocystis luetkeana) on the beach, including dolls with the leafy fronds braided like hair and puppets with the bulbs shaped into heads. To make cars and trucks, the round, hollow stems can be used as “wheels,” and races have taken place on the front beach, where children play at life, practising for adulthood and using the resources at hand. The relational networks of cultural logics are expressed in the relationship between people’s names and the world to which their names refer. Atl-iu (Atleo) is the name of the takumlth (group) to which members of the lineage of the third chief of the Ahousaht people belong. Atl-iu also refers to a technology, a three-stranded lanyard made of cedar withes whose enormous tensile strength is capable of towing whales to shore. This tradition is about 4,500 years old (McMillan 2015). The originator of this ancient economic activity of whaling, the first Umeek, got his insight during Ɂuusumč (ritual bathing) from a Friendly Stranger. Iiychtuup (whale) means “something big/valuable” – a reasonable observation because, previous to the economic shift to whaling, the hunt was by twos for seals. A single whale is the equivalent of about 3,000 seals in nutritional value (M.R. Atleo 2001). The whaling harpoon and spear were made of California mussel shell, yew wood, and pitch. But, as one Ahousaht woman told me (Charlie 1975), it was so much more than those raw materials because it required knowhow, ritualized physical and mental strengthening, as well as a deep understanding of whales and the environment in which they came to the West Coast. While others waited for drift whales to wash ashore, the first Umeek learned how to call in and catch whales, converting a stick into a weapon with mussel shells and pitch. The twisted cedar withe was tested and found to have a tensile strength of almost 10,000 pounds per square inch (Stewart 1984, 161). The whaling harpoon is clearly a Nuučaan̓uł technological “secret” – a weapon that goes far beyond its mere constituent parts of “mussel shells and pitch” (Charlie 1975; M.R. Atleo 1990; E.R. Atleo 2004, 2006). The Nuučaan̓uł atl-iu provided an incredibly strong, flexible, and long extension of the shaft with which to “shake hands” with the whale since the flex and spring-back action of the launcher were of paramount

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importance. This device evolved into bow and arrows for some applications, but the atl-iu, decontextualized and decultured, may be seen as culminating in the perfected firepower of the harpoons used in the whaling industry. conclusion In this account, I have provided some illustrations of the integrated knowledge conveyed to me as I learned to live in the hahuulthi – or hereditary system of ownership and management of Nuučaan̓uł territories (M.R. Atleo 2006) – of the lineage into which I married and wherein our sons and grandchildren were raised. These are illustrations of the elders’ teachings, which wove me into the integrative wholeness – the oneness – of the relationships between Nuučaan̓uł and the flora and fauna that share the world of the land, the sea, and the air. These relationships between Nuu-chah-nulth and the plants that share the world they both inhabit have existed for millennia – at least since the start of whaling 4,500 years ago (Marshall 1993; M.R. Atleo 2008a). This time period is extended back much further by newly discovered evidence of habitation on the West Coast, such as the Triquet Island discovery dated to 14,000 years ago based on Heiltsuk oral tradition in collaboration with the University of Victoria and the Hakai Institute (Nair 2017), and it may even extend back as much as 130,000 years (Holen et al. 2017). The Nuučaan̓uł assimilated the knowledge of their coastal territory, which has in turn been shaping them since time immemorial as they have culturally modified the landscape. In an ancient context of territorial sovereignty, when Raven and Thunderbird roamed the heavens and the earth, Raven brought the light so that the people might see by gaining a bird’s-eye perspective on life, or a spiritual view. Thunderbird was defeated in the contest for the whale through the prayers of the people who acknowledge the Creator: the Wakashan-speaking Nuučaan̓uł (M.R. Atleo 2011). It is no wonder that the women decorate the very baskets they weave with the good news of such a victory! Increasingly, traditional ecological knowledge, cultural teachings and usage, as well as language are being revived and practised in the community (Atleo and Fitznor 2010), supported by the assertions of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015), the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (1996), and of course the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). In 1998, when I attended the UNESCO symposium on the biodiversity of sacred sites (see M.R. Atleo 1998), the attendees codified the criteria for sacred sites. From the front beach of Maaqtusiis, the Atleo family has a clear view and is within earshot of the sacred sites that circumscribe the family’s multimillennial history. It is time that Canada recognized this Indigenous history and Canada’s legal obligation by co-scripting with the Ahousaht people the fulfilment of the recognition of Aboriginal rights articulated in section 35 of the

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Constitution Act, 1982 rather than continuing to attempt to thwart such serious dialogic reconciliation through contentious court cases and spurious legislation. True reconciliation can be achieved only if Indigenous and non-Indigenous Canadians collaborate in rewriting an inclusive Canadian history.

note 1 Throughout the chapter, Nuu-chah-nulth t’aat’aaqsapa (words) are from Powell (1991), Scientific Panel for Sustainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound (1995), and Stonham (2005).

references Archibald, J. 1997. “Coyote Learns to Make a Storybasket: The Place of First Nations Stories in Education.” PhD diss., Simon Fraser University. – 2008. Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body, and Spirit. Vancouver: UBC Press. Armstrong, J. 2008. “Indigeneity: Situating the Tribal and the Local in the Global.” In North  America in the 21st Century: Tribal, Local, and Global, ed. K.  Knopf, 111–29. Trier, Germany: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. – 2009. “Constructing Indigeneity: Syilx Okanagan Oraliture and tmixʷcentrism.” PhD diss., University of Greifswald, Germany. https://d-nb.info/1027188737/34. Atleo, E.R. 2004. Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2006. Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis. Vancouver: UBC Press. Atleo, M.R. 1990. “Studying Canadian Indigenous Families: A Special Case of Ethnicity in a Multicultural Nation.” In Western Region Home Management and Family Economics Educators Research Conference Papers of the Western Region Home Management and Family Economics Educators, 5, ed. J.M. Hilton, 35–54. Reno, NV: Department of Human Resources and Family Studies, University of Nevada. – 1998. “Hishuk-ish-ts’awalk: The Role of Sacred Sites in the Embodiment of the Territories of Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations.” In “Natural” Sacred Sites: Cultural Diversity and Biological Diversity, 7. Symposium abstracts. https://unesdoc.unesco.org/ark:/48223/ pf0000113456. – 2001. “Learning Models in the Umeek Narratives: Identifying an Educational Framework through Storywork with First Nations Elders.” PhD diss., University of British Columbia. – 2006. “The Ancient Nuu-chah-nulth Strategy of Hahuulthi: Education for Indigenous Cultural Survivance.” International Journal of Environmental, Cultural, Economic and Social Sustainability 2, no. 1: 153–62. – 2008a. “Indigenous Learning Models in the Context of Socio-Economic Change: A Storywork Approach.” In Indigenous Education: Asia/Pacific, ed. W. Heber, 21–32. Regina, SK: Indigenous Studies Research Center, First Nations University. – 2008b. “Watching to See until It Becomes Clear to You: Metaphorical Mapping – A Method for Emergence. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 21, no. 3: 221–33.

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– 2009. “Understanding Aboriginal Learning Ideology through Storywork with Elders.” Alberta Journal of Educational Research 55, no. 4: 453–67. – 2011. “Red Griffin and Thunderbird Nests – Indigenous and Academic Knowledge: Re-Localizing the Global-Glocal.” In North America in the 21st Century: Tribal, Local, and Global – Festschrift für Hartmut Lutz, ed. K. Knopf, 29–40. Trier, Germany: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag. – 2012. “Adult Health Education and Practice: Working with Aboriginal People.” In Health and Adult Learning, Section 2: Adult Education and Health Professionals in Practice, ed. Leona English, 90–106. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Atleo, M.R., and L. Fitznor. 2010. “Aboriginal Educators Discuss Recognizing, Reclaiming and Revitalizing Their Multi-Competences in Heritage/English Language Usage.” Canadian Journal of Native Education 32: 13–34, 154. Bourdieu, P. 1990. The Logic of Practice. Trans. by R. Nice. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Bryan, J. 2011. “How Bark from the Pacific Yew Tree Improved the Treatment of Breast Cancer.” Pharmaceutical Journal, 21 September. https://www.pharmaceutical-journal. com/news-and-analysis/news/how-bark-from-the-pacific-yew-tree-improved-thetreatment-of-breast-cancer/11084729.article. Charlie, Genevive Mack. 1975. Personal communication with author. Fludernik, M. 2002. Towards a ‘Natural’ Narratology. London: Routledge. Holen, S.R., T.A. Demeré, D.C. Fisher, R. Fullagar, J.B. Paces, G.T. Jefferson, J.E. Beeton, R.A. Cerutti, A.N. Rountry, L. Vescera, and K.A. Holen. 2017. “A 130,000-Year-Old Archaeological Site in Southern California, USA.” Nature, 27 April, 479–83. https://www.nature.com/articles/nature22065. Jonaitis, A., and R. Inglis. 1999. The Yuquot Whalers’ Shrine. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Kelm, M.-E. 1999. Colonizing Bodies: Aboriginal Health and Healing in British Columbia, 1900– 50. Vancouver: UBC Press. Kuhn, T. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lee, C.H., and S.L. Shin. 2011. “Functional Activities of Ferns.” In Working with Ferns: Issues and Applications, ed. H. Fernández, A. Kumar, and M.A. Revilla, 347–59. New York: Springer. Marshall, Y.M. 1993. “A Political History of the Nuu-chah-nulth People: A Case Study of the Mowachaht and Muchalaht Tribes.” PhD diss., Simon Fraser University. McMillan, A.D. 2015. “Whales and Whalers in Nuu-chah-nulth Archaeology.” BC Studies, no. 187: 229–61. Mink, L.O. 1968. “The Autonomy of Historical Understanding.” In Philosophical Analysis and History, ed. W.H. Dray, 160–92. New York: Harper and Row. Nair, R. 2017. “Archeological Find Affirms Heiltsuk Nation’s Oral History: Settlement on B.C.’s Central Coast Dated back to 14,000 Years.” CBC News, 30 March. http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/archeological-find-affirmsheiltsuk-nation-s-oral-history-1.4046088. Polkinghorne, D.E. 1988. Narrative Knowing and the Human Sciences. New York: SUNY Press. Powell, J., ed. 1991. Our World – Our Ways: T’aat’aaqsapa Cultural Dictionary. Port Alberni, BC: Nuuchahnulth Tribal Council. Ricoeur, P. 1990. Time and Narrative. Vol. 1. Trans. K. McLaughlin and D. Pellauer. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. 1996. Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. Ottawa: Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada. https://www.bac-lac.gc.ca/

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eng/discover/aboriginal-heritage/royal-commission-aboriginal-peoples/Pages/ final-report.aspx. Scientific Panel for Sustainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound. 1995. First Nations’ Perspectives Relating to Forest Practices Standards in Clayoquot Sound. Victoria: Cortex Consulting. Stewart, H. 1984. Cedar: Tree of Life to the Northwest Coast Indians. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Stonham, J. 2005. A Concise Dictionary of the Nuuchahnulth Language of Vancouver Island. New York: Edwin Mellen. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. Ottawa: Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/ site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Turner, N.J. 1979. Plants in British Columbia Indian Technology. Victoria: British Columbia Provincial Museum. United Nations. 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-therights-of-indigenous-peoples.html.

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4 Tamarack and Tobacco Aaron Mills

This chapter is an edited transcription of Aaron Mills’s talk at the May 2017 symposium. It is a personal narrative about a profound lesson he learned when out on the land with an elder from his nation. Boozhoo indinawemaaganidog. Hello, my dear relatives. Waabishki Ma’iingan indigoo. Makwa indoodem. Koojijing Zaaga’igan indoonjiba. I’m from the Bear Clan. I’m White Wolf, and I’m also known as Aaron Mills. I’m an Anishinaabe from Couchiching First Nation, where I live. I got into Victoria late last night, and I’m very happy to be back at the University of Victoria, near where the Lekwungen and W̱ SÁNEĆ traditional territories meet. I’m delighted to be one small speaker within Nancy J. Turner’s vision. I know she’s had a huge amount of help from Pamela Spalding and so many others, but this is her vision, and I’m very grateful to be part of it and to be able to share one story with you today. It was a long trip. I drove four and a half hours from my reserve to Winnipeg, and then I visited an elder for three hours before catching my three flights to get the rest of the way here. One of the things he has shared with me, time and again, is not to move too quickly in sharing our own system of Anishinaabe inaakonigewin (law). First, we must share that there’s actually a framework within which our system of law lives, makes sense, and finds its own life. So in trying to draw out a link between Anishinaabe law, plants, and sustainability today, I want to focus on what comes before law, instead of jumping directly into it. There are some amazing connections, actually, with what Jeff Corntassel (see chapter 20, this volume) has shared. The first thing I want to do is just to clarify my meaning of the word “sustainability” with respect to the environment. I want, very simply, to reject the idea that with the word “sustainability,” I’m speaking about something – like a “natural” world – beyond myself. Rather,

my view is that there are simply ways of being and of knowing that are either reconcilable or not with “the earthway.” That’s what I want to talk about today: the earthway. Instead of living as we humans think best and trying to manage the earth to the extent that such a vision of good living allows and requires, we can recognize that the earth is inherently ordered, that it is a way, and we can choose to live within it. The earthway is what Odawa elder Cecil King (2014) calls Enendagwad (“The Law of the Orders”), what Basil Johnston (1976, 13) calls “The Great Laws of Nature,” and what Anishinaabe, Nehetho, and Dakota elders at Turtle Lodge, whom I sometimes have the pleasure of sitting with, call “The Great Binding Law” (Oshoshko Bineshiikwe et al. 2015). And I wanted to share two stories to try to flesh out this idea of earthway-as-law, but it would take far too long, so I’m actually just going to share one of those stories today. It’s a dibaajimowin, one of my own stories, not a legend. I lived in Victoria for four years, and two years ago I moved back to my reserve in Ontario. I didn’t grow up there. I moved away when I was three. And so now I often find myself a very active participant and a keen volunteer when we’re engaging in our traditional practices, trying to learn what I wasn’t able to learn growing up. One of the folks I sometimes help is an elder in the nearby community of Mitaanjigamiing First Nation. It’s an hour and fifteen minute drive from my house, the last leg of which is 28 kilometres down a bush road that connects to Rainy Lake. And what he had asked me to help him with on this November day was to go to a swamp just off the bush road to help him find some tamarack poles (Larix laricina, also called larch) (see figure 4.1) for a lodge he was going to rebuild for some particular manidoog (spirits). It was a difficult day: dark, cold, and overcast. Everything was damp and pungent, intermittently sharp and musty, and the whole sky was an impenetrable haze. Well, our plan to go just off the road changed very quickly. We couldn’t find tamarack even though we were looking in the right areas – this elder, formerly a guide, had spent most of his life in the bush. So we went a little bit farther. And then a little bit farther. And a little bit farther. And then – you can see where this is going – we got lost but good. You know, this elder’s in his seventies, and so I clearly realized I was the one to take on more of the physical responsibility here. I tried moving a certain distance, just to see if I recognized some of the trees that we had passed. No luck there. I was very careful to call out to him periodically to make sure he could hear me. When at last I’d gone far enough that I couldn’t, the temperature in the forest seemed suddenly to drop. I returned. I checked my pockets. I had nothing, except tobacco. I always have tobacco on me. But I didn’t have any of the practical things that one would need to responsibly go into the bush at this time of year. My first thought was to ask him if he was diabetic, and he said he was. And I asked him, “When was the last time that you went without a needle?” He said he never has.

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4.1 | Tamarack (mashkiigwaatig, Larix laricina), used for making lodge poles. The Anishinaabe name means “swamp tree.”

We searched for the path for a long time. I can’t speak for my elder, but as for myself, the obvious at last reached me: I was wandering aimlessly through the bush with no idea what I was looking for. I was walking just to not be still. I didn’t have the things that might have helped me to orient myself. So we stopped and we set up a rather poor camp. Our fire smoked more than it burned because everything was wet. We couldn’t find dry wood, but at least we had a small flame. However, we couldn’t sustain it, and so at last, after an extended fight with it, my elder told me to stop trying. He lay down, and he went to sleep. At the time, that made me nervous, but I now realize that he was looking for a dream that would help to give us guidance. He slept for some time, and I sat with the wind and the flickering flame. Once, coming from a direction I was careful to mark, I heard a distant train whistle. As he slept, I grew colder and colder in my stillness until finally I was cold enough that it occurred to me that in addition to being afraid, I had a serious problem. We were way back in the bush and the light was fading quickly. The combination of these factors meant that we wouldn’t be found until morning. I had started to shake. Because I’m not as tough as I would like and because I was ignorant about how much time an adult human under these conditions could readily withstand the cold, I wasn’t entirely sure I would make it until then.

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I looked at my elder sleeping there, trying to discern what my responsibilities were. I was thoroughly ignorant about my surroundings and, critically, about my relationship to them. I was helpless. So, upon reaching that insight, I got up. I walked halfway around our still-burning fire and I dropped my tobacco in, offering up a prayer. And an amazing thing happened! A small circle, the exact size of the sun, opened to reveal it. I marked its direction with a stick and I woke up my elder. I shared these two pieces of information: the direction of the sun and of the train whistle. No, actually, sorry, I was clever enough to build in one failsafe. I asked him where the nearest train crossing was, and he described with respect to his community where it was. And I pointed toward where the train whistle that I’d heard had come from. Then I told him I’d just seen the sun and I showed him where. He immediately stood up and pointed in the direction we needed to walk. I took the damp moss and smothered the fire. I grabbed a bunch of the remaining logs and fashioned a big arrow on the earth in the direction that we were headed. And as we walked, almost 2 kilometres, to get back to the bush road, I blazed our trail with a machete, which the responsible party had with him. We made it out. My elder, with what I thought was fortitude verging on the ridiculous, insisted that we continue the journey for tamarack. We got the poles, and the lodge was soon built. Something fascinating happened, however, the next time I returned to the community. There’s another elder there I’m very close with. Other than my wife, he’s pretty well my best friend. He did something of a traditional knowledge “dump” when he saw me. He was quite upset at the position in which I’d found myself. He would never say to my face how ignorant I am. But I understood the message. And he shared some really important things. He would always note the direction of the clouds at departure time. He would notice when that direction changed. That was one way he would help to orient himself. The same with water – something very, very simple. Moss grows on the north side of trees because of the sun’s arc. He noted especially pine. He also would have noted the angle of trees along the shoreline, especially on islands, because the west wind blows hardest, and so, over time, it actually angles the trees – none of which I knew and all of which would have been extraordinarily helpful. So this story is a narrative about tamarack and tobacco, as well as the woods northwest of Mitaanjigamiing. But it’s also about sustainability, and I have shared it to open up this question: As regards my being lost in the bush with the seemingly endless earth in every direction around me, how does the story frame “sustainability”? At one level, I think the answer is obvious. When cast dramatically into the earthway, I was helpless to sustain my own life. I had no real sense of its rhythms. I couldn’t adequately adapt. But why not? What was I missing? I want to suggest that a very practical, materialist sort of answer – like “the relevant knowledge and skill set” – is insufficient. There’s no question that such knowledge was a

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critical piece of what I was missing, but not all of what I lacked was quite so operational. After all, I am here to tell the tale. So although skills and knowledge are extraordinarily important, they aren’t what spared me. What spared me was my tobacco. For me, the distinction between that particular plant and all the other ones I was immersed in that day is simply that I’m mindful of tobacco. I’m not especially knowledgeable about it, and I’m certainly not skilled with it. I’m not sure what that would even mean. But it’s part of my humdrum life rhythms: I have a relationship with it sustained through time. I often use tobacco when I ask for a gift or when I respond by reciprocally sending mine out into creation. I have a tobacco song in my bundle. Although my answer to the question of my own unsustainability here is articulated in relation to tobacco specifically, my intended point about the earthway is much more general. Sustainability isn’t about possessing the right knowledge and skill set needed to manage the environment and the circumstances it creates. Rather, knowledge and skills matter because they’re vital aspects of a much larger truth. Sustainability is a function of affirming the earthway relationships within which we always already exist; sustainability is about reconciling all of our relationships with the earthway. We are all of the earth, but we are not all living in the earthway. Sustainability isn’t about management, then, for the reason that sustainability admits of no space of human removal from the earth. Within the earth’s inherent order, we are the environment as much as any tree or lake. We have to live that truth in every moment through, with, and in all of our relationships. To my mind, and to connect back to the beginning, this insight is necessary before a meaningful conversation about Anishinaabe law is possible. It’s part of the framework within which Anishinaabe law lives. The last thing I want to say is about my hope for Canadians during the 150th anniversary of Confederation in 2017: try to connect this insight to the larger arc of what this vision is about; stop asking us as Indigenous peoples to translate our law – and our knowledge more generally – from the earthway into your liberal framework. Instead, consider what the earthway holds for all. Mii iw, that’s it, miigwech.

references Johnston, B. 1976. Ojibway Heritage: The Ceremonies, Rituals, Songs, Dances, Prayers and Legends of the Ojibway. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart. King, C. 2014. Address delivered in Sudbury, Ontario, 25 February. On file with author. Oshoshko Bineshiikwe, F. Paynter, M. Maytwayashing, D. Courchene, H. Bone, W. Swain, D. White Bird, D. Linklater, and H. Skywater. 2015. Ogichi Tibakonigaywin, Kihche Othasowewin, Tako Wakan: The Great Binding Law. Sagkeeng First Nation, MN: Turtle Lodge. http://www.turtlelodge.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/ScrollBanner_ TheGreatBindingLaw_24x36-PROOFv03.pdf.

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5 Xáxli’p Survival Territory: Colonialism, Industrial Land Use, and the Biocultural Sustainability of the Xáxli’p within the Southern Interior of British Columbia Arthur Adolph introduction This chapter, focusing on Xáxli’p, a community within the Stl’átl’imx (St’át’imc) Nation of south-central British Columbia,1 synthesizes a community-driven process that pushes back against non-Indigenous legislation, policies, and discourses that purposefully separate Aboriginal people from their lands and resources. From my perspective, by endorsing the resource exploitation of industry and corporations, such legislation impacts Indigenous cultures and lifeways, resulting in destitution. For the Xáxli’p, pushback against these external pressures can be seen in the defiance exhibited by strong leadership, with the full support of elders and community members, in the effort to regain control and management of their territory. Simultaneously, our efforts have been supported by academic work with elders and knowledge holders through scientific, qualitative, community-based research that documents traditional knowledge, including traditional laws, values, and principles. A process aimed at preserving traditional knowledge has in turn been used to regain control of land and resources through a constituted land-use plan that is both ecologically and culturally sustainable. For over a century, like many other Indigenous groups, the Xáxli’p faced the challenges of capitalistic economic interests, resulting in impacts on Aboriginal lands and resources – including forests, food, and medicinal plants – by a range of development. This process was legitimized first by religion and then by colonial government policies, which at the outset instituted private property and a

land tenure system in unceded Aboriginal territories. The impacts of these policies range from disposition of traditional lands to logging, mining, agriculture, road building, and railway construction. Consequently, the ecological integrity of Indigenous lands as well as people’s health and well-being – their very survival – have been seriously compromised. Xáxli’p is just one such example. Xáxli’p, formally known as the Fountain Indian Band, is situated on terraces overlooking the Fraser River and is located 15 kilometres north of the town of Lillooet and 365 kilometres north of Vancouver. Xáxli’p is one of eleven Aboriginal communities that make up the Stl’átl’imx Nation, which encompasses the municipalities of Lillooet, Pemberton, and Whistler. The Stl’átl’imx people are part of the Interior Salish language group in the northwestern part of North America (Kennedy and Bouchard 1998; van Eijk 1997). Within the Stl’átl’imx Nation lies the traditional territory of the Xáxli’p, referred to today as Xáxli’p Survival Territory. This territory extends along the Fraser River north of Lillooet and up to the peaks of the adjacent mountain ranges, with a total area of 31,419 hectares, or 593 square kilometres, a territory that has sustained the Xáxli’p and provided the plants, animals, fish, and other resources required for survival since time immemorial. a history of suPPression The interconnection between Aboriginal people and their traditional territories stems from a multigenerational “kincentric” concept – the belief that animals and plants are kin who exhibit human attributes and that humans are part of a natural world – as affirmed in Aboriginal mythological narratives (Adolph 2014; Hammond 1992; Turner 2014, 2, 144, 300, 310–14; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013, 108). This kincentric connection between Aboriginal people and their land and resources was misconstrued by the colonizers, who coveted Aboriginal peoples’ land and resources and deemed themselves superior to Indigenous people, whom they viewed and labelled as inferior and infidels. Constructing superiority meant fabricating Aboriginal inferiority through dehumanization and objectification, which were indoctrinated in 1452 by Pope Nicolas V through the Doctrine of Discovery, a papal bull that established a religious order in which Indigenous people were declared to be heathens, thus serving “to authorize and validate conquest and discovery” (Miller et al. 2012, 96). King Henry VII of England upheld the doctrine and in 1497 granted a Charter of Conquest to John Cabot “to occupy and possess all towns, cities, castles, and lands belonging to heathen and infidel persons” (ibid., 96). The Doctrine of Discovery is a core contributor to the present state of affairs endured by Indigenous peoples in Canada and elsewhere in the world. In the view of most Indigenous leaders, it continues to influence acts of aggression based on the assumption that Indigenous people are inferior. This Eurocentric doctrine

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attempts to justify discriminatory policies and legislation as well as the attendant court rulings against Aboriginal people. The separation of the Stl’átl’imx, including the Xáxli’p, from their lands and resources had its genesis in 1857–58 with the first major foreign mass migration of 25,000 to 30,000 American miners en route to the Cariboo goldfields north of Xáxli’p Survival Territory (“Gold Rush, Fraser River” 2000; “Lillooet” 2000). The first miners used a trail from Harrison Lake destined for Lillooet, later referred to as the Douglas Trail, and Lillooet became known as Mile 0, from which the original Cariboo Wagon Road commenced (ibid.). Through this mass migration, American miners encroached on the lands of the Xáxli’p and other Indigenous peoples. The original Xáxli’p village was located on and near Fountain Flats and included the following settlements, positioned approximately from south to north: Sk’á7k’a,2 Lhaxwáxww̓ a73 (the s7istkn, or pithouse, of Hereditary Chief Joseph Tsil·husalst),4 Nhelahílatn,5 Nwék’ewk’ets,6 and Stáxka7.7 Chief Tsil·husalst moved the original village from Fountain Flats to its current location high above on a river terrace far from the travelled corridor and miners (Ames 1956; Bouchard 1977; Bouchard and Kennedy 1974, 1977; Kennedy and Bouchard 1977; Mitchell n.d.). Rousseau (1993, 140) notes that the original pithouse village on Fountain Flats dates back to what he calls “the Early Period,” defined as “a time span from final deglaciation, ca. 12,000/11,000 BP , to the end of the Hypsithermal climatic period, ca. 7,000” (see also ibid., 155). Devastation, in addition to the forced displacement of the Xáxli’p and others, accompanied the miners; a smallpox epidemic ravished entire Aboriginal settlements. Kennedy and Bouchard (2010, 162) note that “a single patient aboard a ship from San Francisco brought smallpox to Fort Victoria in March 1862 and from there it spread to the mainland and along the tentacles of development.” Kennedy and Bouchard (ibid., 163) also cite an account by Lil’wat elder Charlie Mack of the disease entering Stl’átl’imx territory, as told to him by his grandmother, describing how smallpox came to the village of Mount Currie and spread northward and eastward toward the Carrier (Dakelh) Nation, wiping out entire villages in its path. The late Sam Mitchell (n.d.), a Xáxli’p elder, recounted his father’s memories of an Aboriginal village at Phair Flats, north of the outskirts of Lillooet, where entire families lay deceased in their pithouses, which were burned and collapsed inward in an attempt to stop the spread of the disease. Another Stl’átl’imx elder, Slim Jackson, told Kennedy and Bouchard (1977) that the same situation occurred at Tl’ítl’k’et, formerly known as the Lillooet Indian Reserve: “The whole s7istkn [pithouse] was sick – the whole s7istkn died, and they just burned the s7istkn down, and let it cave in.” In 1871, following this epidemic annihilation, a further indignity was inflicted upon Aboriginal people that had a profound and enduring effect in separating them from their lands and resources: the imposition of a demoralizing hegemonic foreign power over Indigenous peoples through the British Columbia Terms

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of Union (1871), by which British Columbia joined the Confederation of Canada. The final negotiations of the terms were conducted in Ottawa with a provincial delegation led by Joseph Trutch, then chief commissioner of Lands and Works. Many view Trutch as an outspoken racist and consider him to be one of the worst Canadians (Britten 2017; Fisher 1992). It was largely Trutch who authored article 13, which was “intend[ed] to fossilize the Native land policies worked out in British Columbia” (Harris 2002, 73). This piece of legislation separated Native peoples from their lands and resources by giving the ownership of Crown lands and resources to the provincial government and by giving the control and management of Aboriginal people and their reserved lands to the federal government. Article 13 extinguished Indigenous people’s decision-making ability (Harris 2002; Kennedy and Bouchard 2000; Milloy 2008). This prejudicial legislation is perpetuated today through the Indian Act, administered by Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada,8 which was established in 1880 as the Department of Indian Affairs. The extremities of the Indian Act permeated every aspect of Indigenous peoples’ well-being in its attempt to eradicate Indigenous cultures and lifeways with the aim of assimilating Aboriginal people into Euro-Canadian society (Henderson 2006). Reflecting an assimilation policy toward Aboriginal people, the Indian Act totally controlled their state of affairs. It included articles governing Indigenous life, such as the creation of Indian reserves, the establishment of residential schools, the imposition of the Band Council governing system, the dictation of Aboriginal citizenship, and the enforced enfranchisement of women who married non-Native men and of Aboriginal people who attained a university degree. The Indian Act also declared cultural ceremonies such as the potlatch to be illegal, and it prohibited Indigenous groups from gathering and hiring lawyers to address their Aboriginal rights in court. Through the establishment of reserves, the Indian Act effectively excluded Indigenous people from most of their traditional lands and resources (Joseph 2015; Coates 2008; Indian and Northern Affairs Canada 2011; Turner 2014). According to Indian and Northern Affairs Canada (2011, 8), delivery of programs through the Indian Act was a central element of the goal of assimilation, to be kept in place “until such time as [Aboriginal people] could reach a level of sophistication that allowed them to fully integrate into Canadian society.” Further, assimilation of Indigenous people into British ideals and society became the role of federal Indian agents, who encouraged Aboriginal people to “abandon their traditional ways of life and adopt a more agricultural and sedentary, more British, life style” (ibid., 6). The pursuit to indoctrinate Indigenous people in agricultural lifestyles occurred both at residential schools and on reserve lands. Tennant (1992, 80) points out that, for the former, “[a]gricultural pursuits were emphasized. The children provided much of the labour to maintain the schools; they worked as hard in the fields, barns, and kitchens as in the

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classrooms.” Harris (2002, 278) states that the Department of Indian Affairs “invested heavily in Native agriculture . . . Indian Agents reported that many Native people had mastered the skills for successful farming.” Ironically, the attempt of the colonial government to acculturate Aboriginal people to colonial values and to teach them farming, at which some became successful, caused a few settlers to complain. As a result, to protect this “free-market economy” for the settlers, the Indian Act was amended in 1880 to prohibit Aboriginal people from selling their agricultural products without a permit and to make it illegal for settlers to purchase goods and services from Aboriginal farmers. This provision stayed in effect until 1951 (Joseph 2015, 2016; Moss and Gardner-O’Toole 1991). This collusion against Indigenous peoples by the federal and provincial governments along with industry and corporate elites has manipulated political procedures. It has had the effect of cloaking the governments’ self-serving motives by characterizing them as being intended to ensure the economic salvation of the hinterlands. However, by implementing their canon of destructive land and resource policies, the governments have, in fact, been framing institutionalized racism. Their policies have had the effect of indoctrinating the general population to focus on intolerance, resulting in the “othering” of Aboriginal people. They have also left environmental and human desolation in their wake. Aboriginal people have been marginalized, along with the environment. As stated by Marchak, Aycock, and Herbert (1999, 57), “Ecological considerations are clearly marginal. Political priorities, economic interests, government revenues – all of these take precedent over conservation of the forests.” control and decision MakinG in xáxli’P territory In November 1998 Dan Donaldson, manager for the Lillooet Forest District, issued a permit to Ainsworth Lumber Company that allowed it to harvest timber in a sensitive area where culturally modified trees and an ancient pithouse village were located in the Stl’átl’imx territory. As Bhopalsingh (2000) points out, the granting of this cutting permit provoked intense political and social conflicts. It placed Ainsworth Lumber Company, the Lillooet Forest District, local logging contractors, and the District of Lillooet on one side and the Stl’átl’imx peoples on the other in a conflict over values and a profound disagreement as to ownership of the forests and other resources in Stl’átl’imx traditional territory. Corporate elites, operating with the notion of perceived resource ownership while maximizing profit margins, united to expand and control the private sector without interference. In this case, the company appeared to indoctrinate its workers and the general public with the propaganda of job creation. The expectation seemed to be that these people would then “do their dirty work” by scorning and inflicting derogatory remarks upon their opponents, especially

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the Indigenous people. Paradoxically, the mill workers and loggers who were prompted by the corporate elites to denigrate the Indigenous people’s agenda soon saw their own jobs eliminated through mechanization and downsizing. At the political level, this perception of resource ownership is further perpetuated through a process whereby the corporate elites lobby the government to cut social programs and minimize corporate taxes in an expanding climate of inequality that is shifting economic factors from the public sector to the private sector. Dyck and Cochrane (2014, 166) suggest that if taxation is necessary, corporations prefer that governments “provide generous loopholes, write-offs and tax shelters,” as well as “minimize government regulation, labour standards, and environmental protection . . . and other restrictions.”9 Like other Indigenous communities, Xáxli’p saw its lands and resources taken away through a land tenure system developed by governments and resource companies along with their allies, such as the Forest Alliance of British Columbia, a registered lobbyist group, whose objective is to influence public policy. The right to exploit resources on Indigenous lands was given to industry and developers – which, from the author’s perspective, essentially reveals organized crime at the highest level. Decades ago, the Xáxli’p began a concerted effort to push back against these social injustices, especially when the government imposed laws and regulations that forbid them to access their salmon, a predominant staple and “cultural keystone species” deeply imbedded in their culture and lifeways. Resistance came to the forefront in 1978 when the Xáxli’p defied a fishery closure imposed by the federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans, exercising their inherent right to fish through litigation in R. v. Bob (1979), which resulted in recognition of the Xáxli’p’s exclusive right to fish at their reserve fishing stations (UBCIC 1979). This court decision motivated and strengthened both the Xáxli’p and other Stl’átl’imx people, along with their political leadership, to push forward in taking back control of their lands and resources. For the Xáxli’p, the effort to regain control of their lands and lifeways is strongly motivated by their understanding of Xáxli’p Aboriginal title and inherent rights, which emphasize that no one other than the Xáxli’p has extensive and in-depth Indigenous knowledge of Xáxli’p territory. The Xáxli’p’s relationship with their territory is deeply rooted in the century-old Declaration of the Lillooet Tribe, signed by all the Chiefs of the Stl’átl’imx Nation (1911), who stated in part, We claim that we are the rightful owners of our tribal territory, and everything pertaining thereto. We have always lived in our Country; at no time have we ever deserted it, or left it to others . . . We are aware the B.C. government claims our Country, like all other Indian territories in B.C.; but we deny their right to it. We never gave it nor sold it to them. They

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certainly never got the title to the Country from us, neither by agreement nor conquest, and none other than us could have any right to give them title. (See also Kennedy and Bouchard 2007) Territorial control also included setting up road blockades that prevented industrial logging companies from gaining access to Xáxli’p territory. Beginning in 1990 and methodically until 1992, the Xáxli’p leadership and membership, with the full endorsement of Xáxli’p elders, blockaded both the south and north ends of Fountain Valley, thereby preventing harvested logs from leaving, as well as blocking logging contractor and commercial vehicles from entering this part of Xáxli’p Survival Territory. These efforts led to formal negotiations with the provincial government, whereby a Joint Stewardship Agreement (JSA ) was signed between the Xáxli’p and British Columbia on 6 July 1992 with the goal of collaboratively managing land and resources within Xáxli’p territory. The minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, Tom Siddon, assured Xáxli’p that revenues would be available to us through the federal Resource Access Negotiation program, which would assist the Xáxli’p with negotiations and implementation of the JSA (Xáxli’p 1993). Through the JSA , a Joint Resource Advisory Council (JRAC ) was established, comprised of two representatives of the Xáxli’p and two representatives of the province. Under the terms of the JSA , the JRAC was to make joint recommendations to the Xáxli’p and the province regarding land use, including resource and environmental management within Xáxli’p Survival Territory. To assist with this process, an Integrated Resource Management Strategy was developed that provided a framework and objectives for managing natural resources within the territory. However, Xáxli’p laws, values, and principles were not adequately recognized. The province held fast that it had the final decision-making authority within Xáxli’p Survival Territory, and thus, in 1997, the Xáxli’p stepped away from this process (Diver 2016; Diver et al. 2003). Beginning in 1993, in conjunction with the JSA process, the Xáxli’p commenced negotiations with Canada and British Columbia through the BC Treaty Commission. The Xáxli’p’s 1997 work plan for treaty negotiations included affirmation of our Aboriginal title, which consisted of self-sufficiency and selfdetermation through the control and protection of our survival territory, along with compensation. In March 2001, community members overwhelmingly voted against both a proposed Interim Measures Agreement and the 2001 budget and work plan. The Xáxli’p therefore withdrew from the BC treaty process, noting that the process was flawed and that it did not fully follow the British Columbia Claims Task Force’s nineteen recommendations. The Xáxli’p maintained that their Aboriginal title and rights to their territory would be extinguished if this process were to continue, limiting the Xáxli’p to just 5 per cent of Xáxli’p Survival Territory. This loss would further perpetuate poverty, as the land base

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would have an inadequate carrying capacity for a growing population (Adolph 2012). To ensure the protection of the Xáxli’p’s land and resources, along with their culture and lifeways, the Xáxli’p saw a need to compile their traditional ecological knowledge and to document the deep connection forged between the people and the land through its longstanding use and occupancy. The Xáxli’p recognized the need to incorporate cultural data pertaining to Xáxli’p values and principles into our own land-use management plan. xáxli’P PartnershiPs to Protect our survival territory Documenting Xáxli’p knowledge and land management systems was inspired by past and current generations of Xáxli’p elders and knowledge holders who have articulated clearly and with heartfelt emotion how Xáxli’p culture and sense of place are deeply connected with the lands and resources that support our families, communities, and the nation. This interconnectedness is shaped by Stl’átl’imx legends, ancestral storyscapes, traditional place names, and the kincentric relationship between the land, people, and the environment. Additionally, from the mountaintops to the river bottoms, all phenological indicators embody and entrench Xáxli’p occupation and identity as linked to place and space. This deep connection and embodiment between the Xáxli’p and their territory was documented by Xáxli’p members working with archaeologists, ethnobotanists, ethnographers, linguists, biologists, forest ecologists, and social scientists. As Xáxli’p culture, traditions, and lifeways depend on a healthy environment, the compilation of data concerning land management based on ecological and cultural sustainability began in 1996 with Herb Hammond, a forest ecologist and founder of Silva Ecosystem Consultants. In 2001, after much fieldwork and collaboration with Xáxli’p elders, an ecosystem-based plan was developed for Xáxli’p that focused on “ecosystem functioning and ecological limits to human activities” (Diver et al. 2003, 2), as well as affirming that “ecological limits will be respected, and that human uses will be designed to prevent, as opposed to mitigate, damage to ecosystem-based plans” (Hammond 2009, 39). During this same period, the Xáxli’p worked with research consultants Randy Bouchard and Dorothy Kennedy,10 who have undertaken extensive ethnographic and ethnohistoric research with Xáxli’p people and others since the late 1960s. In the 1990s, on behalf of the Xáxli’p, Bouchard and Kennedy compiled their earlier research materials and drafted reports pertaining to Xáxli’p culture and history. This work also resulted in Xáxli’p having its own extensive archival repository. During this time, the Xáxli’p also participated in a research project with Nancy J. Turner of the University of Victoria in which raw ethnobotanical research

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data elicited from Xáxli’p elders from the early 1970s into the early 1990s was compiled. Information on each plant species was digitized and presented in interactive layers displaying geographic datasets for each in ArcGIS format. Additional research projects included work with archaeologists Brian Hayden and Arnoud Stryd in gathering archaeological evidence pertaining to Xáxli’p use and occupancy, including resource management within Xáxli’p Survival Territory. In 1997, building on these studies and with the assistance of Martin Weinstein, the Xáxli’p began to develop their own traditional use study, which the late Maggie Adolph titled N’tsuwa7lhkálha Tl’ákmen11 (“Our Way of Life”) (see Weinstein 2001; Xáxli’p Community Forest 2018b). Preparation of the study involved community-based research to gather and map information about Xáxli’p collective cultural knowledge and lifeways with as much time depth as possible, using a map-biography method. The mapping process included collaborative efforts between the Xáxli’p and experts in cartography and geographic information system (GIS ) technology, namely Randy James of the Lillooet Tribal Council and the late Tom Gaines, a GIS consultant, who assisted with mapping data. Tom Bradley of Silva Ecosystem Consultants also assisted with mapping Xáxli’p ecosystem-based data. conclusion With the compilation of Xáxli’p traditional knowledge and scientific knowledge in N’tsuwa7lhkálha Tl’ákmen and the ecosystem-based plan, the Xáxli’p merged Indigenous science with Western science to formulate a land-use plan that is both ecologically and culturally sustainable (Diver, Hammond, and Adolph 2010). Now the Xáxli’p have a land-use plan that they have utilized to push back against the provincial government at the boardroom table and to acquire a Community Forest Agreement for Xáxli’p Survival Territory. To implement the agreement and manage their territory according to the Xáxli’p’s land-use plan, the Xáxli’p established the Xáxli’p Community Forest, whose mandate is “to restore degraded ecosystems and to create a sustainable community economy based on high quality timber and non-timber forest products” (Xáxli’p Community Forest 2018a). Knowing that this pushback process was the right choice for the community and with the elders’ involvement in the data-gathering processes, the Xáxli’p positively reaffirmed these efforts, which were based on sound science and political will. Perhaps everyone could benefit from such plans for land use that is culturally and ecologically sustainable, which is paramount to the survival of our planet.

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notes 1 Xáxli’p (“brow of the hill”), anglicized pronunciation “Hah-lip”; Stl’átl’imx, anglicized pronunciation “Stat-le-um.” The spelling “Stl’átl’imx” is the transcription of this Indigenous term in an orthography originated by Randy Bouchard, with the assistance of Sam Mitchell, in 1970–73; the spelling “St’át’imc” is the transcription of this same term in the orthography devised by Jan van Eijk in 1976–78. 2 Sk’á7k’a, anglicized pronunciation “Shka-ka.” 3 Lhaxwáxww̓ a7, anglicized pronunciation “ThoHo-aHo-Wa.” 4 Tsil·husalst, anglicized pronunciation “Cheel-hush-alsht.” 5 Nhelahílatn, anglicized pronunciation “Nheel-a-heel-a-tin.” 6 Nwék’ewk’ets, anglicized pronunciation “NwaQ-uQ-ech.” 7 Stáxka7, anglicized pronunciation “Shta-hkA.” 8 In August 2017 Prime Minister Justin Trudeau announced plans for the dissolution of Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada and the creation of two new departments: Indigenous Services Canada and, eventually, Crown-Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs Canada. 9 It has been reported that under the Conservative federal government of Prime Minister Brian Mulroney, for example, Finance Minister Michael Wilson oversaw the ability for corporate elites to deduct 80 per cent of their costs for business meals and entertainment, resulting in a loss to the government of about $1 billion in tax revenues each year. Additionally, on 27 February 1995, under Finance Minister Paul Martin, the federal Liberal government implemented the largest spending cuts in Canadian history, reducing federal funding to provincial social programs. A leaked 1997–98 confidential government report showed that a large number of corporations were paying low or no federal taxes, giving rise to big business as the principal advocate for free trade agreements. Furthermore, along with the collusion between industry and politicians in political influencing, corporate elites sit as directors on the boards of major Canadian banks, thus providing preferential banking treatment for their respective companies (Dyck 2004; Dyck and Cochrane 2014; McFarland 2003). Due to this industry influence on the policies of governments and banks, individuals with less income pay for the tax breaks of the elite. As well, Aboriginal people are further repressed and marginalized in their own homelands. 10 Randy Bouchard is a linguist, ethnographer, and ethnohistorian specializing in Salishan languages and cultures; Dorothy Kennedy is an anthropologist who holds a doctorate from Oxford University. Together Bouchard and Kennedy founded the BC Indian Language Project and currently work as Bouchard & Kennedy Research Consultants. 11 N’tsuwa7lhkálha Tl’ákmen, anglicized pronunciation “N-chu-wa-th-kath-a Tl-ak-men.”

references Adolph, A. 2012. “British Columbia Treaty Process – Xáxli’p Treaty Loan.” Letter to Mr Anwar Kemal, Chairman, United Nations International Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, 27 January. Copy in possession of Xáxli’p and the author. – 2014. “Ethnocide: Enbridge Northern Gateway Pipeline.” Unpublished essay, Thompson Rivers University, Kamloops, British Columbia.

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Ames, M. 1956. “Fountain in a Modern Economy: A Study of Social Structure, Land Use and Business Enterprise in a British Columbia Indian Community.” BA essay, University of British Columbia. Bhopalsingh, L.A. 2000. “Building and Burning Bridges: A Study of Social Capital and Disaster Vulnerability in Upper St’át’imc Territory Including Lillooet, British Columbia.” MA thesis, University of British Columbia. Bouchard, R. 1977. “Discussions of Fraser River Lillooet Village Sites and Resource Gathering Sites, with Sam Mitchell and Slim Jackson.” Unpublished manuscript in possession of Xáxli’p Administration and Bouchard & Kennedy Research Consultants. Bouchard, R., and D. Kennedy. 1974. “Lillooet (Fraser River) Place Names, with Sam Mitchell, and Accompanying Photos.” Unpublished manuscript and photos in possession of Xáxli’p Administration and Bouchard & Kennedy Research Consultants. – 1977. “Preliminary Map of Fraser River Lillooet Place Names, with Sam Mitchell.” In possession of Xáxli’p Administration and Bouchard & Kennedy Research Consultants. British Columbia Terms of Union. 1871. https://www.solon.org/Constitutions/Canada/ English/bctu.html. Britten, L. 2017. “UVic to Rename Trutch Building because of Colonial Politician’s Racist Legacy.” CBC News, 6 June. http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/ uvic-trutch-joseph-1.4147789. Chiefs of the Stl’átl’imx Nation. 1911. Declaration of the Lillooet Tribe. http://www.stat imcgov.com/wp/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/Declarataion-SGS-2016Vinyl.pdf. Coates, K. 2008. “The Indian Act and the Future of Aboriginal Governance in Canada.” Research paper for the National Centre for First Nations Governance. http://fngovernance.org/ncfng_research/coates.pdf. Diver, S. 2016. “Community Voices: The Making and Meaning of the Xáxli’p Community Forest.” Report prepared for the Xáxli’p Community Forest. Diver, S., A. Adolph, H. Hammond, and M. Jones. 2003. “Blending Traditional Use Studies and Ecosystem-Based Landscape Planning: A Case Study for Culturally and Ecologically Sustainable Land Use Planning for Xáxli’p Survival Territory, British Columbia.” Report prepared for the BothENDS Foundation. Diver, S., H. Hammond, and A. Adolph. 2010. “Participatory Mapping for Eco-Cultural Restoration on Xáxli’p Survival Territory, British Columbia, Canada.” Paper presented at the the 7th Conference of the Pacific Rim Community Design Network, “Sustainable Landscapes, Sustainable Communities,” Awaji Landscape Planning & Horticulture Academy, Awajishima, Japan, 11–14 September. Dyck, R. 2004. Canadian Politics: Critical Approaches. 4th ed. Toronto: Nelson Education. Dyck, R., and C. Cochrane. 2014. Canadian Politics: Critical Approaches. 7th ed. Toronto: Nelson Education. Fisher, R. 1992. Contact and Conflict: Indian-European Relations in British Columbia, 1774–1890. Vancouver: UBC Press. “Gold Rush, Fraser River.” 2000. In Encyclopedia of British Columbia, ed. D. Francis, 293. Madeira Park, BC: Harbour. Hammond, H. 1992. Seeing the Forest among the Trees: The Case for Wholistic Forest Use. Vancouver: Polestar. – 2009. Maintaining Whole Systems on Earth’s Crown: Ecosystem-Based Conservation Planning for the Boreal Forest. Slocan Park, BC: Silva Forest Foundation. Harris, C. 2002. Making Native Space: Colonialism, Resistance, and Reserves in British Columbia. Vancouver: UBC Press.

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Henderson, W.B. 2006. “Indian Act.” Canadian Encyclopedia. http://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/indian-act/. Indian and Northern Affairs Canada. 2011. A History of Indian and Northern Affairs Canada. https://www.aadnc-aandc.gc.ca/DAM/DAM-INTER-HQ/STAGING/texte-text/ap_ htmc_inaclivr_1314920729809_eng.pdf. Joseph, B. 2015. “Indian Act and the Permit System.” Indigenous Corporate Training Inc., 10 June. https://www.ictinc.ca/blog/indian-act-and-the-permit-system-. – 2016. “21 Things You May Not Know about the Indian Act.” CBC News, 13 April. http://www.cbc.ca/news/indigenous/21-things-you-may-not-know-about-theindian-act-1.3533613. Kennedy, D., and R. Bouchard. 1977. “Comparative Discussions of Fraser River Lillooet and Mount Currie Lillooet Ethnography, with Sam Mitchell, Slim Jackson, Charlie Mack and Baptiste Ritchie.” Tape recordings and unpublished transcripts in possession of Xáxli’p Administration and Bouchard & Kennedy Research Consultants. – 1998. “Lillooet.” In Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 12, Plateau, ed. D.E. Walker Jr, 174–202. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. – 2000. An Agreement with the Queen. Report prepared for Xáxli’p. – 2007. The Historical Context of the 1911 Declaration of the Lillooet Chiefs. Report prepared for Xáxli’p. – 2010. The Lil’wat World of Charlie Mack. Vancouver: Talonbooks. “Lillooet.” 2000. In Encyclopedia of British Columbia, ed. D. Francis, 413. Madeira Park, BC: Harbour. Marchak, M.P., S.L. Aycock, and D.M. Herbert. 1999. Falldown: Forest Policy in British Columbia. Vancouver: David Suzuki Foundation and Ecotrust Canada. McFarland, J. 2003. “Federal Budget: On the Morning Following the Chrétien Liberals’ 10th Budget, Janet McFarland Looks Back at a Nine-Year Journey from Deficit to Surplus and from Austerity Back to Activism.” Globe and Mail, 19 February. https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/federal-budget-on-the-morningfollowing-the-chretien-liberals-10th-budget-janet-mcfarland-looks-back-at-anine-year-journey-from-deficit-to-surplus-and-from-austerity-back-to-activism/ article4127026/. Miller, R.J., J. Ruru, L. Behrendt, and T. Lindberg. 2012. Discovering Indigenous Lands: The Doctrine of Discovery in the English Colonies. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Milloy, J. 2008. “Indian Act Colonialism: A Century of Dishonour, 1869–1969.” Research paper for the National Centre for First Nations Governance. http://fngovernance.org/ ncfng_research/milloy.pdf. Mitchell, S. n.d. Personal communication with author. Moss, W., and E. Gardner-O’Toole. 1991. Aboriginal People: History of Discriminatory Laws. Ottawa: Library of Parliament. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/338836/ publication.html. R. v. Bob, [1979] 4 CNLR 71 (BCCC). Rousseau, M.K. 1993. “Early Prehistoric Occupation of South-Central British Columbia: A Review of the Evidence and Recommendations for Future Research.” BC Studies, no. 99: 140–83. St’át’imc Chiefs Council. 2008. St’át’imc Political Accord of Mutual Respect and Understanding. Copy in possession of the St’át’imc Chiefs Council. Tennant, P. 1992. Aboriginal Peoples and Politics: The Indian Land Question in British Columbia, 1849–1989. Vancouver: UBC Press.

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Turner, N.J. 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre; Seattle: University of Washington Press. – 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia’s First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and Peoples in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33. UBCIC (Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs). 1979. “Lillooets Assert Rights in Court: Bradely Bob vs the Queen, April 16–20, 1979.” Fishing Bulletin, week ending 20 April. http://gsdl.ubcic.bc.ca/cgi-bin/library.cgi?e=q-00000-00---off-0ubcicnew-nesika1%2 cunitybul%2cubcicnew%2cubcicbu1%2cindianwo%2cubcicupd-01-2----0-10-0---0---0 direct-10---4-------0-1l--10-en-50---20-about-lillooets+assert+rights+in+court--00-3-100-0--4--0--0-0-01-00-0utfZz-8-00&a=d&c=ubcicbu1&srp=0&srn=0&cl=search&d= HASH0bd5e70269a0048338d2fe.1. van Eijk, J. 1997. The Lillooet Language: Phonology, Morphology, Syntax. Vancouver: UBC Press. Weinstein, M.S. 2001. Project Report: Ntsuwa7lhkálha Tl’ákmen – The Xáxli’p First Nation’s Traditional Use Study. Report on file with Xáxli’p. Xáxli’p Community Forest. 2018a. “About the Xáxli’p Community Forest.” https://www.xcfc.ca/about-us. – 2018b. “Traditional Use Study.” https://www.xcfc.ca/eco-cultural-restoration. Xáxli’p. 1993. Xáxli’p Chief and Council Meeting, Xáxli’p, British Columbia, 19 January.

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section two Historical Perspectives on Plant-People Relationships in Canada

introduction

Nancy J. Turner Indigenous peoples in North America have had intimate, continuous relationships with the plants, animals, and habitats of their territories for literally thousands of years – since “time immemorial,” going back to the Pleistocene. Over this time, through observations, insights, and sharing, they have built up an immensely rich base of knowledge related to practices and protocols of land and resource use and management (see Turner and Berkes 2006). In this section, the authors describe various ways of understanding the historical aspects of plant use and people’s relationships to plants, relating these insights to more recent questions and issues surrounding Indigenous peoples’ land use and occupancy. The chapters cover a spectrum of topics, from archaeology to oral traditions, from human health and well-being to environmental integrity and health, and from past land-use practices to current debates and conflicts over land use. The first chapter in this section, “Understanding the Past for the Future,” relates past evidence of land use and occupancy to Indigenous peoples’ land rights of the present day. Three of its authors, Drs Dana Lepofsky, Chelsey Geralda Armstrong, and Darcy Mathews, are archaeologists and ethnobiologists, and the fourth, Spencer Greening, a member of the Gitga’at First Nation, is a doctoral student and cultural specialist working with Lepofsky. All have worked extensively in British Columbia. In their research, they consider not only the archaeological record per se but also recent and current land and

resource use and practices, as well as the continuity in relationships to plants and land extending from the past to the present. They also reflect on material versus nonmaterial remains and how the latter are sometimes overlooked, with the consequence of ignoring a major element of a people’s heritage and ties to their territories, simply because they are not associated with “artifacts.” In this regard, they point out, for example, the shortcomings of British Columbia’s Heritage Conservation Act and its limitations in terms of protecting some key plant resources. They discuss the evidence, both from oral accounts and historical records and from the paleoecological and archaeological records, of traditional plant and landscape management practices, such as landscape burning and cultivation of fruits, edible root vegetables, and other plant species. Learning about these practices and implementing them in a contemporary context has immense potential for cultural renewal and revitalization of local food systems. John Lutz’s chapter, “Preparing Eden,” continues the theme of historical land management practices, particularly as they pertain to shaping the distinctive character of the landscape of southern Vancouver Island in the area where the city of Victoria is now situated. Dr Lutz is a historian who has written extensively about Indigenous-newcomer relationships in western Canada. Ironically, as he points out, the local Lekwungen and other Straits Salish peoples’ use of fire to maintain open prairies for enhancement of food production was not recognized by the European newcomers to the region, even though it was the pleasing open character of this anthropogenic landscape that prompted the establishment of Fort Victoria and the accompanying appropriation of the vast majority of the area’s lands for farms and settlement. The land transformation and all of the other changes that impacted the Lekwungen and their neighbouring Indigenous peoples have had major consequences that extend right up to the present day. The next chapter, “A Place Called Pípsell,” by Drs Marianne Ignace and Ronald E. Ignace, centres on a lake and surrounding grasslands within ̓ the territory of the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation in south-central British Columbia. Both authors are anthropologists living in the Secwépemc (Shuswap) community of Skeetchestn, where Ronald has been elected chief for many years. Their recent book, Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws (2017), is a testament to their deep familiarity with Secwépemc history and territory. Their chapter, which is about the threat of industrial development to Pípsell (known in English as Jacko Lake), cites an ancient story (stseptékwll, “oral telling”), “The Trout-Children and Their Grandparents,” which they use to affirm the long̓ term occupancy of the region by the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc and their rights to meaningful consultation about any development of the area. In 2012, when a Polish mining company, KGHM , proposed to establish a large openpit gold and copper mine that would essentially alter and destroy Pípsell, the

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̓ Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc decided to initiate their own Indigenous review process, using both Indigenous and Western academic knowledge, to determine whether the project should go ahead. The last chapter in this section, “Traditional Plant Medicines and the Protection of Traditional Harvesting Sites,” by ethnobotanists Drs Letitia M. McCune and Alain Cuerrier, is about Indigenous peoples’ rights to access and maintain particular places for harvesting medicinal plants that are used for their own health and well-being. Although not strictly historical in the archaeological sense, their evidence of plant populations in specific geographic and ecological regions that have particularly potent medicinal properties aligns well with the notion highlighted in the chapter by Lepofsky and colleagues that a group’s heritage does not always show up in its concrete artifacts but can also be embodied in more complex, less easily measured ways. The authors cite examples of certain plant populations with exceptional medicinal potency due either to the mineral content of underlying soils or to exposure to higher concentrations of ultraviolet light. These plant populations have developed their particular characteristics over a long timeframe, with people gaining awareness of their special qualities through generations of testing and use. The rights of Indigenous peoples to continue to access such medicines need to be taken into account alongside other rights in land-use considerations, such as those regarding the establishment of mines, parks, and protected areas, as well as other types of development.

references Ignace, M., and R.E. Ignace, eds. 2017. Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓skucw. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., and F. Berkes. 2006. “Coming to Understanding: Developing Conservation through Incremental Learning.” In Developing Resource Management and Conservation, ed. F. Berkes and N.J. Turner. Special issue of Human Ecology 34, no. 4: 495–513.

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6 Understanding the Past for the Future: Archaeology, Plants, and First Nations’ Land Use and Rights Dana Lepofsky, Chelsey Geralda Armstrong, Darcy Mathews, and Spencer Greening

Dedicated to Katie Young (1982–2017) and all archaeologists who believe that working with descendant communities is the way to bring the past forward into the future. introduction In the past few decades in many parts of the world, archaeological practice that relates to Indigenous peoples’ lands, cultures, and histories has undergone significant and fundamental changes. These changes have arisen from an increasing awareness that practising archaeology comes with a responsibility to descendant communities whose past is often interpreted by mostly nonIndigenous archaeologists (Colwell-Chanthaphonh et al. 2010; Ferris 2003; Martindale and Nicholas 2014; Watkins 2001). Such unilateral interpretations can have both positive and negative impacts on those communities (King 1998; Schaepe, Snook, and Welch 2017; Stahl 2012). As a result of this awareness, academic researchers and sometimes those working on development-driven projects (known as cultural resource and heritage management) are increasingly striving to create more meaningful partnerships between Indigenous communities and archaeologists (Sullivan, Hall, and Greer 2008). Whereas it was once considered “bad science” to integrate local knowledge, including oral traditions and histories, into archaeological endeavours (e.g., Mason 2000), such integration is becoming commonplace in many regions (e.g., Martindale and Marsden 2003; Simons 2017; but see Stump 2013). Although a fully “decolonised

archaeology” (see Tuhiwai Smith 2012) is still beyond our reach, most would agree that archaeologists in some sectors of the discipline are striving to practise their research in more equitable and socially just ways (Atalay et al. 2016). A requisite step toward accepting and then reconfiguring the colonial history of archaeological practice is to examine how archaeology interfaces with local heritage protection laws – that is, whether those laws actually serve local descendant communities. Our collective experiences tell us that although many heritage laws intend to protect cultural heritage, in practice they have failed to protect the kinds of heritage that many Indigenous communities deem important. This inability to protect heritage that is meaningful to descendant communities aggravates the top-down relationship between archaeologists and Indigenous communities – a relationship that many archaeologists strive to balance. At the core of these issues is the very definition of the discipline. Archaeology is often defined as “the study of human history and prehistory through the excavation of sites and the analysis of artifacts and other physical remains” (Oxford English Dictionary). Inherent in this definition, and thus in heritage protection laws, is the focus on material remains and the grouping of those remains into concentrations that we call “archaeological sites.” Although the definition of archaeology formally includes the remains of any past human actions, archaeological convention, public opinion, and government heritage laws tend to place more importance on older and more obvious material remains, such as stone and bone tools. As archaeology has expanded its scope to include the perspectives of descendant communities, we have had to reconsider how the discipline characterizes material remains in time and space. Archaeological labels and dichotomies such as “site versus nonsite,” “material versus nonmaterial remains,” and “prehistoric versus historic” may be convenient for administrative purposes but do not necessarily fit comfortably with a descendant community’s perception and interactions with its own heritage (Beaudoin 2016; Erickson 2003). Rather, personal and community-level connections to heritage are often inseparably linked to wider physical and metaphysical landscapes on which “sites” sit (Johnson and Hunn 2010; Lepofsky et al. 2017). Such connections can fluidly move back and forth from “time out of mind” to the present (Schaepe, Snook, and Welch 2017). In this chapter, we examine the limitations of these dichotomies and the benefits of moving beyond them. We focus on peoples’ past and present interactions with their lived landscapes, particularly the plant world, and situate these interactions in issues of strength of claim and Aboriginal rights and title. We focus on examples from coastal British Columbia and Washington State, where the four of us have worked extensively. Three of us would comfortably call ourselves archaeologists, whereas the fourth (Greening) works closely with archaeologists to understand the past of his people (Gitga’ata, Tsimshian). Each of us has been

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influenced strongly by working and living alongside Indigenous elders, traditional grave diggers, hunters, fishers, clam diggers, berry pickers, and others; such profound involvement in Indigenous lives is somewhat unusual relative to the larger global context of archaeology. As a result, all of us advocate for an archaeology that integrates diverse methods, evidence, perspectives, and worldviews that go beyond typical archaeological practice, including that mandated by provincial and state legislation. By going beyond traditional or rote archaeological practice to include an investigation of the complex relationships between people and plants, we can more accurately represent how Indigenous peoples lived on and within the larger landscape. Documenting this connection to the landscape is now the gold standard for increasing the strength of claims in legal cases regarding Indigenous rights and title, as several of the chapters in this volume affirm. We suggest that this more expansive view of archaeology not only facilitates the interests and objectives of Indigenous communities but also provides strategies and methodologies for dismantling the colonial and imperial tendencies inherent in archaeological practice. heritaGe Protection in british coluMbia In British Columbia, archaeological sites on public and private lands are protected under the Heritage Conservation Act (1996), which is designed to “encourage and facilitate the protection and conservation of heritage property in British Columbia.” In the context of archaeological heritage specifically, there are a number of issues with the policies that determine whether archaeological remains will be protected and to what degree. These issues include an 1846 cutoff date for automatic archaeological site protection (i.e., when British sovereignty was established in British Columbia), the definition and designation of an archaeological site, and how site protection is enforced (Apland 1997). For many First Peoples, the connection to their heritage is timeless and intertwined with the lands and stories of their ancestors and their descendants. This non-Western, nonlinear view of time is illustrated vividly in the “Timeline” petroglyph in Sts’ailes traditional territory on the Harrison River (see figure 6.1). Willie Charlie’s grandfather, Jimmy Charlie, taught that this image represents the cycling between birth and death and between the physical and spiritual worlds. Its inscription on a rock face in the heart of Sts’ailes territory, beside an image of the Sasqet (Sasquatch), who travels between the physical and the spiritual, exemplifies the enduring connection between time, teachings, and ancestral places – a connection that is not limited to the physical world and that did not stop at 1846. In the case of plants, the arbitrary nature of the 1846 boundary is especially evidenced by the BC Archaeology Branch’s treatment of culturally modified trees and root gardens, as we discuss below.

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6.1 | “Timeline” petroglyph in Sts’ailes traditional territory on the Harrison River. The image reflects the stark difference between the European sense of linear, directional time and an Indigenous view of lived experience as fluidly flowing between the past and the present and between the physical and the metaphysical worlds.

Another issue with the Heritage Conservation Act is how archaeological sites in British Columbia are defined and designated. An archaeological site is, according to the BC Archaeology Branch, “the physical evidence of how and where people lived in the past” (British Columbia n.d., emphasis added); by convention in British Columbia, a discrete site is designated when it is separated from other evidence by at least 50 metres with no such evidence. This definition is problematic and awkward for two reasons. First, the administrative convention of bounding sites based on 50 metres of separation has little relevance to the way that Indigenous peoples related and still relate to their landscapes. That is, just as the connections of Indigenous peoples to their heritage cannot be easily bound in time, they should not be

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artificially and arbitrarily restricted in space. For many Indigenous peoples, it is the relationship between what we call archaeological sites as well as the sites themselves that hold significant meaning – as expressed, for example, in a pictograph (e.g., Wickwire 1991–92) or in the particular setting where a potent plant was harvested. Clearly, the “Timeline” petroglyph would not hold the same meaning for Sts’ailes people if it were plucked from its home on the Harrison River and placed in a museum, as has been the fate of some other rock art in the region. Although they are taxing to administer, site boundaries that encompass the larger cultural landscape would be a more appropriate approach for categorizing heritage sites. It is these larger landscapes, including the plants within them, that are linked to people’s power and authority, their history, and their very identity. Second, and also of particular importance to the documentation of past plant use, is the question of what legally constitutes evidence of “how and where people lived in the past.” In a discipline focused on things, there is a longstanding disconnect between how archaeologists and Indigenous peoples value heritage, with the latter understanding heritage to include both the tangible and the intangible (Lepofsky 2008). Under the Heritage Conservation Act, sacred sites that have no physical evidence of ritual activities are not protected, despite their strong heritage importance to descendant communities. The absurdity of this convention was played out recently in British Columbia on Grace Islet – an ancient cemetery of the Straits Salish. Here, to protect the “archaeological features,” burial cairns were pedestalled while the soil between them was stripped away. The burial cairns were encased in concrete, and some were then incorporated into the foundation of the partly constructed house before construction ceased due to enduring protests (Mathews, McLay, and Smith 2016). In the case of plant-gathering areas, archaeological root-roasting pits are protected by law, but the root-harvesting patches in which root foods were managed and collected for generations have no such protection. Similarly, prime patches of huckleberries (Vaccinium membranceum) and blackcaps (Rubus leucodermis) maintained over generations by burning as well as patches of highly sought after medicinal plants such as q’exmín (“wild celery,” Lomatium nudicaule) and devil’sclub (Oplopanax horridus) are not protected by law (Turner 2014). Finally, although archaeological heritage in British Columbia is protected under the Heritage Conservation Act, it is the policies that outline more specifically how heritage is actually protected. Over the past decade, extensive efforts on the part of the provincial Archaeology Branch and the Oil and Gas Commission have expedited the “archaeological process” in order to facilitate oil and gas exploration, development, and pipeline activities (British Columbia 2004). For example, under normal circumstances, archaeologists and descendant communities can negotiate the alteration of a protected site if the benefits of altering a site (i.e., for development) are judged by all stakeholders to outweigh

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its maintenance. However, if an archaeological site is found in an area where there is proposed oil and gas development, because of the Oil and Gas Commission agreement, decisions about site alteration are made exclusively by the members of the commission. In 2016 one of the authors (Armstrong) was asked by a Gitwilgyoots (Tsimshian) representative to investigate “what kind” of archaeological research had occurred on Lelu Island – a portion of their territory at the mouth of the Skeena River that was slated for extensive development for the Prince Rupert Gas Transmission Line. Culturally modified trees, some of which showed harvesting previous to 1846, were recorded throughout Lelu Island. However, they were staked for destruction under a site alteration permit that neither the archaeologists nor Gitwilgyoots could access. This example is yet another illustration of the immediate need to rethink how past people-plant interactions are documented, valued, and protected.  docuMentinG Past PeoPle-Plant interactions in coastal british coluMbia Paleoethnobotany (a.k.a. archaeobotany) is the subdiscipline within archaeology that focuses on how past peoples interacted with their plant worlds. Paleoethnobotanists in British Columbia, as elsewhere, typically focus on the material evidence of those interactions – that is, on plant remains, such as charcoal, seeds, and plant fibres, recovered from archaeological sites (Lepofsky 2004). Most paleoethnobotanists, however, also integrate more recent ethnobotanical knowledge into their interpretations of past plant use (e.g., Lepofsky and Lyons 2013; Lepofsky et al. 2003; Lyons and Ritchie 2017), recognizing that interpretations based only on archaeological plant remains will be limited by a range of cultural and taphonomic factors. The most fruitful paleoethnobotanical analyses are ones that take a broad ethnoecological approach by integrating both plant remains and a range of other kinds of evidence of past human-plant interactions. These interactions extend from subtle ecological shifts to more permanent and dramatic changes in plant species, community ecology, and landscapes (Turner and Peacock 2005) that are detectable in the archaeological, paleoecological, and neo-ecological records (e.g., T. Hoffman et al. 2016; Lepofsky et al. 2003; McCune, Pellatt, and Vellend 2013). In the following sections, we outline some examples of cases where we have used such an expansive approach to studying past human-plant interactions. Ecological Legacies

Ancient ecohuman dynamics can be understood by studying evidence from below ground and by observing living plant communities above ground. Estuarine root gardens, where coastal First Nations cultivated root foods such as

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6.2 | The Húy̓ at landscape in the traditional territory of the Heiltsuk on the central coast of British Columbia. In the foreground, culturally valued berries are growing on ancient house terraces. The remnants of intertidal root-food gardens and fish traps are in the mid-ground. In the background, on another ancient terraced settlement, is a dense patch of culturally important berries, as well as previously tended European and native fruit trees.

Pacific silverweed (Potentilla anserina ssp. pacifica) and springbank clover (Trifolium wormskioldii), are vivid examples of the kinds of lasting ecological legacies created by humans interacting with the plant world (Deur 2002, 2005). Today, these gardens are evidenced by concentrations of these valued plant taxa, sometimes on subtle terraced landforms and often associated with ancient settlements (see figures 6.2 and 6.3). The gardens are the result of generations of people actively tending the landscape and might be protected by the Heritage Conservation Act if they are associated with a stone wall or some other built physical feature. If, however, the terraces were originally faced with wood that has now rotted away or if the features were never terraced, they are not considered archaeological – despite the fact that today they are associated with the

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6.3 | Tl’ches (Chatham Island), an archipelago off the southernmost tip of Vancouver Island. Perhaps the last remaining ecologically and archaeologically intact managed Lekwungen Coast Salish landscape, it is a mosaic of village sites, blue camas gardens, estuarine silverweed, and clover root gardens (pictured with Graham Nicholas), burial cairn cemeteries, and other ecocultural features.

same concentration of culturally valued plants as stone-faced terraced features. Furthermore, with or without stone terracing, these features are protected only if they can be shown to predate 1846. In our experience, these gardens are notoriously hard to date for a variety of reasons, including that they were often reworked and used up until relatively recent times. A second example of ecological legacies is forest gardens, recently rediscovered at archaeological sites in southwestern and northwestern British Columbia. Forest gardens are orchard-like subcanopies of native hazelnut (Corylus cornuta), Pacific crabapple (Malus fusca), black hawthorn (Crataegus douglasii), highbush cranberry (Viburnum edule), and red elderberry (Sambucus racemosa), together with other ethnobotanically significant woody and herbaceous species, including berry, root, fibre, and medicinal plant species that grow adjacent

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6.4 | Dawn Charlie (Sts’ailes) with the locally rare blue elderberry (Sambucus cerulea) in a forest garden in her territory in southwestern British Columbia.

to archaeological settlements (Armstrong 2017; Armstrong, Dixon, and Turner 2018). The term “forest gardens” highlights the extensive role humans had in creating and maintaining these village-based ecosystems. Despite over a century of abandonment (from colonial displacement), the culturally valued shrubs and herbs within the identified forest gardens continue to grow, reflecting purposeful tending and management by ancestral Indigenous communities (see also Fisher et al. 2019; Trant et al. 2016). Although these ecosystems persist today and are located adjacent to recognized archaeological features like house depressions, they are not legally considered part of an archaeological site. Ignoring forest gardens in this way is akin to retracing the remains of an old farmstead and including the house but not the fields and pens where the family worked, played, sustained a living, and interacted with others. Forest gardens are, spatially configured, an integral part of the lived landscape. Since their rediscovery, one author (Armstrong) has tried

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to include forest gardens in inventories of archaeological features. So far, they have failed to qualify for protection for two reasons: first, they do not meet the 1846 cutoff because they are difficult to date and have been used until recently; and second, they do not meet the current requirements for a “site” because they lack what is commonly considered to be evidence of past human activity. However, not only do forest gardens reflect extensive and expansive use of the landscape, but they are also an exquisite type of heritage for Indigenous communities since they are, quite literally, the fruits of the ancestors: they have smells, tastes, names, and stories that tie a specific group of people to a specific place in the landscape (see figure 6.4). Culturally Modified Trees

Western redcedar (Thuja plicata) and Alaska yellow cedar (Xanthocyparis nootkatensis, syn. Chamaecyparis nootkatensis) have been integral to the lives of the Indigenous peoples of the Northwest Coast and the Interior Wet Belt since they reached their modern distribution between 5,000 and 2,500 years ago (Hebda and Mathewes 1984). Cedars can live to over 1,000 years and offer the most direct and widespread evidence of the use and management of forest resources by First Nations. Bark was collected both in long tapering strips and in large rectangular sheets, to be used for basketry, clothing, mats, cordage, roofing, shelters, and a multitude of other purposes. Furthermore, wooden planks were wedged from both standing and felled western redcedars and used for housing and bentwood boxes. Long sections of felled trees were used for monumental projects such as house posts, memorial and other poles, and dugout canoes capable of traversing remarkable distances. Evidence of these many uses comes in the form of culturally modified trees (CMT s) (e.g., Earnshaw 2016, 2017a, 2017b; Mobley and Eldridge 1992; Stryd and Eldridge 1993). CMTs are the most numerous type of archaeological site reported in British Columbia. This is in part because of their ubiquity but also because forestryrelated archaeological surveys have become commonplace since the mid-1990s. CMTs are also often situated in cases involving the ongoing assertion of Indigenous peoples’ rights and title, as well as in conflicts concerning heritage stewardship jurisdiction (Klassen, Budhwa, and Reimer/Yumks 2009). Importantly, many CMT s have multiple scars from episodic bark removal over generations. Based on ethnographic data (e.g., Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013) and the dating of the scars through dendrochronology, it has been suggested that multiple scars on a single tree reflect the long-term management of valued trees as well as deep connections to specific trees and harvesting places (Lepofsky 2004; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013). CMTs do not fall neatly into current heritage classifications in British Columbia. Since cedars can live for many centuries, they may predate other more

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conventionally recognized archaeological sites in an area (e.g., shell middens) (Earnshaw 2016). Yet cedar stands are also “traditional use sites” – those areas identified by First Nations’ communities as areas of important traditional practices – with bark and wood still currently harvested from some CMT sites. As a result, individual CMT s and CMT s within a single stand (e.g., in the case of Lelu Island) can have extraction events that straddle the 1846 divide. However, since extraction scars can completely heal over, archaeologists often miss recording the oldest CMT scars (ibid.). In 1996, in recognition of their heritage importance, the first CMT was protected under the Heritage Conservation Act (Eldridge 1997); shortly thereafter, the provincial Archaeology Branch decided to protect all CMT s. However, the archaeology office was quickly overwhelmed by CMT site records, and a pre1846 cutoff was enacted. Thus the decision not to protect more recent CMT s was purely administrative rather than based on the heritage value or cultural importance of CMT s. As a result, CMT sites, places of enduring cultural and heritage value to Indigenous communities, have uneven protection today. Plants and Ritual Landscapes

Cadboro Bay, on the southern tip of Vancouver Island in the BC provincial capital of Victoria, is today the site of an exclusive housing development. The entirety of this community is built within a meadow and oak woodland ecosystem – the ecological legacy of thousands of years of landscape management by the Lekwungen Coast Salish (see chapter 7, this volume). Ever since Captain George Vancouver described these oak-dominated landscapes in 1792, colonists have largely overlooked the complex and nuanced ways that Lekwungen people modified and managed the meadow-oak ecosystem. This management included the cultivation of the edible bulbs of camas (qʷɫaɁəl, Camassia leichtlinii and C. quamash) through prescribed fires, weeding, tilling, and clearing of field stones (Turner 2014, 149). This staple food and the associated complex management activities and systems of production, preservation, exchange, and redistribution played a fundamental role in the economies, social hierarchies, cultural identities, and land-use practices of Lekwungen peoples (Beckwith 2004, 85).  The cultivation of camas may have also been intertwined, for a time at least, with changing patterns in the burial of the dead. A recent archaeological and ethnobotanical study identified a complex mosaic of burial cairns, dense distributions of blue camas, and concentrations of cleared field stones at Cadboro Bay (Mathews 2014). Burial cairns – arrangements of stone and soil built up over the dead – are part of a distinctive funerary ritual practised in this region over several centuries, approximately AD 500–1400 (ibid.). The cairns occur in a variety of patterned forms and sizes, their construction and their placement being an active and purposeful inscribing of

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familial identities and histories into the landscape (ibid., 224). Detailed mapping at Cadboro Bay revealed that both the clearing activities and the burial cairns were located along the peripheries of the densest concentrations of blue camas. This spatial relationship between areas with the most abundant blue camas today – the remnants of intensively cultivated Lekwungen gardens – and the burial of the dead suggests that some of the stones cleared from the camas fields were subsequently used to create constellations of cairns around family camas gardens. The dead at the Cadboro Bay cemetery inhabit the peripheries of the camas gardens in indelible stone and soil cairns that are still readily visible. In this way, family gardens were and are ringed by and watched over by one’s relatives. This is a spatial and material reification of inherited rights and responsibilities, as well as a permanent demonstration and legitimization of use and caretaking through time. These are responsibilities still deeply felt by many Lekwungen people. When considered in the larger ecological and social landscape, it is clear that blue camas management practices had economic motives but were also embedded in larger dispositions structured by religious and moral ideologies. The complexities of camas management became a ritual written in stone and encoded in stories, memories, prohibitions, and ethics (Turner and Berkes 2006). This entanglement of blue camas cultivation, funerary ritual, and ancestral presence supported, in part, the development and maintenance of a sustainable anthropogenic Lekwungen landscape over a long period of time. These principles guided people’s interactions with the environment and ensured careful, considerate use of plant resources. Recognizing Lekwungen cultivation of camas and its intertwined relationship to funerary rituals is not only in line with a Lekwungen sense of place but is also a means by which we may get beyond the “dots-on-a-map” perspective of archaeological and ethnological sites. For instance, a more holistic view would have prevented the results of an archaeological survey in a cairn cemetery near Cadboro Bay from being used to support road construction among the cairns – thus severing the cairns from their sacred context. Places such as Cadboro Bay are not silos of activity, and the features that are universally recognized as archaeological (i.e., the burial cairns) cannot be separated from the features that are not currently recognized in the same way (i.e., the camas fields). Rather, all are parts of larger overlapping and mutually constituting social, economic, and spiritual relationships across both space and time. Ecosystem-Level Prescribed Burning

In the Pacific Northwest, as elsewhere, a range of techniques and a landscapelevel approach are often needed to document how people used prescribed fires

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to encourage successional plants and foraging animals (e.g., Derr 2014; K. Hoffman, Lertzman, and Starzomski 2017; Lepofsky et al. 2005; Turner 1999). In part, this is the case because prescribed fires, like many traditional management practices, tend to mimic natural disturbance processes. Consequently, it can be difficult, but not impossible, to detect these signals in the archaeological and paleoecological records (Fowler and Lepofsky 2011; Lepofsky and Armstrong 2018). The value of incorporating multiple lines of evidence to support interpretations of past prescribed burning is illustrated by our work at Ebey’s Prairie, a meadow in western Washington State (Weiser and Lepofsky 2009). Historically, low-elevation meadows like Ebey’s Prairie, managed through Indigenous prescribed burning, were a fundamental part of coastal ecosystem dynamics (e.g., Anderson 2009; Turner 1999; Turner and Peacock 2005). Camas and a range of other root and berry foods were often target species for these management practices. With the cessation of traditional fire management, meadow ecosystems are threatened over much of their range (MacDougall, Beckwith, and Maslovat 2004). In the Ebey’s Prairie project, we pieced together long-term human-landscape interactions through a variety of avenues. A basic premise of the study was that without prescribed burning, the meadow environment would revert to forests dominated by Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), which do not support habitat for productive camas and a number of other plant foods. Thus our identification and dating of charred camas bulbs from archaeological deposits, the evidence for hunting (presumably in a sparsely wooded to unforested ecosystem) via stone spear points found in previously assembled artifact collections, the frequency of charcoal in the soils, and information in the ethnographic record about the use of the meadow allowed us to conclude that prescribed burning practices at Ebey’s Prairie were well established in the late precontact period. Farther back in time, our evidence for prescribed burning becomes increasingly weak and illustrates the complexities of documenting continuity in these practices over time. Cultural Landscapes

Ultimately, the most holistic approach to documenting past plant use is one that is contextualized within the larger cultural landscape and that considers all kinds of human-place interactions. To this end, each of us works with and for descendant communities on landscape-level projects (e.g., Lepofsky et al. 2017; Húy̓at n.d.). One such landscape, Laxgalts’ap in Coast Tsimshian territory, is a cultural keystone place for the Gitga’ata people. In the Laxgalts’ap project, we are blending memories from community members and oral traditions with archaeological, paleoethnobotanical, dendrochronological, ethnoecological, and geomorphological studies to tell the history of an entire watershed. In terms of

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6.5 | Bryn Letham, Justin Clifton Jr, and Spencer Greening mapping a 2,000-yearold wooden fish trap in the intertidal of Laxgalts’ap.

plant use, these diverse lines of evidence and knowledge tell us that the Gitga’ata of Laxgalts’ap harvested western redcedar, western hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla), and Sitka spruce (Picea sitchensis) for pitch, tools, bark (used for cordage, baskets, and shelter), firewood, and posts and beams (used for houses and fish traps) (see figure 6.5). We also know that the Gitga’ata of Laxgalts’ap cultivated

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named varieties of native crabapples (Malus fusca) in orchards near settlements (Wyllie de Echeverria 2013) and that they harvested and processed a variety of berry and root foods, some of whose ranges extended into inhabited areas. The value of an integrated, landscape approach is further illustrated in Gitga’ata territory at Til’hoon. Til’hoon is a traditional cedar-harvesting area, but its Gitga’at name refers to the abundance of salmon at that location. Whereas an outsider might interpret this place name narrowly as referring only to fishing, a trained Gitga’ata person recognizes it as representing the connections between salmon, thriving forests, and a healthy bear population. That is, bears are attracted to the salmon and deposit the carcasses in the forest, thus creating a healthy cedar grove. Encompassed in this place name is the cultural knowledge that this is a good place to hunt for bear, fish for salmon, and gather cedar. Thus, whereas archaeological documentation of CMT s at Til’hoon might tell us the antiquity of practices for harvesting bark, planks, and poles in a particular locale at Til’hoon (i.e., an archaeological “site”), when this information is combined with place names and ecological knowledge at the landscape level, we can see a broader picture and can begin to understand the interconnectedness of living things as well as Gitga’ata connections to place in the past and today. In Gitga’ata territory, as elsewhere on the coast, there are many other examples of such interconnections and of the importance of letting these interconnections guide studies of past human-landscape interactions. Bringing together diverse knowledge systems – Indigenous and Western (i.e., archaeological, linguistic, and ecological) – to understand the total history and importance of landscapes is in line with an Indigenous worldview and allows us to begin to decolonize Western understandings of traditional land use. At a practical level, any Indigenous person who wishes to have a strong relationship with the land must also have a strong understanding of these complex relationships, such as the interwoven relationships among fish, bears, cedars, and people. discussion The Supreme Court of Canada’s rulings in both Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997) and Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2014) have changed the ways that First Nations can prove title and the strength of claims to unceded territories. Although many First Nations continue their extensive use and occupation of traditional lands, there are legal requirements and precedents to show continued and sustained use of the land well into the past. Who better to demonstrate long-term and sustained land use than First Nations and their archaeological collaborators? The archaeology we promote requires a practice that is expansive, integrative, and relational – one whose explicit goal is to more fully document people’s physical and metaphysical interactions with their surroundings. We believe

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that archaeologists are often ideally situated to be the centre of such integrative discussions that blend the past and present while bringing together academic and nonacademic knowledge systems and worldviews (Lepofsky 2011; Ross and Coghill 2000). We further suggest that archaeologists who do not embrace such opportunities for integration are squandering the huge privilege afforded to our discipline. An expansive archaeology means giving careful consideration to how we draw our administrative and interpretative boundaries. Indigenous connections to place do not stop within the boundaries defined by the state; Indigenous connections to place are not represented by dots on a map but are dependent on connections within the entirety of Indigenous lives that are being lived on the land. In the Laxgalts’ap project, for instance, we move fluidly across time and space to understand how people interacted with their biophysical worlds. It would be easy to argue, based on the oral traditions, memories, place names, and altered ecosystems, that there is not a portion of that landscape with which the Gitga’ata did not interact. Where, then, should we draw our site boundaries at places like Laxgaltsap and Cadboro Bay or at settlements with forest gardens? A landscape-level approach at these places allows us to introduce an Indigenous paradigm into the practice of archaeology and into academia more generally. When archaeologists are considering whether to recommend sites for protection, they are required to evaluate the educational potential of the sites. In our experience, the lasting legacies of managed plants in the form of forest gardens, estuarine gardens, camas gardens, berry patches, or important patches of plant medicines have much more to teach us than relict stone tools. These managed plants represent both a specific technology and entire integrated systems of knowledge, practice, and belief. Protecting the unique community ecology of human-managed ecosystems is not only of ecological value (Armstrong and Brown 2019) but also instills multisensory memories and lessons for descendant communities. The names, stories, and tastes of plants are shared across the generations. Elders can reimagine their youth by working with the land and using their language; younger generations can reconnect to their homelands and their ancestry, learn about place names, plant names, and other vocabulary of their languages, and continue the harvests that have fed their families for millennia. The approach we advocate can promote revitalization of local food systems, including traditional management techniques and the social-ecological contexts in which they are embedded. In the Pacific Northwest, many local First Nations are actively restoring clam gardens – places where Indigenous people cultivated clams in the past (Deur et al. 2015; Lepofsky et al. 2015). There is also significant, but currently untapped, potential to learn about traditional rootfood management from ancient estuarine gardens and camas prairies, as well as to revitalize such cultivation practices today (Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013).

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The social and scientific benefits of a holistic approach are many; conversely, a fragmented view of human-landscape interactions can have serious negative consequences for Indigenous peoples’ struggles to protect their place-based heritage. Such negative consequences are illustrated dramatically at places like the burial cairn cemeteries of the Straits Salish; unfortunately, there are many other examples of similar social injustices involving the heritage of Northwest Coast First Nations. We end with the words of Brian Grandbois (n.d.), an elder who participated in the defence of Unist’ot’en against illegal pipeline development. He had the following to say about archaeological sites and similar administrative designations used to delimit his heritage: The archaeology site starts here and ends here . . . [but I] clean fish over here . . . I sleep with my wife over there . . . I [go to the bathroom] here . . . [T]hese archaeologists put boxes around a house and call it a site . . . And these botanists . . . they do the same thing with plants now. They put the boxes around them. I know my people back home, they say these TUS [traditional use sites] and archaeology, they take our . . . our hope . . . the things within us . . . This whole place is site. There isn’t no lines here. We use this whole land. The whole land is a “site.” Grandbois’s sentiments are shared by many Indigenous peoples, both on the Northwest Coast and around the world. The future of meaningful archaeology is dependent on listening to these sentiments and actively working with descendant communities in order to reframe the context of how archaeology is practised. acknowledGMents We acknowledge all communities whose members are protecting their unceded territories from ongoing colonial dispossession. We are deeply grateful to our many friends and teachers in descendant communities around the world; they have guided our actions and taught us what archaeology can look like when it is grounded in both social and scientific perspectives. We thank Willie Charlie for graciously allowing us to share both his knowledge about the “Timeline” petroglyph and the accompanying image, taken by Ken Lertzman. Chelsey Geralda Armstrong gives thanks to Kitsumkalum, Kitselas, the House of Luutkudziiwus, and the Gitwilgyoots Tribe. Darcy Mathews acknowledges the Songhees Nation, Cheryl Bryce, Joan Morris (Sellemah), and Chief Ron Sam.

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Erickson, C.L. 2003. “Agricultural Landscapes as World Heritage: Raised Field Agriculture in Bolivia and Peru.” In Managing Change: Sustainable Approaches to the Conservation of the Built Environment, ed. J-M. Teutonico and F. Matero, 181–204. Los Angeles, CA: Getty Conservation Institute. Ferris, N. 2003. “Between Colonial and Indigenous Archaeologies: Legal and Extra-Legal Ownership of the Archaeological Past in North America.” Canadian Journal of Archaeology 27, no. 2: 154–90. Fisher, J.A., N. Shackelford, M.D. Hocking, A.J. Trant, and B.M. Starzomski. 2019. “Indigenous Peoples’ Habitation History Drives Present-Day Forest Biodiversity in British Columbia’s Coastal Temperate Rainforest.” People and Nature 1, no. 1: 103–14. https://besjournals.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/10.1002/pan3.16. Fowler, C., and D. Lepofsky. 2011. “Traditional Resource and Environmental Management.” In Ethnobiology, ed. E.N. Anderson, D.M. Pearsall, E.S. Hunn, and N.J. Turner, 285–304. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Grandbois, Brian. n.d. Personal communication with authors. Hebda, R.J., and R.W. Mathewes. 1984. “Holocene History of Cedar and Native Indian Cultures of the North American Pacific Coast.” Science 225, no. 4663: 711–13. Heritage Conservation Act. 1996. http://www.bclaws.ca/civix/document/id/complete/ statreg/96187_01. Hoffman, K., K. Lertzman, and B. Starzomski. 2017. “Ecological Legacies of Anthropogenic Burning in a British Columbia Coastal Temperate Rain Forest.” Journal of Biogeography 44, no. 12: 2903–15. https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/jbi.13096. Hoffman, T., N. Lyons, D. Miller, A. Diaz, A. Homan, S. Huddlestan, and R. Leon. 2016. “Engineered Feature Used to Enhance Gardening at a 3800-Year-Old Site on the Pacific Northwest Coast.” Science Advances 2, no. 12: 1–7. http://advances.sciencemag.org/ content/2/12/e1601282. Húy̓at. n.d. http://www.hauyat.ca/. Johnson, L., and E.S. Hunn, eds. 2010. Landscape Ethnoecology: Concepts of Biotic and Physical Space. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books. King, T.F. 1998. “How the Archeologists Stole Culture: A Gap in American Environmental Impact Assessment Practice and How to Fill It.” Environmental Impact Assessment Review 18, no. 2: 117–33. Klassen, M.A., R. Budhwa, and R. Reimer/Yumks. 2009. “First Nations, Forestry, and the Transformation of Archaeological Practice in British Columbia, Canada.” Heritage Management 2, no. 2: 199–238. Lepofsky, D. 2004. “The Northwest.” In Plants and People in Ancient North America, ed. P. Minnis, 367–464. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. – 2008. “Deconstructing the Mccallum Site.” BC Studies, no. 158: 3–31. – 2011. “Everyone Loves Archaeology: Bridging Communities through Archaeological Research.” SAA Archaeological Record 11, no. 5: 17–19. http://digitaleditions.sheridan. com/publication/index.php?i=90081&m=0&l=&p=3&pre=#{%22page%22:2,%22issue_ id%22:90081}. Lepofsky, D., and C.G. Armstrong. 2018. “Foraging New Ground: Documenting Ancient Resource and Environmental Management in Canadian Archaeology.” Canadian Journal of Archaeology 42, no. 1: 57–73. Lepofsky, D., C.G. Armstrong, J. Jackley, S. Greening, J. Carpenter, B. Guernsey, D. Mathews, and N.J. Turner. 2017. “Historical Ecology of Cultural Keystone Places of the Northwest Coast.” American Anthropologist 119, no. 3: 448–63. https://anthrosource.onlinelibrary. wiley.com/doi/10.1111/aman.12893.

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Lepofsky, D., D. Hallett, K. Washbrook, A. McHalsie, K. Lertzman, and R. Mathewes. 2005. “Documenting Precontact Plant Management on the Northwest Coast: An Example of Prescribed Burning in the Central and Upper Fraser Valley, British Columbia.” In Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast, ed. D. Deur and N.J. Turner, 218–39. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Lepofsky, D., E. Heyerdahl, K. Lertzman, D. Schaepe, and B. Mierendorf. 2003. “Climate, Humans, and Fire in the History of Chittenden Meadow.” Conservation Ecology 7, no. 3, art. 5. https://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol7/iss3/art5/. Lepofsky, D., and N. Lyons. 2013. “‘The Secret Past Life of Plants’: Paleoethnobotany in British Columbia.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 39–83. Lepofsky, D., N.F. Smith, N. Cardinal, J. Harper, M. Morris, E. White, R. Bouchard, D. Kennedy, A.K. Salomon, M. Puckett, K. Rowell, and E. McLay. 2015. “Ancient Shellfish Mariculture on the Northwest Coast of North America.” American Antiquity 80, no. 2: 236–59. Lyons, N., and M. Ritchie. 2017. “The Archaeology of Camas Production and Exchange on the Northwest Coast: With Evidence from a Sts’ailes (Chehalis) Village on the Harrison River, British Columbia.” Journal of Ethnobiology 37, no. 2: 346–67. MacDougall, A.S., B.R. Beckwith, and C.Y. Maslovat. 2004. “Defining Conservation Strategies with Historical Perspectives: A Case Study from a Degraded Oak Grassland Ecosystem.” Conservation Biology 18, no. 2: 455–65. Martindale, A., and S. Marsden. 2003. “Defining the Middle Period (3500 bp to 1500 bp) in Tsimshian History through a Comparison of Archaeological and Oral Records.”  BC Studies, nos 138–9: 13–50. Martindale, A., and G. Nicholas. 2014. “Archaeology as Federated Knowledge.” Canadian Journal of Archaeology 38, no. 2: 434–65. Mason, R.J. 2000. “Archaeology and Native North American Oral Traditions.” American Antiquity 65, no. 2: 239–66. Mathews, D.L. 2014. “Funerary Ritual, Ancestral Presence, and the Rocky Point Ways of Death.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Mathews, D.L., E. McLay, and S. Smith. 2016. Grace Islet: An Archaeological Inventory and Assessment Study of the Coast Salish Cemetery after House Demolition (HCA 2015–215). On file at the BC Archaeology Branch, Victoria. McCune, J.L., M.G. Pellatt, and M. Vellend. 2013. “Multidisciplinary Synthesis of LongTerm Human-Ecosystem Interactions: A Perspective from the Garry Oak Ecosystem of British Columbia.” Biological Conservation 166: 293–300. Mobley, C., and M. Eldridge. 1992. “Culturally Modified Trees in the Pacific Northwest.” Arctic Anthropology 29, no. 2: 91–110. Ross, A., and S. Coghill. 2000. “Conducting a Community-Based Archaeological Project: An Archaeologist’s and a Koenpul Man’s Perspective.” Australian Aboriginal Studies, nos 1–2: 76–83. Schaepe, D.M., B. Snook, and J.R. Welch. 2017. “Archaeology as Therapy: Connecting Belongings, Knowledge, Time, Place, and Well-Being.” Current Anthropology 58, no. 4: 502–33. Simons, E. 2017. “Archaeologists and Indigenous Traditional Knowledge in British Columbia.” MA thesis, Simon Fraser University. Stahl, A. 2012. “When Does History Begin? Material Continuity and Change in West Africa.” In Decolonizing Indigenous Histories: Exploring Prehistoric/Colonial Transitions in Archaeology, ed. M. Oland, S. Hart, and L. Frink, 158–77. Tucson: University of Arizona Press.

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Stryd, A., and M. Eldridge. 1993. “CMT Archaeology in British Columbia: The Meares Island Studies.” BC Studies, no. 99: 184–234. Stump, D. 2013. “On Applied Archaeology, Indigenous Knowledge, and the Usable Past.” Current Anthropology 54, no. 3: 268–98. Sullivan, S., N. Hall, and S. Greer. 2008. “Learning to Walk Together and Work Together: Providing a Formative Teaching Experience for Indigenous and non-Indigenous Heritage Managers.”  In Managing Archaeological Resources: Global Context, National Programs, Local Actions, ed. F.P. McManamon, A. Stout, and J.A. Barnes, 35–54. Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast. Tuhiwai Smith, L. 2012. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. London and New York: Zed Books. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, [2014] 2 SCR 257. Trant, A.J., W. Nijland, K.M. Hoffman, D.L. Mathews, D. McLaren, T.A. Nelson, and B.M. Starzomski. 2016. “Intertidal Resource Use over Millennia Enhances Forest Productivity.” Nature Communications 7, art. 12491. https://doi.org/10.1038/ncomms12491. Turner, N.J. 1999. “A Time to Burn: Traditional Use of Fire to Enhance Resource Production by Aboriginal Peoples in British Columbia.” In Indians, Fire and the Land in the Pacific Northwest, ed. R. Boyd, 185–218. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. – 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., and F. Berkes. 2006. “Coming to Understanding: Developing Conservation through Incremental Learning.” In Developing Resource Management and Conservation, ed. F. Berkes and N.J. Turner. Special issue of Human Ecology 34, no. 4: 495–513. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33. Turner, N.J., and S.L. Peacock. 2005. “Solving the Perennial Paradox: Evidence for Plant Resource Management on the Northwest Coast.” In Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast, ed. D. Deur and N.J. Turner, 101–50. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Watkins, J. 2001. Indigenous Archaeology: American Indian Values and Scientific Practice. Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira. Weiser, A., and D. Lepofsky 2009. “Ancient Land Use and Management of Ebey’s Prairie, Whidbey Island, Washington.” In Indigenous Resource Management: Past, Present, and Future, ed. D. Lepofsky. Special issue of Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 2: 161–6. Wickwire, W. 1991–92. “Ethnography and Archaeology as Ideology: The Case of the Stein River Valley.” BC Studies, nos 91–2: 51–78. Wyllie de Echeverria, V.R. 2013. “Moolks (Pacific Crabapple, Malus fusca) on the North Coast of British Columbia: Knowledge and Meaning in Gitga’at Culture.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria.

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7 Preparing Eden: Indigenous Land Use and European Settlement on Southern Vancouver Island John Sutton Lutz introduction The place itself appears a perfect “Eden,” in the midst of the dreary wilderness of the Northwest coast, and so different is its general aspect, from the wooded rugged regions around, that one might be pardoned for supposing it had dropped from the clouds to its present position. – James Douglas, 5 February 1843 (in Glazebrook 1938, 420)

This chapter is about the relationship between landscape and culture and how they are layered upon each other. It examines the radical differences between how two cultures, that of the Indigenous people of southern Vancouver Island and that of the British explorers and fur traders, perceived a certain landscape, how the physical manipulation of the landscape by one made it attractive for settlement by the other, and how the overlapping of different social landscapes on the same piece of land created conflict and eventual accommodation. The particular example I examine is the social construction of Lekwungen territory, the site chosen for Fort Victoria, which would subsequently become the colonial and provincial capital of British Columbia. The most accessible way to introduce the story is to examine why Britons were actively seeking out and constructing landscapes so far from the “the land of cakes,” as James Douglas, one of the principals in these events, called Great Britain (Glazebrook 1938, 420). In 1836 Douglas was second-in-command at Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River, the headquarters and main depot of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s (HBC ) fur trade empire west of the Rocky Mountains. There is a general and a specific context for this British construction of landscape. At the general level, the HBC , although a private company, was chartered

by the British Crown, which used the company’s occupation of North America land as the grounds for claims to sovereignty. As a result, the HBC was an integral part of the expansion of empire. The eyes of its employees were, in Mary Pratt’s (1992) words, “imperial eyes” that scanned the eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury world looking for land and resources that could be appropriated for profit. The specific impetus for the search for a new landscape was profit. As a supply depot, Fort Vancouver met all the requisites, including adjacent agricultural lands, abundant fish from the Columbia River, and reasonably easy access to the trading posts of New Caledonia, but it had one serious drawback: ships bringing supplies or taking away the fur harvests of the region had to cross a shallow and treacherous bar at the mouth of the Columbia, a feat that could be accomplished only in the calmest seas, and even then with risk, as the bar was consistently shifting. In the decade since assuming control of the North West Company’s western posts, the HBC had already lost two supply ships on the bar. In a commercial enterprise where these ships loaded with supplies arrived annually, these were major losses. Even when they were not wrecked, it was common for ships to waste a month to six weeks while waiting for a favourable opportunity to enter or exit the river. Thereafter, it regularly took three weeks for a ship to make its way upriver to the fort, about the same time it took from the river mouth to Hawai‘i (George Simpson, in Beaver 1943, 3; Mackie 1997, 272). In 1835, considering this situation, HBC governor George Simpson asked that a new site for a headquarters depot be sought. Simpson ordered his local officials to select an appropriate landscape from the vast territory north of the mouth of the Columbia and then to reshape it. He laid down specific requirements for the landscape sought and the transformations anticipated. The site must have the following “advantages”: • • • •

“a safe and accessible harbour, well situated for defence” “Water power for Grist and Saw Mills” “abundance of Timber for home consumption and Exportation” “the adjacent Country well adapted for tillage and pasture Farms on an extensive scale” (Lamb 1943b, 75)

More than a site of a fur-trading post, Simpson sought a hub for a range of resource extraction activities, including fur, agriculture, logging, milling, and as it turned out, exporting fish and minerals. in the iMaGe of the enGlish countryside Over the next six years, at least four expeditions were dispatched to find a site. Every harbour from the mouth of the Strait of Juan de Fuca north to the Fraser

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River was probed. What did the surveyors find? On most of the coast, they found, in Douglas’s words, “a dreary wilderness” (in Glazebrook 1943, 420, 428). The exceptions to this assessment were the territories and islands around the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the entrance to Puget Sound. In 1836 Duncan Finlayson was sent to examine Whidbey Island, the entrance to Puget Sound, and the south shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and found nothing suitable. The next year, the captain of the steamship Beaver, W.H. McNeill, was directed to examine the Vancouver Island shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. McNeill reported that he had found the landscape they were looking for at the south end of Vancouver Island, where there was an excellent harbour: “Covered with wood to the extent of half a mile, interiorly, where the forest is replaced by a more open and beautifully diversified Country, presenting a succession of plains with groves of Oaks and pine [mostly Douglas-fir] trees for a distance of 15 or 20 miles . . . The plains are said to be fertile and covered with luxuriant vegetation” (in Rich 1941, 286–7). In 1839 John McLoughlin investigated this site. McLoughlin was hostile to the idea of relocating the headquarters, and he perceived the landscape differently. Despite admitting there was a plain and a fine harbour, he concluded, without stating his reasons, that “it is not a place suitable to our purpose” (Lamb 1943b, 77). No action was taken immediately, but the search for a new headquarters became increasingly urgent in 1842 when it was apparent that the upcoming Oregon boundary settlement might leave Fort Vancouver in American hands. That year, James Douglas was sent to re-examine the possibilities, and he selected the harbour McNeill had suggested, “Camosack,” at the southeastern tip of Vancouver Island (Lamb 1943b, 77).1 Douglas chose the site for its safe harbour, abundant nearby timber, and potential water power for a grist and saw mill. But based on these points alone, he said, “the position of Camosack can claim no superiority over some excellent harbours on the south coast of Vancouver Island.” What set Camosack apart, he told McLoughlin in his official report, was “a range of plains nearly 6 miles square containing a great extent of valuable tillage and pasture land equally well adapted for the plough or feeding stock. It was this advantage and distinguishing feature of Camosack, which no other part of the coast possesses . . . which led me to chase [choose] a site for the establishment at that place” (in Beaver 1943, 4). Douglas described the plain to McLoughlin as being “the most picturesque and decidedly the most valuable part of the Island that we had the good fortune to discover” (in Beaver 1943, 6). Douglas was less restrained in his description of the site to his friend James Hargrave, wherein the size of the prairie grew. In a letter to Hargrave in February 1843, he called the site “a perfect Eden” and stated, “The extent of this singular district is about 9 miles square, the size of a goodly Parish in the land of cakes; the surface undulating into hill and dale and

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rendered strikingly picturesque by groupes of fir and oaks” (in Glazebrook 1938, 420). Douglas was not the only one struck by the beauty of this landscape. Governor Simpson later described it as “a perfect Elysium in point of climate and scenery” (in Lamb 1943b, 117), and Berthold Seemann (1853, 10), a naturalist on HMS Herald, described the area adjacent to the fort in June 1846: “[W]e thought we had never seen a more beautiful country; it quite exceeded our expectation; and yet Vancouver’s descriptions made us look for something beyond common scenery. It is a natural park; noble oaks and ferns are to be seen in the greatest luxuriance; thickets of the hazel and the willow, shrubberies of the poplar and alder are dotted about. One could hardly believe that this was not the work of art.” Seemann referred to the journal of George Vancouver, who, fifty years prior, had described the prairies on the islands in the vicinity. Referring to one of these islands, Vancouver (1984, 515) wrote, “I could not possibly believe any uncultivated country had ever been discovered exhibiting so rich a picture. Stately forests . . . pleasingly clothed its eminences and chequered its vallies; presenting in many places, extensive spaces that wore the appearance of having been cleared by art.” He concluded that the general aspect was “as enchantingly beautiful as the most elegantly furnished pleasure grounds of England . . . A picture so pleasing could not fail to call to our rememberence certain delightful situations in old England” (ibid., 513). According to William Gordon (1853), a naval visitor to Victoria, “The country at this time [April] was a perfect . . . garden and park combined.” There are numerous similarities among the descriptions of these early British commentators – Vancouver, Douglas, Seemann, and Gordon. First, there is the consistent use of “old England” as the point of reference, but not just any aspect of the English countryside is evoked. Rather, the appeal is to a very particular English landscape: the “elegantly furnished pleasure grounds.” Seemann and Gordon called the landscape a “park,” and for them, “park” referred to a space that was designed, not “natural.” Three of the observers made reference to the landscape as either “picturesque” or “a picture,” or they compared it to a “work of art.” The key features that conjured up an English landscape were the open spaces, the groups of “noble oaks,” other “stately” trees, and the luxuriance of the grass, clover, and wild flowers.2 Evidently, these four men – an explorer, a naturalist, a navy man, and a fur trader – were all drawing on a particular eighteenth- and nineteenth-century artistic convention to describe the sights they saw, a convention that Douglas named “the picturesque.” The convention first emerged in the late-seventeenthcentury works of artists like Claude Lorrain, Salvator Rosa, and Gaspard Poussin and became widely imitated and popular in late-eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury Britain, to the point where landscapes were evaluated by how closely they approximated the paintings in this genre. Picturesque landscapes had particular characteristics: they were dominated by apparently natural features such

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as meadows or rivers, which were contrasted with one another by the use of shadows and light; they showed a pleasing variety of subjects; and they usually had a background framed by trees or hills, suggesting distance. Although no people were illustrated, they often implicitly suggested a human presence by inserting items like ruins or domesticated animals (Cole and Tippett 1997). Captivated by this image, wealthy landowners turned away from symmetrical, formal gardens and employed landscape designers such as Lancelot (Capability) Brown and Humphry Repton to create for them a “natural” landscape that looked like the paintings. Repton (1907, 71), in particular, emphasized the perspective from the manor house, framed with trees and shrubbery: “[T]he views from a house, and particularly those from the drawing room, ought rather to consist of objects which evidently belong to the place. To express this idea I have used the word appropriation, by which I mean such a portion of wood and lawn as may be supposed to belong to the proprietor of the mansion, occupied by himself, not so much for the purposes of gain as of pleasure and convenience.” As Denis Cosgrove (1984, 26) writes of the picturesque, “in an important, if not always literal, sense the spectator owns the view because all of its components are structured and directed towards his eyes only.” By seeking, selecting, and describing only those aspects of what they saw, these British observers were creating a landscape for themselves and for their audience in Britain. Not only was this landscape familiar and safe, but it was also a landscape accessible only to the nobility in England. Here, settlers drawn from the English middle classes, as they themselves were, could live like lords. Never mind that the oak, invariably mentioned in these descriptions, was not the same species that grew on the British Isles but was instead a twisted, gnarled, and often stunted type.3 They were oaks, by God, and the noble oak was the emblem of British strength and permanence! In his spatial history of Australia, Paul Carter (1987, 242) describes the power of invoking the picturesque: “The picturesque in Australia made the space of travelling visible to the traveller. It realized for him his own historical destination . . . To call [these landscapes] picturesque was to attribute to them the observer’s own heightened sense of possession, his sensation of suddenly being at home in the world.” There was, in Carter’s words, “a connection between the visible picturesque and the invisible prospect of home” (ibid.). “iMPerial eyes” Of all the aspects of the picturesque that were imposed on the landscape, the most important in terms of its intersection with the imperial agenda of these men was the characteristic absence of humans. These “imperial eyes” had erased Indigenous people from these landscapes. Humans were suggested by their absence through consistent references to the fact that it was “almost as

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though these landscapes had been fashioned by artifice” (Pratt 1992, 16). Vancouver (1798, 229) said that he “had no reason to imagine this country had ever been indebted for its decoration to the hand of man.” The erasure of Aboriginal presence was almost complete in the written and cartographic records. Vancouver is renowned for his meticulous charting of the passage between Vancouver Island and the mainland. Yet his charts omit the Native villages, leaving the impression to all who read them of “terra nullius” – an empty land (see chapter 1, this volume, for a discussion of this concept). The three earliest HBC expeditions to reconnoitre southern Vancouver Island all brought back glowing accounts of the landscape and no mention of occupants. Douglas mentioned the local inhabitants only once in his exhaustive formal report of 1842, and that was in reference to the agricultural potential: “We are certain that Potatoes thrive and grow to large size, as Indians have many small fields in cultivation.” In describing the site in his personal correspondence to a friend a few weeks before establishing the fort, Douglas also made a single reference to the Indigenous inhabitants, doing so in the same sentence as he discussed mosquitos: “Not a musquitoe that plague of plagues did we feel, nor meet with molestation from the natives. The latter are however, numerous and daring” (in Glazebrook 1938, 420). The astonishment of these European visitors that such a picturesque country existed independent of human manipulation was related to their discursive and cartographic emptying of the land. After a month of coasting around the shores of the Strait of Juan de Fuca opposite Victoria, Vancouver wondered in his journal about these “delightful meadow[s] over which were promiscuously scattered a few clumps of trees that would have puzzled the most ingenious designer of grounds to arrange more agreeably.” Once in his journal, he raised the question of agency in the creation of this apparently natural landscape: “It is also possible that most of the clear space may have been indebted for their removal of underwood to manual labour . . . [N]othing but the smaller shrubs and plants had yet been able to raise their heads” (Vancouver 1798, 254). He did not pursue the subject. Were these prairies, particularly the ones that attracted Europeans to the site of Victoria, “natural parks”? Or were they “indebted to manual labour” for their creation? When he conducted his 1842 survey of the future site of Fort Victoria, Douglas provided environmental historians with a rare document. He mapped the vegetation as it existed the year prior to the first European settlement. Douglas’s map (see figure 7.1) shows the vast open prairies and borders of woods and forests as well as a few of the watercourses and marshlands. A comparison of Douglas’s map with modern analyses of native plant communities shows that the area he identified as “prairie” coincides generally with what Environment Canada identifies as the “Garry Oak biotic community” (see figure 7.2) (Lea 2006; McMinn et al. 1976). Occurring in the driest parts of

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7.1 | James Douglas and Adolphus Lee Lewes, Ground Plan of Portion of Vancouvers Island Selected for New Establishment, Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, hbc g 2.25, 1842.

southeast Vancouver Island, this plant community is dominated by Garry oaks (Quercus garryana) and has a ground cover of either snowberry bushes (Symphoricarpos albus) or grasses and abundant brightly coloured spring flowers. Soils are coarse but relatively deep, making them ideal for oaks, which have long, drought-resistant tap roots, but unsuitable for the shallow-rooted Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), which occupies adjacent areas. Where there is no shrub cover, flowering bulbs produce well in the spring before the oaks fully leaf since the bulbs allow these plants to withstand the drought. Yet Douglas’s map in figure 7.1 shows prairie over most of the prime oakgrowing territory indicated in figure 7.2. Both his map and his description tell us that the prairie was open, “an undulating hill and dale and rendered striking picturesque by groupes of fir and oaks . . . I . . . delighted in ranging over fields

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Garry Oak Community

Salal – Oregon grape Community

Sword Fern Community

7.2 | Native plant communities, Victoria Metropolitan Area, Capital Regional District, British Columbia.

knee deep in clover, tall grasses and ferns reaching above our heads . . . unequivocable proofs of fertility” (in Glazebrook 1938, 421). J.D. Pemberton (1852), who was hired in 1851 to survey the same land, described the ground as “occupied with Komass [camas lily, Camassia spp.], flowers, & poor Alpine grass.” What accounts for these open savannahs in areas that biologically would support a forest of oak and other trees? an anthroPoGenic landscaPe: caMas cultivation The answer lies in the longstanding occupation and use of this territory by local people. The Indigenous people were numerous; some 1,600 of them occupied the territory where Douglas proposed establishing a European settlement (Lutz 2008, 87). At the time of Douglas’s arrival, the local people, the Lekwungen (called the Songhees by Europeans), lived in two ocean-side villages at opposite ends of the plain (see figure 7.1). Not only was the countryside in between used by the Lekwungen, but we know from Douglas’s later treaty negotiations that it

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7.3 | Territories of the Lekwungen.

was also divided into segments that were owned by different extended families (see figure 7.3) (Duff 1969). The Lekwungen’s main source of food was the Pacific salmon, which migrated past their shores in summer and autumn, supplying most of their protein. The carbohydrates in their diet came from the land. An early report on the Aboriginal people around the fort described “not so much hunters as fishermen and root-diggers” (British Columbia Archives 1914, V 73).4 In fact, the Lekwungen were not so much root diggers (although they did that too) as bulb diggers. Several species of edible bulbs were harvested and used by the Lekwungen, but the edible camas (Camassia quamash and C. leichtlinii) (see figure 7.4), which produces a brilliant blue flower in the spring, was of primary importance in their diet (Beckwith 2004; Brown 1868, 379; Turner 2014; N.C. Turner and Bell 1971).5 Father Pierre-Jean De Smet (1847, 117), a Jesuit missionary who spent years among the Salish, called camas “the queen root of this clime.” Sometimes described as an “onion” by Europeans because of its physical resemblance, the bulb of the camas has a sweet taste when steamed, especially for a prolonged period of time in an underground pit. Early white visitors to the area commented on the Aboriginal use of camas and usually commented favourably on the flavour, one commentator going so far as to suggest, “When warm they taste much liked a baked pear”

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7.4 | Camas flower and bulb.

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(D. Douglas 1959, 114).6 Robert Brown (1868, 379), a botanist on Vancouver Island in the 1860s, recorded that “[t]he gathering is nearly wholly done by women and children, who use a sharp-pointed stick for the purpose; and it is surprising to see the degree of aptitude with which the root is dug out. A botanist who has attempted the same feat with his spade, will appreciate their skill.” Although the camas was naturally occurring, Aboriginal women husbanded and cultivated it in April and May when it was in flower and easily visible, separating out the death camas (Zigadenus venenosus) with its creamcoloured flowers from the patches of edible camas with their blue flowers. This “weeding” and later harvesting also served to loosen and aerate the soil, and during and immediately following the harvest, at least among some groups of the Coast Salish, the seeds, loose or still in their capsules, would be planted in the tilled soil. Only the largest bulbs were selected for harvesting; smaller bulbs, which grow closer to the surface, were left intact or replanted (Proctor 2013). Other accounts suggest that bulbs were deliberately transplanted from one place to the other. In many places, the prime camas “fields” were owned and tended by families. Camas production was Aboriginal agriculture (Beckwith 2004; Kuhnlein and Turner 1991, 86; Stern 1934, 42–3; Suttles 1974, 58–63, 488–9; Suttles 2005, 204). Research in the past decade has shown that the Lekwungen also practised mariculture through the creation of clam gardens, as well as other forms of cultivation, to ensure an abundant supply of food, materials, and medicines (Deur and Turner 2005; Morris 2016; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013). Nancy Chapman Turner and Marcus Bell (1971) suggest that the plants were marked in May when in full bloom and harvested between June and August, and Marjorie Mitchell (1968) records the Lekwungen word for the month that coincides roughly with May as “when camas is collected.” Brown (1868, 379), who lived among the Lekwungen when they were actively harvesting camas in the 1860s, noted that “[o]n Vancouver Island this plant comes into flower about the middle or end of April, and remains in flower until June [May is now more common]

when, just as it is fading, the roots are in a condition to be gathered. Until that time it is watery and unpalatable.” David Douglas (1959, 114), the botanist who roamed over what was called Oregon Territory in the 1820s, described the preparation of camas, which, he said, “forms a great part of the native’s food”: [T]hey are prepared as follows: a hole is scraped in the ground, in which are placed a number of flat stones on which the fire is placed and kept burning until sufficiently warm, when it is taken away. The cakes, which are formed by cutting or bruising the roots and then compressing into small bricks, are placed on the stones and covered with leaves, moss, or dry grass, with a layer of earth on the outside, and left until baked or roasted, which takes generally a night. They are moist when newly taken off the stones and are hung to dry. Then they are placed on shelves or boxes for winter use.7 The Lekwungen had one of the most productive camas territories on Vancouver Island, and besides gathering large quantities of bulbs for their own consumption, they traded their surplus, particularly with the Nuu-chah-nulth people on the west coast of the island and with the Sto:lo on the mainland (Galloway 1982; Keddie 2003; Turner et al. 1983, 85). In the southern Pacific Northwest, according to ethnologist Erna Gunther (1945, 24), “except for choice varieties of dried salmon there was no article of food that was more widely traded than camas.” Production of camas bulbs was substantial. As many as 50 kilograms (120 pounds) of bulbs might be roasted in a single pit at one time, and in the postcontact period, one family alone reported collecting four or five potato sacks in a few days. Estimates suggest that in prime patches a family could harvest ten to twelve bags of camas over the season, each bag containing 23 kilograms (50 pounds), for a total of over 230 kilograms (500 pounds), representing up to 10,000 bulbs (Marguerite Babcock, in Turner and Bell 1971, 77; Beckwith 2004, 75; Deur and Turner 2005, 27; Sproat 1868, 42). Camas gathering was a social as well as economic activity, as small camps were set up over the plains adjacent to family fields. Walter Colquhoun Grant (1849), who was employed as the first surveyor of the Colony of Vancouver Island, observed that “[t]he camass digging is a great season of reunion for the women of various tribes,” and Robert Brown (1868, 379) observed that men would visit from the salmon-fishing camps to look for marriage prospects. Clearly, the Lekwungen had a strong incentive to maintain the open meadows in which the camas thrived, and they also had the means: fire. There is now abundant evidence that this landscape was “made” by the Lekwungen and their

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Table 7.1 | Records of Indigenous landscape burning in the vicinity of Fort Victoria, 1846–51

year fires started by

last Mention of fires or fire sMoke/haze

first rain after start of fires

source

1846

11 August

28 August

29 August

Fort journal

1847

25 August

12 September

13 September

Fort journal

1848

17 July

21 August

23 August

Fort journal

31 July

17 September

19 September

Fort journal

1849

1 September

Unknown but on 26 October, “weather has been so thick with a mixture of smoke and fog.” 10 September

1850

“Thick fog and smoke limit visibility to 300 feet.” 1851

17 July, which was “earlier than usual”

9 September

Colonization of Vancouver’s Island (1849, 20) Eden Colvile to George Simpson, 26 October 1849 (Colvile 1956) W.C. Grant to James Douglas, 10 September 1850 (Ireland 1953) J.D. Pemberton to Andrew Colvile, 8 August 1851 (Pemberton 1851)

south-Island neighbours (see table 7.1). Grant (1975, 11) wrote in 1849, “That the savages have an abominable habit of burning the woods, & the smoke arising hence, together with the fog . . . wd. prevent one from recognizing one’s dearest friend at 100 yards distance, nay sometimes at 100 feet.” Grant (1849) is more specific in his report to the governor, where he complains of the frequency of the fires kindled promiscuously by the natives both in wood and prairie between the months of August and October. Their object is to clear away the thick fern and underwood in order that the roots and fruits on which they in a great measure subsist may grow the more freely and be the more easily dug up. I have endeavoured in the neighbourhood of Mullachard [Grant’s home in Sooke] to check these fires by giving neither potlache [presents] or employment to any Indians so long as a fire was blazing in sight of my house. Grant’s stated objection to the fires was that they burned off organic material that enriched the soil for agriculture, although he was presumably worried about the loss of his house and cultivated fields as well, not to mention the

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smoke. Grant (ibid.) suggested to James Douglas that, in any future agreement to extinguish Aboriginal title, annual payments be agreed to on the condition that a sum be deducted for every fire in the district that year. From the Fort Victoria journal and HBC surveyors’ reports, we learn the timing of the firing of the nearby camas prairies by the Lekwungen in the five years 1846–51, a period when European occupation was limited to thirty or so men living at the fort and farming only up to 300 hundred acres right by the Victoria harbour. It is likely that the pattern they observed had not been much affected by European settlement. The fires were lit in the mid to late summer on the drought-parched prairies after the camas and other bulbs were dormant underground.8 The resulting fire was a quick burn, which consumed the dried grasses, oak seedlings, and invading shrubs but lacked sufficient intensity to burn through the bark of the established oaks. The fires probably ran out of fuel shortly after they hit the wetter Douglas-fir and sword fern (Polystichum munitum) plant communities bordering the plains and, if not, burned until the next substantial rains started. An 1848 observer remarked on the low-intensity burning: A few days back a party of us went to Cedar Hill [now known as Mount Douglas and, most recently, PKOLS] . . . Below us we saw . . . [t]he oaks upon the open spaces. Wherever these grew it was clear from underwood, and we had grass and fern to gallop along . . . Miles of the ground were burnt and smoky, and miles were still burning. The Indians burn the country in order to find more easily the roots which they eat. The fire runs along at a great pace, and it is the custom here if you are caught to gallop right through it; the grass being short, the flame is very little, and you are through in a second. (Colonization of Vancouver’s Island 1849, 18–19) In 1846 the Fort Victoria journal recorded on 11 and 12 August, “The Indians are now beginning to set the . . . plains on fire . . . The fires now run in all directions between this [place] & Cedar Hill & one of our carters got to the hay in time to save what remained exposed of it in that quarter.” In 1849 it was 31 July when the journal first noted “fires beginning to spread over the country.” Three weeks later, it stated that “the fires are burning fiercely in all the forests around this place destroying in the short space of a few hours more timber than half a century will replace” (Fort Victoria 1846–50). Although the maintenance of their camas fields was apparently the primary reason for the annual burn, there were other advantages. Grant was concerned that the fires would harm soil fertility, but the fires accelerated the release of potassium into the soil and may have improved its ability to support shallowrooted grasses and bulbs. This annual fertilizing may account for Douglas’s description of the flora as “the rankest growth of native plants that I have seen in

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America” (in Glazebrook 1938, 420; see also Beckwith 2004, 110–11). The prairies supported more than just camas, as surveyor J.D. Pemberton (1860, 19), Grant’s successor, noted: “The open grounds, also grow berries of many kinds, and roots such as onions, kamass, etc, on which the Indian, to a great extent, subsists.” One indication of the richness of the berry supply comes from a visiting British naval officer who noted, “[T]he forest is as full of wild strawberries as possible, and it abounds with other fruit bearing shrubs: last summer the officers of the ‘Grappler’ made enough preserves from the wild berries to last them all through the winter” (du Verney 1990, 32–3). When they burned into the forests, the fires provided more browse for deer and elk, which fed on the grasses and tender shoots of shrubs, finding little forage in the mature fir and cedar forests. Even the prairie burns had the effect of maintaining the edges of the prairies where browse flourished. Certainly, when the Europeans arrived, they found that the “country abounds with deer, elk and game” (British Columbia Archives 1914, V73). The camas harvest was an economic activity, but like all the activities of the Lekwungen, it was integrated with their spiritual beliefs. The artist Paul Kane (1859, 150), visiting the Lekwungen in 1846, described a dance performed “both before and after any important action of the tribe, such as fishing, gathering camas, or going on a war party.” It would be consistent with other Lekwungen harvesting practices that songs were sung and prayers said before camas harvesting (Beckwith 2004).9 rePurPosinG eden The Lekwungen had created an open landscape with specific agricultural, economic, and social goals in mind. So it was ironic that it was the camas prairies, maintained by the Lekwungen’s regular burning, that attracted European settlement to their territory.10 For Douglas, the existence of such a place resembling more “the close sward of a well managed lea [field], than the produce of an uncultivated waste” was scarcely believable (Glazebrook 1938, 420–1). In retrospect, it is clear that two distinct landscapes overlapped one another. Douglas’s “Eden” was “Meeqan,” as the local people knew it, one of the Pacific Northwest’s prime camas “fields.” Douglas had stumbled upon “a well managed lea” – except the style of management and ownership was not one that he understood. Through his eyes, it was picturesque, reminiscent of aristocratic estates at home, and available for appropriation and immediate use. There are many ironies in the intersection of the Lekwungen and English landscapes on southern Vancouver Island. For the Lekwungen, their careful manipulation and husbandry to advance their own economic goals were the key factors determining that their home would be the site of the first European

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settlement larger than a fort in British Columbia and that they would be the first of British Columbia’s Indigenous peoples deprived of their land base. For Douglas and the English, the irony was that the plains, which had led to the choice of the site of Victoria because they reminded him of the English parklands, were not suited to “the plough.” This was the case despite the fact that the ever-vigilant Douglas did not content himself with merely judging the plain by its luxurious spring verbiage. He noted in 1842 that in the Indian gardens, “potatoes thrive and grow to large size,” and he actually dug at least two test pits to examine the soil: “I observed, generally speaking, but two marked varieties of soil on these Prairies, that of the best land is a dark vegetable mould, varying from 9 to 14 inches in depth, overlaying a substrate of gray clayey loam . . . The other variety is of inferior value, and to judge from the less vigourous appearance of the vegetation upon it, naturally more unproductive. Both kinds however, produce an abundance of grass, and several varieties of red clover grow in the rich moist bottoms” (in Beaver 1943, 6). Douglas was misled by the potatoes. First, potatoes are famous for growing in the worst of soils, but the thriving nature of the potatoes he saw probably resulted from the Salish people’s habit of planting in old village sites, which had the advantage of the rich composted soils of middens, where previous generations had disposed of their fish offal, clam shells, and organic waste (White 1980, 20). On the soil, Douglas’s description fits with modern analyses, but there can be no doubt that he deceived himself in his estimation of the relative proportions of the superior and inferior soils or purposely emphasized the positive to reinforce his choice of sites. The rich soils lay only in the moist bottom lands, of which there were very few, as his map in figure 7.1 shows. The self-deception was facilitated by the spring timing of Douglas’s arrival. When Douglas did his reconnaissance, and again when he arrived to establish the fort, the prairies were lush in spring-time grasses and wildflowers. Another April visitor described the Victoria area as “plenty of green fields though there is in reality scarcely any green grass, the surface of the country being covered by [a] sort of hyacinth called by the Natives kamass the root of which affords them a staple” (Gordon 1853). By August the plains, which lay in a rain shadow and so had less rainfall than any place west of the Coast Range, were withering under the hot sun. The very soil qualities, deep but coarse and rapidly draining, which were ideal for oaks, made the prairies inhospitable to agricultural crops. Although he was not a great farmer himself, surveyor Grant (1975) noted that “the open land is generally inferior to that covered with timber, though settlers prefer the former, being in too great a hurry to make money, to take time to clear the latter.” Referring to the area around his farm 40 kilometres west of Victoria but, if anything, in a moister location, he wrote, “The Pasture on the open land is of very inferior description & soon eaten bare by a few cattle. In the woodland

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7.5 | Farms of the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Puget Sound Agricultural Company, Vancouver Island.

there is none whatever, and in the summer months everywhere a great scarcity of water” (ibid.). James Douglas himself later admitted as much. Nine years after his initial optimistic survey, Douglas wrote that the HBC was bringing new land into cultivation, “a process involving much labor, though well repaid by the land reclaimed, which is generally speaking of better quality than the Prairie soil” (Bowsfield 1979, 17; J. Douglas 1853). These observations are visible on the landscape by looking for where the HBC and its subsidiary, the Puget Sound Agricultural Company, chose to locate the first farms (see figure 7.5). A comparison of Douglas’s map with modern

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soil analyses shows that all but one, Beckley Farm, were located off the prairie in the woodlands of the wetter swordfern communities. Beckley Farm and even the farms that were on the margin of the prairie, like North Dairy and Uplands Farm, were used mainly to pasture sheep and cattle, not to grow crops. Starting in 1850, the HBC began to spread out from its location on the Victoria Harbour to create a dairy farm near Swan Lake and a cattle farm adjacent to the Lekwungen village in Cadboro Bay. The HBC subsidiary, the Puget Sound Agricultural Company, started farming in what is now Colwood, Langford, and Metchosin. By 1851 there were 1,000 cattle and 2,000 sheep grazing over the Lekwungen’s prime camas patch and eating their crop. Although the cattle and sheep cropped the greenery, preventing the camas from flowering, the settlers’ pigs had a different effect. Charles Bayley (n.d.), one of the first residents at Uplands Farm, recalled, “The Kamos [camas] . . . is well known by all the native tribes throughout those latitudes also to the pigs of the settlers as they fatten on it containing glutenous and farinaceous matter” (see also Grant 1975, 11; Hills 1860; White 1980, 48). In 1851 the first settler, John Todd, took up farming in Oak Bay, and over the 1850s settlers began to purchase and farm land scattered throughout the Lekwungen camas fields. Whereas there had been only 30 non-Indigenous people in the region in 1848, there were over 550 by 1855 (Lamb 1940, 51–8). Although camas harvests continued into the 1860s and, for a few, persisted more recently (Morris 2017), settlers must have discouraged the annual burning of the Victoria area prairies, which seems to have stopped by the mid-1850s, although it continued later in other places. Conflicting uses meant that the prairie landscape became, literally, contested terrain. The Lekwungen, although wanting to benefit from the exchange of goods and labour with the new settlement opening up, resented the appropriation of their camas fields. Gilbert Sproat (1868, 42) noted that “one of the bitterest regrets of the natives is that the encroachment of whites is rapidly depriving them of their crops of this useful and almost necessary plant.” The Lekwungen retaliated against the invasion of their fields by harvesting the settler’s cattle, and the result was a period of uneasiness between the immigrants and the Natives. conflict over lands and resources and a new reality When the fur traders caught the Native suspects with an ox carcass, they first demanded that compensation be paid and, getting no satisfaction, resorted to flogging the suspected “rustlers.” The Lekwungen naturally resisted these actions, and so within a year of the establishment of the fort, the two groups were nearly at war. In the spring of 1844, the fort’s chief factor, Roderick Finlayson, announced that “unless the cattle killed were paid for I would demolish

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all the [Lekwungen] huts and drive them from the place” with his cannons. In response, the Lekwungen, with the help of their Cowichan neighbours, laid siege to the fort and began firing. The traders then turned their cannon on an Aboriginal house and destroyed it with one shot. The Lekwungen opted to pay restitution. Secure in their fort, with its bastions and cannons, the fur traders had introduced the Lekwungen to the new regime of landscape management and property relations. After this incident, Finlayson (n.d. b) believed the Lekwungen “learned that it was wisest to be submissive and we made farmers and bull drivers of them” (see also Lutz 2008, 72). Although the Lekwungen were not as subjugated as Finlayson implied, they did begin to work for the immigrants, changing the landscape from “natural” to “pastoral.”11 The intent of the immigrants was to turn the land around Fort Victoria into a productive farming community reminiscent of an English village. Even the land laws had in mind the replication of the class-based English society. When Vancouver Island was made a colony in 1849, rural land was sold only in large pieces, with the stipulation that purchasers bring out labourers to work for them (Mackie 1992–93). The work of turning Victoria into an English village was largely accomplished in those years by the Lekwungen. “Gradually,” Finlayson (n.d. a) recalled, “we got some of the young natives to assist, paying them in goods, and found them very useful as ox drivers in ploughing the land.” By 1847 “some of these wild Indians” (ibid.) were also employed as assistant dairymen, carters, and sheep shearers. As herdsmen, their new duties included protecting the cattle from other Aboriginal groups that had not yet accepted the immigrants’ concept of cattle ownership (Tolmie 1884, 7). Grant (1849) employed Aboriginal labour at his farm and in his surveys along the south coast of the Island, reporting that “those who are able to work are all anxious to be employed.” The scale of operations is evident from a letter in April 1851, when Douglas reported “about 100 Indians employed in clearing Brush and trees and bringing new land into cultivation” (Douglas to Barclay, 16 April 1851, in Bowsfield 1979, 170). Douglas (1853) later noted that “a great part of the agricultural labour of the colony, is at present performed by means of the Natives, who though less skilled and industrious than the white men, work at a comparatively much cheaper rate, so that on the whole, they are exceedingly useful to the colonists” (see also Bowsfield 1979, 17). As the forests retreated, cottages as well as farm and manor houses were built in an English style, with wood, shingles, and labour supplied by the Lekwungen. James Douglas, who succeeded Finlayson as chief factor and later became governor of the colony, repeatedly remarked on the use of Aboriginal people as “rough carpenters” who built or helped to build many of the early structures, including his own house. The HBC ’s doctor also noted that Indians cleared his land and made shingles, which they sold to the new colonists for their roofs

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7.6 | Victoria as an English village, 1860.

(Bowsfield 1979, 17, 115, 170, 174; Finlayson n.d. a; Kane 1859, 145; Mackie 1984, 140; Smith 1975, 127–34). Lekwungen gardeners tended the English gardens, were taught English cooking, and worked as domestics in the settlers’ houses, and as they ploughed up the new land, the Lekwungen took off their last crop of camas (Inskip 1853; Smith 1975, 134; Staines 1852). conclusion The interactions between culture and landscape are full of unintended consequences. Prior to the arrival of the Europeans, Indigenous people’s lives on southeast Vancouver Island depended on a manipulated landscape for physical as well as cultural sustenance. Coincidently, in modifying their landscape to best support themselves, the Lekwungen created a topography that intersected with a European social construction of beauty and that drew Britons like a magnet. Viewing this landscape through their imperial eyes, British observers declared it “natural,” emptied it of Aboriginal occupants, and occupied it themselves. Yet, without Indigenous people’s intervention in this landscape, it seems likely that European settlement patterns would have been different. In looking to establish a new headquarters and capital, the primary requirement was good agricultural land. Misled by the human-made prairies, Douglas chose Lekwungen territory, whereas the best agricultural land in all of British Columbia surrounded the HBC’s previously established Fort Langley in the Fraser Valley. The British appropriation of the landscape surrounding Fort Victoria, ultimately with the use of cannon, forced changes to the lands, the vegetation,

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and the lives of the Lekwungen. Increasingly deprived of their resource base, they turned more to wage work for Europeans. In doing so, they continued to transform the landscape, but thereafter they were guided by a foreign aesthetic. Under the direction of the British settlers, the Lekwungen carved out a little bit of “olde England” on and around their camas fields. By the time Henry Guillod (1955, 195, 197) arrived in 1862, a short twenty years after Douglas’s first survey, the transformation of the landscape was nearly complete (see figure 7.6): “We crossed a wooden bridge to reach Victoria, which as you approach looks like a pretty English village; the church . . . with its spire being the principal object in the landscape, a little bit of lake [harbour] and the bridge being in the foreground – how much prettier the slanting roofs are than the flat, pasteboardy ones of San Francisco” (see also Burnaby 2002, 62–3; Lord 1866, 1, 36).

notes 1 The name was taken from a distinctive gorge with a reversing fall located in an inlet leading from the Victoria Harbour named after a local woman whom the Lekwungen people believed had been turned to stone there to protect the place (Keddie 2003, 159). 2 For similar post-1858 views, see Little (2007). 3 John Keast Lord (1866, 36), a naturalist attached to the boundary survey, remarked that around Victoria, “[o]n the open lands, misnamed prairies, the scrub oak (Quercus garryana) grows so gnarled and contorted that stock, branch and twig, and even the very leaves look as if they suffered from perpetual cramp.” The oaks were named “Garryana,” after the deputy governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, by botanist David Douglas (1959, 49); the English oak is Q. robur. 4 Other important bulbs found on the prairie included wild onions (Allium cernuum, A. acuminatum), chocolate lily (Fritillaria lanceolata), tiger lily (Lilium columbianum), brodiaea (Brodiaea coronaria), and false onion (Triteleia hyacintha, T. grandiflora). Other edible “roots” included rhizomes of bracken fern (Pteridium aquilinum) and wild springbank clover (Trifolium wormskioldii) as well as roots of Pacific silverweed (Potentilla anserina ssp. pacifica) and wild caraway (Perideridia gairdneri). 5 Edible camas is not to be confused with another bulb plant that often grows with it, the death camas (Zigadenus venenosus), which has creamy-white flowers. 6 Camas was sweet-tasting but evidently not productive of sweet smells. Visiting botanist David Douglas (1959, 114) noted, “Lewis observes that when eaten in a large quantity they occasion bowel complaints. This I am not aware of, but assuredly they produce flatulence: when in the Indian hut I was almost blown out by strength of wind.” 7 Brown (1868, 379) describes some alternative recipes: “In Oregon I have seen the bulbs roasted until they became black. They are then pounded up and preserved in cakes. In Vancouver Island, and generally throughout the country, the roots are roasted to convert starch [actually inulin, a complex sugar] unto sugar [fructose] (though of course the Indian knows not the rationale of the process), and are preserved whole in bags for winter use. In some cases they are buried in holes in the ground until fermentation sets in.” Some of the roasting pits are still to be found in Anderson Hill Park in Victoria amid the camas fields.

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8 Grant (1849), who was in Sooke and Victoria in 1849–50, reported the fires between August and October, suggesting they may have been set later in Sooke. See Beckwith (2004, 76) for the suggestion of spring and fall burning. 9 For a thoughtful discussion of the integration of Indigenous economic and spiritual worlds, see Povinelli (1993). 10 All over the Salish Sea area, the first choice of European settlers was the cleared camas fields of the Salish (see White 1980). 11 In fact, cattle stealing continued and in 1852 threatened to break out into open hostilities again when a suspected cattle “lifter” took refuge in the Lekwungen village. The first posse sent to arrest him was routed, and so the steamship Beaver with its cannons was placed opposite the village. In James Douglas’s words, “[T]he Fort guns were also turned upon it but before any offensive measures were taken the Indians beat a parley and returned the property [left behind in the route] . . . They are now mustering property among them to pay for the cattle stolen, which will I presume lead to a final adjustment of this affair” (Douglas to Barclay, 27 March 1851, in Bowsfield 1979, 164; see also Douglas to Tolmie, 27 March 1852, in British Columbia Archives 1914). For a discussion of how the Lekwungen used the traders for their own purposes, see Lutz (2008, ch. 4). references Bayley, C.A. n.d. “Early Life on Vancouver Island.” E/B/B34.2, British Columbia Archives, Victoria. Beaver. 1943. “The Founding of Fort Victoria.” The Beaver, outfit 273: 3–9. http://www.fortvictoriajournal.ca/pdf/founding-of-fort-victoria.pdf. Beckwith, B.R. 2004. “‘The Queen Root of This Clime’: Ethnoecological Investigations of Blue Camas and Its Landscapes on Southern Vancouver Island.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Bowsfield, H. 1979. Fort Victoria Letters 1846–1851. Winnipeg: Hudson’s Bay Record Society. British Columbia Archives. 1914. “Report on Vancouver Island, 1848.” In Report of the Provincial Archives Department . . . for the Year Ended December 31st, 1913. Victoria: King’s Printer. Brown, R. 1868. “On the Vegetable Products Used by the Northwest American Indians as Food and Medicine, in the Arts, and in Superstitious Rites.” Transactions of the Botanical Society 9: 378–96. Burnaby, R. 2002. Land of Promise: Robert Burnaby’s Letters from Colonial British Columbia, 1858–1863. Ed. A.B. McLeod and P. McGeachie. Burnaby, BC: City of Burnaby. Carter, P. 1987. The Road to Botany Bay. London: Faber and Faber. Cole, D., and M. Tippett. 1997. From Desolation to Splendour: Changing Perceptions of the British Columbia Landscape. Toronto: Clarke, Irwin. Colonization of Vancouver’s Island. 1849. London: Burrup and Son. Chung Collection, UBC Archives, https://open.library.ubc.ca/collections/chung/chungpub/items/ 1.0056116#p19z0r0f. Colvile, E. 1956. London Correspondence Inward from Eden Colvile, 1849–1852. Ed. E.E. Rich. London: Hudson’s Bay Record Society. Cosgrove, D. 1984. Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape. London: Croom Helm. De Smet, Father P.-J. 1847. Oregon Missions and Travels over the Rocky Mountains in 1845–46. New York: Edward Dunigan.

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Deur, D., and N.J. Turner. 2005. Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Douglas, D. 1959. Journal Kept by David Douglas during His Travels in North America, 1823–27. New York: Antiquarian. Douglas, J. 1853. Letter to Lord Newcastle, 28 July. CO 305/4, 9499, Colonial Despatches, Archives of the United Kingdom, Kew. Duff, W. 1969. “The Fort Victoria Treaties.” BC Studies, no. 3: 3–57. du Verney, E. 1990. “Letters of a Victorian Naval Officer, 1862–4.” Ed. A. Pritchard. BC Studies, no. 86: 28–56. Finlayson, R. n.d. a. “Biography of Roderick Finlayson.” A/B/30/F49A, British Columbia Archives, Victoria. – n.d. b. “History of Vancouver Island and the Northwest Coast.” A/B/30/F49B, British Columbia Archives, Victoria. Fort Victoria. 1846–50. Journal. Ed. G. Brazier, F. Gentz, and J.S. Lutz. B.226/ a/1, Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Winnipeg. www.fortvictoriajournal.ca. Galloway, B. 1982. Upper Sto:lo Ethnobotany. Chilliwack, BC: Coqualeetza Education Training Centre. Glazebrook, G.P. de T., ed. 1938. The Hargrave Correspondence. Toronto: Champlain Society. Gordon, W.E. 1853. Diary. MSS 309, Mitchell Library, Sydney, Australia. Grant, W.C. 1849. “Report on Vancouver Island.” A/B/20/G76, British Columbia Archives, Victoria. – 1975. “Two Letters from Walter Colquhoun Grant.” Ed. James Hendrickson. BC Studies, no. 26: 3–15. Guillod, H. 1955. “Henry Guillod’s Journal of a Trip to Cariboo, 1862.” Ed. D.B. Smith. British Columbia Historical Quarterly 19 (July–October): 187–232. Gunther, E. 1945. Ethnobotany of Western Washington. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Hills, G. 1860. The Journal of George Hills, Bishop of Columbia. Archives of the Ecclesiastical Province of British Columbia and Yukon, Anglican Church of Canada, Kelowna. Inskip, G. 1853. Journal, 1851–1855. MS-00936, Mitchell Library, Sydney, Australia. Ireland, W. 1953. “Captain Walter Calquhoun Grant: Vancouver Island’s First Independent Settler.” British Columbia Historical Quarterly 17 (January–April): 85–121. Kane, P. 1859. Wanderings of an Artist among the Indians of North America: From Canada to Vancouver’s Island and Oregon through the Hudson’s Bay Company’s Territory and Back Again. Reprint, Edmonton: Hurtig, 1968. Keddie, G. 2003. Songhees Pictorial: A History of the Songhees People as Seen by Outsiders, 1790– 1912. Online supplement. Victoria: Royal BC Museum. http://staff.royalbcmuseum.bc. ca/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/Songhees_supplement-Grant-Keddie.pdf. Kuhnlein, H.V., and N.J. Turner. 1991. Traditional Plant Foods of Canadian Indigenous Peoples. Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach. Lamb, W.K. 1940. “The Census of Vancouver Island, 1855.” British Columbia Historical Quarterly 4 (January): 51–8. – 1943a. “Five Letters of Charles Ross, 1842–44.” British Columbia Historical Quarterly 7 (April): 103–18. – 1943b. “The Founding of Fort Victoria.” British Columbia Historical Quarterly 7 (April): 71–91. Lea, T. 2006. “Historical Garry Oak Ecosystems of Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Pre-European Contact to the Present.” Davidsonia 17, no. 2: 34–50.

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Little, J.I. 2007. “West Coast Picturesque: Class, Gender and Race in a British Colonial Landscape.” Journal of Canadian Studies/Revue d’études canadiennes 41, no. 2: 5–41. Lord, J.K. 1866. The Naturalist in Vancouver Island and British Columbia. London: Richard Bentley. Lutz, J.S. 2008. Makúk: A New History of Aboriginal-White Relations. Vancouver: UBC Press. Mackie, R. 1984. “Colonial Land, Indian Labour and Company Capital: The Economy of Vancouver Island, 1849–1858.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. – 1992–93. “The Colonization of Vancouver Island, 1849–1858.” BC Studies, no. 96: 3–40. – 1997. Trading beyond the Mountains: The British Fur Trade on the Pacific, 1793–1843. Vancouver: UBC Press. Maclachlan, M., ed. 1998. Fort Langley Journals. Vancouver: UBC Press. McMinn, R.G., S. Eis, H.E. Hirvonen, E.T. Oswald, and J.P. Senyk. 1976. Native Vegetation in British Columbia’s Capital Region. Victoria: Forest Service, Environment Canada. http://cfs.nrcan.gc.ca/entrepotpubl/pdfs/1773.pdf. Mitchell, M. 1968. “A Dictionary of Songish, a Dialect of Coast Salish.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. Morris, Joan (Sellemah). 2016. Personal communication with author. – 2017. Personal communication with N.J. Turner. Pemberton, J.D. 1852. Letter to A. Colvile, 17 May. A6/120, Hudson’s Bay Company Archives, Winnipeg. – 1860. Facts and Figures Relating to Vancouver Island and British Columbia. London: Longman, Green, Longman and Roberts. Povinelli, E. 1993. Labor’s Lot: The Power, History and Culture of Aboriginal Action. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pratt, M. 1992. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. New York: Routledge. Proctor, K.Y. 2013. “Renewing Central Coast Salish Camas (Camassia leichtlinii (Baker) Wats., C. quamash (Pursh) Greene; Liliaceaee) Traditions through Access to Protected Areas: An Ethnoecological Inquiry.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Repton, H. 1907. The Art of Landscape Gardening. Ed. J. Nolem. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Rich, E.E., ed. 1941. The Letters of John McLoughlin from Fort Vancouver to the Governor and Committee. London: Champlain Society for the Hudson’s Bay Record Society. Seemann, B. 1853. Narrative of the Voyage of HMS Herald during the Years 1845–51. London: Reeve and Co. Smith, D.B., ed. 1975. The Reminiscences of Doctor John Sebastian Helmcken. Vancouver: UBC Press. Sproat, G.M. 1868. Scenes and Studies of Savage Life. Reprint, Victoria: Sono Nis, 1989. Staines, R.J. 1852. Letter to Thomas Boys, 6 July. CO 305/3, Colonial Despatches, Archives of the United Kingdom, Kew. Stern, B. 1934. The Lummi Indians of Northwest Washington. New York: Columbia University Press. Suttles, W. 1974. The Economic Life of the Coast Salish of Haro and Rosario Straits. New York: Garland. – 2005. “Coast Salish Resource Management: Incipient Agriculture?” In Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America, ed. D. Deur and N.J. Turner, 181–93. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Tolmie, W.F. 1884. “Utilization of the Indians.” Resources of British Columbia 1, no. 12: 7. Turner, N.C., and M.A.M. Bell. 1971. “The Ethnobotany of the Coast Salish Indians of Vancouver Island.” Economic Botany 25, no. 1: 63–99.

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Turner, N.J. 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia’s First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33. Turner, N.J., J. Thomas (Tl’iishal), B.F. Carlson, and R.T. Ogilvie. 1983. Ethnobotany of the Nitinaht Indians of Vancouver Island. Victoria: British Columbia Provincial Museum. Vancouver, G. 1984. A Voyage of Discovery to the Pacific Ocean and Round the World in the Year 1790–1795. Vol. 1. Ed. W. Kaye Lamb. London: Hakluyt Society. White, R. 1980. Land Use, Environment, and Social Change: The Shaping of Island County, Washington. Seattle: University of Washington Press.

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8 A Place Called Pípsell: An Indigenous Cultural Keystone Place, Mining, and Secwépemc Law Marianne Ignace and Chief Ronald E. Ignace introduction The Secwépemc (“spread out people”) began living in our Indigenous homeland in the south-central interior of what is now British Columbia, Canada, 10,000 years ago when it became inhabitable as the ice melted at the end of the Cordilleran glaciation. Our collective memories of arriving on the land include ancestral accounts of a time of “great winds, fire and heat” – which reflect the climate and conditions of the hypsithermal period some 11,000–7,000 years ago – and Secwépemc ancient stsptékwll (oral tellings) reference the breaking of ice dams, floods, the invention and spread of technologies, and the movements and migrations of our ancient forebears. As the land shaped itself throughout periods of climate change, our ancestors showed enormous resilience against natural disasters by developing sustainable resource management regimes supported by traditional ecological knowledge and wisdom and articulated as principles of Indigenous stsq̓ey̓ (law) that guided human conduct in a sentient environment (Ignace and Ignace 2017; Ignace, Ignace, and Turner 2016). Since the mid-1800s, with the arrival of settlers in the interior of British Columbia, our people have experienced large-scale dispossession from our homeland and the alteration of landscape and ecology through human settlement, urban development, cattle grazing, logging, mining, and other impacts (Thomas, Turner, and Garibaldi 2016) – all this despite the objections of our ̓ people over many generations and despite the fact that Secwepemcúlecw remains unceded land. In recent decades, there has been increasing pressure from proposed mining projects on our use and enjoyment of our land and landscape,

including the traditional resources: the fish and land animals that give themselves to us; the many plants that sustain us by providing foods, medicines, and fibres used in arts and implements (Ignace, Turner, and Peacock 2016); and even the minerals (Ignace and Ignace 2017; see also chapter 9, this volume). As Secwépemc, we continue to value the plants and animals of our homeland, not only for the nutrition that they provide but also for the connection to the lives of our ancestors that they make possible and for the living reciprocal relationship with our land that harvesting and stewarding them maintain (Ignace and Ignace 2013, 2016, 2017; Peacock, Ignace, and Turner 2016). Among the most threatened environments in our homeland are mid-elevation grasslands that our elders refer to as one of our important “breadbaskets” (Ignace et al. 2014). Not only do they provide access to important resources like ungulates, trout, and food and medicinal plants, but as “edge” ecotones situated at the interface of grasslands and forest (Hebda 1982; Turner, Davidson-Hunt, and O’Flaherty 2003), they also feature enormous biodiversity, including blueand red-listed species. In this chapter, we detail the story of Pípsell (“trout place”), called Jacko ̓ Lake in English, which has been stewarded by the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation (SSN ) in the mid-elevation grasslands of the Secwépemc some 10 kilo̓ metres southwest of Tkemlúps, the confluence of the North and South Thompson Rivers (see figure 8.1).1 Under its anglicized name of Kamloops, the original ̓ community of Tkemlúps is now a sprawling city of some 90,000. In 2012 a Polish mining company, KGHM , proposed to establish the Ajax Mine, a large open-pit gold and copper mine near Kamloops that would include a mining pit 2.5 kilometres long, 1 kilometre wide, and 500 metres deep straddling the shore of the lake. The proposed gold and copper mine was projected to produce some 24 million tons of ore per year. Its development would unfold over a twenty-threeyear period and would include an expanding toxic tailings pond and waste rock management facilities where rock debris would be piled nearly 100 metres high. The company also sought permits to take more than 14 billion litres of fresh water per year out of Kamloops Lake, itself the flow-through of the Thompson River and one of the most important areas for sockeye salmon breeding in North America. ̓ The Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation was concerned that the landscape and ecology of the lake and its surrounding grasslands and watershed would be altered and harmed forever by the Ajax Mine and its associated activities. In 2013–14 the SSN carried out a cultural heritage study of Pípsell (Ignace et al. 2014), focusing on archaeological, ethnohistorical, ethnographic, ethnobiological, and oral history sources, as well as undertaking interviews with forty SSN community members. In this study, not only did we uncover Pípsell’s past and ongoing significance for Secwépemc resource use (i.e., hunting, fishing, and plant gathering), but most importantly, we also showed Pípsell to be

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8.1 | Pípsell (“trout place”), known as Jacko Lake, 2013.

a place of deep cultural, historical, and spiritual significance. It is the location of an epic Secwépemc stsptekwll, or stseptékwll (oral tradition) (Ignace and Ignace 2017, 56–60), called “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents.” It expresses Secwépemc Indigenous law about caretakership of the land and the reciprocal accountability of its sentient beings and about the preciousness and interconnectedness of water, land, and air as embodied in the water cycle. It is connected, moreover, to a prayer site and ritual that address the consequences of humans violating the Indigenous law of reciprocal accountability, as well as being associated with a Secwépemc song and traditional dance that embody this connection. As a storied landscape, Pípsell is what Cuerrier and colleagues (2016, 429) have identified as a “cultural keystone place,” or one marked by “high biocultural salience.” Despite its deep history and importance, however, Secwépemc people were increasingly excluded from Pípsell after land ordinances of the 1860s privileged European settlement and resource extraction and curtailed Secwépemc land tenure, movement, and resource use. In September 2015, after issuing a declaration of Indigenous title at Pípsell, the SSN filed a claim in the Supreme Court of British Columbia asserting its

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Aboriginal rights and title to Pípsell and the territory stewarded by the Secwépemc. Subsequently, the SSN launched its own Indigenous, communityled review of the cultural and environmental impacts (SSN 2016). In this chapter, we detail the significance of Pípsell as a “cultural keystone place,” and we pose questions about the way that Indigenous peoples’ connection to and sense of place ought to be addressed. As it is used in provincial and federal environmental impact assessments, the concept of mitigation (“lessening the harm”) is based on the idea that Indigenous peoples’ cultural and spiritual practices are transportable and thus can be readily separated and alienated from the ancestral sentient places associated with them. The Secwépemc fundamentally regard those places as continuing to be imbued with the power of ancestors whose deeds (i.e., interactions with spirited beings on the land) were the foundation of the deeds (i.e., proof of legitimate ownership of land based on the Indigenous laws of reciprocal accountability with the land and its beings) that they bequeathed to present generations. We call this concept yerí7 re stsq̓ey̓skucw (Ignace and Ignace 2017). We explain how the SSN ’s own path-breaking consultative community engagement process led its members to arrive at a decision about the sanctity of Pípsell. secwéPeMc knowledGe, use, and occuPation of PíPsell As noted above, the place we call Pípsell (“trout place”) in Secwepemctsín is situated in the mid-elevation grasslands at an altitude of some 900–1,000 metres ̓ about 10 kilometres southwest of Tkemlúps, the confluence of Simpcwétkwe (the North Thompson River) and Secwepemcétkwe (the South Thompson River) (see figure 8.2).2 According to our Secwépemc laws and protocols of land tenure ̓ and stewardship within Secwepemcúlecw, although the traditional concept of Secwépemc land tenure is one of collective use and access to the entire territory ̓ of the nation, the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation, comprised of the people ̓ of Skeetchestn and Tkemlúps, acts as the caretaker and steward of the part of ̓ Secwepemcúlecw that includes Pípsell and the land surrounding it. ̓ Of the nine diverse biogeoclimatic zones represented in Secwepemcúlecw (Ignace and Ignace 2017; Turner and Ignace 2016), four variants are represented in the area around Pípsell: the Thompson variants of the Ponderosa Pine, Interior Douglas-fir, and Bunchgrass Zones, all characterized as “very dry, hot,” and the Nicola variant of the Bunchgrass Zone, characterized as “very dry, warm” (Coupe 2009; Turner 2016). Key plants in the Ponderosa Pine Zone include ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa), Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii), paper birch (Betula papyrifera), cottonwood (Populus balsamifera), saskatoon berry (Amelanchier alnifolia), Wood’s rose (Rosa woodsii), and big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata), all of which can be characterized as “cultural keystone species” (see below) of high salience in past and continuing Secwépemc lifeways. The same range of species

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8.2 | Secwépemc territory based on ethnographic and ethnohistoric sources. The black arrow south of Kamloops indicates the location of Pípsell (Jacko Lake), Stk̓ emlupsemc te Secwépemc Nation.

occurs in the Interior Douglas-fir Zone, in addition to snowberry (Symphoricarpos albus) and birch-leaved spiraea (Spiraea betulifolia). Key plants of the Bunchgrass Zones are bluebunch wheatgrass (Pseudoroegneria spicata) and rough fescue (Festuca scabrella, syn. F. campestris). Trees, including ponderosa pine, Douglas-fir, cottonwood, and trembling aspen (Populus tremuloides), are rare. Other prominent species growing in these areas include wild roses (Rosa spp.), balsamroot (Balsamorhiza sagittata), northern wormwood (Artemisia frigida), desert-parsley (Lomatium macrocarpum and other spp.), lemonweed (Lithospermum ruderale), big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata), and rabbitbrush (Ericameria nauseosa). Wetlands within in the area sustain cattail (Typha latifolia), sedges (Carex spp.), tule

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(Schoenoplectus spp.), and silverweed (Potentilla anserina). According to elders and long-term settlers (Blackstock and McAllister 2004; Ignace et al. 2014), the wetlands, including alkaline ponds and riparian areas along Jacko Creek (the inflow of Jacko Lake) and Peterson Creek (its outflow) were much more extensive in the past than they are now. With their diversity of species characteristic of “edge” habitats at the intersection of grasslands and forests (Turner, Davidson-Hunt, and O’Flaherty 2003), the cpelménk (rolling grasslands interspersed with groves of trees) are valued by our elders as significant resource-producing areas: for thousands of years they have been important grounds for hunting elk (Cervus canadensis), mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus), and since the early twentieth century, moose (Alces alces). Their mid-elevation lakes provide sustenance from fresh trout as soon as the ice breaks, and their grassy slopes are the habitat of numerous indigenous root vegetable species that have been harvested by Secwépemc and other Interior Plateau peoples for millennia (Lepofsky and Peacock 2004; Peacock 1998). Grasslands and grassland-forest interfaces were well known as being managed by Indigenous peoples’ systematic burning practices, which regenerated grasses and herbaceous plants, created forage for animal species, suppressed the spread of sagebrush, and improved conditions for the growth of root plants and berries (Blackstock and McAllister 2004; Ignace and Ignace 2017; Peacock, Ignace, and Turner 2016; Turner 1999, 2016). Archaeological evidence shows that the human presence in the area around Pípsell began in the Early Nesikep period some 7,000 years ago (Rousseau and Kaltenrieder 2002) and continued throughout the late Middle Period (6,000– 4,500 years ago) and Interior Pithouse Tradition (4,500–200 years ago), although the immediately visible, material human footprint in the Pípsell area is light (Ignace et al. 2014; see also chapter 6, this volume). Elders who visited the area in 2012–14 noted a number of culturally modified trees, associated in Secwépemc culture with spiritual way-marking (Dawson 1891; Ignace and Ignace 2017). Aside from lithic scatter, which attests to the antiquity of the human presence in the area, and rock cairns, some of which may be associated with burials, the most notable feature in the area around Pípsell is a set of undated, human-made petroforms that – consistent with ethnographic evidence of hunting techniques in northwestern North America (Dalton 2011; Teit 1900, 1909) and as identified by Secwépemc hunters – represent a hunting blind complex along a steep gully that was used to selectively harvest elk, the latter once having been a dominant and much-hunted ungulate species in the area (Dawson 1891, 16; Ignace et al. 2014, 132–5; Smith 1900, 401).3 Hudson’s Bay Company journals attest to an Indigenous person, a packer named Alex Jacko, using the area as horse pasture by or before the 1850s, his son continuing the practice in the 1860s following Alex Jacko’s death in 1862 (Balf 1969; Manson 1860–65, 25 June 1862).4 Beginning in the early 1860s, when the first cattle drives into the Pípsell area occurred, the vegetation of the area was

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adversely impacted: whereas Indigenous elders remember the grasses being “belly-high to a horse, back then” (Blackstock and McAllister 2004, 24; see also Balf 1978; Ormsby 1976, 41), subsequent overgrazing by horses and cattle severely impacted the health and abundance of bluebunch wheatgrass and other native herbaceous plants. Ranching, farming, homesteading and other activities introduced non-native forbs (e.g. Poa pratensis, Bromus inermis, Medicago sativa, and Trifolium spp.) and invasive noxious weeds like mustards (Brassica spp.), common burdock (Arctium minus), common mullein (Verbascum thapsus), hound’s-tongue (Cynoglossum officinale), and knapweeds (Centaurea diffusa and related spp.) into the area. Throughout the twentieth century, water diversion projects to irrigate hay crops and to water livestock led to the shrinking of wetlands habitats (Blackstock and McAllister 2004, 27–8; see also Matsui 2005). In the 1980s the Afton Mine, situated some 10 kilometres to the northeast, established two expansion pits southwest of the lake, leading to further disturbances of soil, plants, and hydrology. Ranching and homesteading in the area by settlers who had acquired fee simple title also led to Secwépemc people becoming fenced out of the area (Ignace et al. 2014) and restricted Secwépemc camping, travelling, hunting, and plant gathering. Despite these impacts of the past 150 years, surveys of flora and fauna of the environs of Pípsell carried out at the behest of KGHM in 2012–13, and subsequently added to by the SSN ’s cultural heritage study (Ignace et al. 2014), show an impressive diversity of species. Of the 128 culturally significant species of plants so far identified and determined to be present on-site, no fewer than 46 are used as foods, 90 have medicinal uses, 47 are used technologically, and a dozen others are used as ecological indicators, have spiritual associations, or are used in ceremonies, with numerous plants having multiple uses (Ignace et al. 2014, 108–17). Garibaldi and Turner (2004) have proposed the concept of “cultural keystone species” as “a metaphorical parallel with ecological keystone species,” defined as “culturally salient species that shape in a major way the cultural identity of a people, as reflected in the fundamental roles these species have in diet, materials, medicine, and/or spiritual practices.” As Turner (2016, 6) suggests, dozens of the plants identified in the area surrounding the proposed mine site would qualify has being cultural keystone species “based on their attributes, names, and diversity and intensity of use.” Among cultural keystone species in the area are several indigenous root plants, including yellowbells (ts̓ wéw̓ ye, Fritillaria pudica), balsamroot (tsets̓elq, Balsamorhiza sagittata), chocolate lily (qéq̓me or seq̓ém̓ cwe, Fritillaria affinis), nodding onion (qwléwe, Allium cernuum), silverweed, large-fruited desert-parsley (qweq̓wile, Lomatium macrocarpum), and spring beauty (skwenkwinem, Claytonia lanceolata) (Ignace et al. 2014; Turner 2016). Cultural keystone species in the area also contain important berry species, including two varieties of saskatoon berries (speqpeq7úw̓ i and stséqwem, Amelanchier alnifolia) as well as soapberries (sxúsem, Shepherdia canadensis) and

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wild strawberries (tqítq̓e, Fragaria spp.). The key tree species that characterize the ecology and ecotones of the area – Douglas-fir, ponderosa pine, paper birch, and Rocky Mountain juniper – along with cattails, bulrushes, and other plants found in the area, were and continue to be used for technological purposes. The remarkable continuing biodiversity of the Pípsell area is also evident in the number of animal species living here, many of which were and are valued for the food, fur, and other products they provide. Among ungulates found in the area are mule deer, moose, and elk, with elk now very rare in the interior grasslands. Additional mammal species like black bear, beaver, fox, and badger were trapped for their fur, with waterfowl being hunted for food and as a source of eggs. Of the 135 bird species on-site, dozens of different songbirds feature prominently in Secwépemc oral traditions as messengers and ecological indicators, as do eagles and different species of grouse, including sq̓úm̓ qe (Tympanuchus phasianellus), the red-listed sharp-tailed grouse, and the red-listed nllts̓áy̓e (burrowing owl, Athene cunicularia). Among amphibians, the wetscén (long-toed salamander, Ambystoma macrodactylum) also has important spiritual and symbolic associations (Ignace and Ignace 2017, 213). Given its natural habitat and unusual depth (25 metres), Pípsell itself was, and to some degree continues to be, an important upland lake for spring fish̓ ing. Throughout Secwepemcúlecw and among peoples of the Interior Plateau in general, the upland lake spring fishery was of crucial importance in the seasonal round: very soon after ice breakup, various species of trout (Onchorynchus spp.) move to spawn in these lakes, and after the Secwépemc had wintered on dried provisions of meat, fish, fruit, and vegetables, the spring trout fishery was the first reliable source of fresh protein.5 Given its elevation (about 1,000 metres), Pípsell was ice-free by mid April and was a prolific rainbow trout fishery, once reliant on dip nets and basket traps at the inflow and outflow of the lake, which is where Secwépemc people would have camped. Given their value to settlers as well-irrigated pasture, the areas of the inflow and outflow of Pípsell were alienated by pre-emptions in the 1870s (Ignace et al. 2014, 87). Although the lake has been restocked with triploid rainbow trout for the benefit of sports-anglers since about the 1950s, elders like the late Clarence Jules Sr remembered harvesting 10-kilogram rainbow trout in the lake in the 1930s or 1940s. Numerous plant, animal, and mineral products that occur at Pípsell were among a large inventory of items traded among Secwépemc people and between the Secwépemc and other Indigenous peoples of the Interior Plateau and beyond. These items included dressed (tanned) elk and deer skins, a variety of implements made from bone and tree fibre, dried saskatoons and soapberries, bitterroot and other root plants, as well as medicinal plants (Ignace and Favrholdt 2017, 220–7; Teit 1900, 1909; Turner and Loewen 1998). Pípsell is well ̓ situated along interior Aboriginal trade trails that traverse Secwepemcúlecw,

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many of which subsequently became wagon roads and modern highways or backroads: the trail from Knutsford down to Stump Lake and Nicola Lake passes close by, as does the trail from the Kamloops area that extends west along Cherry Creek and traverses the Six-Mile area, much of which subsequently became the road bed for Highway 1 (Ignace and Favrholdt 2017, 233). Despite 150 years of pre-emptions, Crown grants, and settler ranching and mining in the Pípsell area, which legally excluded and then fenced off Secwépemc people from much of their traditionally used land,6 interviews with forty SSN members in 2013–14 revealed ample evidence of the Secwépemc’s ongoing use of the area: numerous individuals and family groups have continued to hunt for deer and moose in the area, although obviously constrained by private property and fences. In addition, there was testimony of past and ongoing lake fishing, berry picking, and medicine gathering (Ignace et al. 2014, 247–75). the trout children, water PeoPle, and a Prayer tree On one of several trips through the interior during his geological survey of Canada, George M. Dawson (1891, 33) wrote, On the trail which leads from Kamloops toward Trout Lake (Pīp’-tsutl [Pípsell]), where it runs over the bare, grassy hills about a mile north of the crossing place of Peterson or Jacko Creek, the scanty remnant of an old stump protrudes from among a few stones which are piled about it. In passing this the Indians always throw some little offering on it. When I saw it in 1890, several matches had recently been laid on the stump, and a fragment of tobacco or shred of clothing is often placed there. The name of this place is Ka-whoo’-sa [K̓ ecúsem̓ ] (“crying”),7 and the Indians say that it nearly always rains when they pass, as though the sky wept. Dawson (ibid., 33–5) then went on to narrate the plot of the associated story, according to which, long ago, an old woman lived in the rolling grasslands beside a lake known as Pípsell. Her spirit was the grizzly bear.8 She had lost all her people and lived by herself. Longing for a daughter, she shaped one out of pitch, but despite warnings, the daughter melted when sunbathing by the lake. So the old woman made another daughter out of clay, but she melted back into the earth when rubbing herself after bathing in the lake. In a third attempt, the old woman made a daughter out of green-yellow stone,9 but she sank in the lake when trying to bathe. On the fourth attempt, the old woman carved a daughter out of wood, and this daughter neither melted, sank, nor became earth. When the girl was bathing one day, she saw a trout jumping in the lake and wished for a husband who would fish for her, and then she saw a handsome young man

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standing beside her. He offered to marry her and take her to his place beneath the lake. Taking her on his back, he told her not to look behind them, and then they dove, but it took four attempts to reach the bottom of the lake, for each time she lost faith and looked back. At last, she found herself in an abode beneath the lake, where the xqelmecwétkwe (“trout people”) lived. She and her husband had two children, a boy and a girl, who were taunted by their playmates about not having grandparents and thus asked their mother about their family. She told them about their grandmother above the lake. She told them to go there and find things to eat but not to speak to her, which is what the boy and girl did, exploring her place by the lake and eating the roots she had dug. The grandmother was observing them, for they thought she was a stump in the distance, which she had empowered to act as though it were her digging roots. The grandmother then prepared medicine to transform them, and on their next visit, she doused the boy with the medicine, causing him to become fully human, but she only partially hit the girl, who became a puppy. ̓ The grandmother then kept the boy, whose name was Tkwellpésq̓ et (Dawson 1891, 35),10 and the puppy, although she did not let on that the puppy was the boy’s sister. She told him, however, never to beat or mishandle the puppy. She taught the boy to hunt with a bow and arrow. On three occasions when he was shooting red-headed woodpeckers, the puppy took off with his kill and ate it. The fourth time this happened, he got angry and struck her. The dog then transformed into a chickadee and asked him, “Re stsentsétsemc, re ntsétswe7 re7 tsétse7?!” (“Why did you beat me, your own sister?!”), before flying off. The boy followed, but the chickadee flew away. Very sad, the boy returned to his grandmother, who told him about his sister. Next, she told him to never climb up a tree in order to recover a lodged arrow while he was hunting. When he subsequently shot his arrow high into a tree and went to retrieve it, he climbed into the sky world, another country. “Now the old stump first mentioned is the remnant of this very tree” (ibid., 34–5, emphasis added).11 In the early 1970s, linguist Aert Kuipers (1974, 116–30) recorded a very detailed version in Secwepemctsín of the same stsptekwll from Charley Draney of Skeetchestn, which adds a further episode to the narrative. In Draney’s account, after the boy arrives in the skyworld, he meets his grandfather, who got stuck there many years previously in the same way as the boy did. With his grandfather’s power, given to him by the latter’s skin, he becomes a successful hunter, wins the daughter of the local chief of the Sky People in a contest, and earns the right to marry her. His brothers-in-law cut up the grandfather’s skin, the pieces of which fade away to become the swaths of fog visible to people in the mountains. The young man thus stays among the Sky People, having earned the right to live there through marriage, thereby affirming the law of territorial access across nations of different peoples (see Ignace and Ignace 2017). Kuipers (1974, 129) commented on Draney’s telling of the story:

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[“The Trout Children and Their Grandparents”] is a folktale of surpassing beauty, great psychological depth and considerable religious-historical interest. The story opens with a lonely old woman who has lost all her relatives, it ends with an old man – her late husband in the Sky-country – dissolving into fog. In between, the whole of Shuswap – and of human – life unfolds, first in our world, then in the underwater Trout-country, then once again on earth, finally in the Sky-country (the magic number four dividing the story as a whole, as it characterizes many of its details). The joys and apprehensions of the parent, the wishes and hesitations of the bride, the sorrows and adventures of childhood, the energy and transgressions of manhood in the fight for survival – every facet of life is reflected. The way the Trout-children for the first time eye our everyday world as something new and strange is a masterly application of ostranenie; the comic relief provided by Coyote in the last act is reminiscent of Shakespeare. The final scene: the grandson groping at the fog into which his grandfather has dissolved, vainly trying to collect the trails that keep extending to the snowy mountains – this scene would make a worthy ending for the opera, ballet or film for which this tale provides such an excellent scenario, and which it deserves no less than does, say, the Novgorod bylina about Sadko. Like other stsptekwll, “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents” is situated not in a fictive place but in a named, particular, still existing culturalecological landscape of indigenous root-bearing grasslands, the underwater world of a trout-bearing lake, and the “upper world” of the Sky Country, where the young man finds his grandfather. The place surrounding Pípsell is described as a “beautiful open hillside. They saw an old woman digging roots there” (Kuipers 1974, 125), and given that mid-elevation grasslands have been relatively stable environments for more than 3,500 years, we can infer that the roots ̓ would have been balsamroot, desert-parsley, nodding onion, mariposa lily (liltse, ̓ Calochortus macrocarpus), and perhaps bitterroot (llekwpín, Lewisia rediviva), previously associated with this environment. While expressing relationships among parts of the environment that include relations between humans and the animals and plants that sustain Secwépemc in a kincentrically interconnected world (Salmón 2000), this story makes social and spiritual connections between sentient beings and elements: it connects grizzly bears and humans, the old woman being inhabited by the spirit of the grizzly bear; it connects humans and trees, the old woman successfully making a daughter out of a stick or piece of wood from a tree and the large tree being the medium for the boy to climb into the “upper world” of the Sky Country; and it connects humans and trout, the daughter marrying a trout (písell, or rainbow trout) and her husband and her children being half-human and half-trout).

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Furthermore, the transformation of the trout children into a human (the boy) and his domestic dog companion (the girl), who is lost to him when she transforms into a chickadee, underscores the customs underlying the relationship between older and younger siblings (Ignace and Ignace 2017, 336). Dawson (1891, 36) also mentioned that Indigenous peoples of the interior knew of numerous lakes and waterways being inhabited by “water people,” including a place on Adams Lake featuring a hole that served them as a doorway, as well as places near Copper Island on Great Shuswap Lake, at Edwards Creek on the North Thompson River, and at Stump Lake south of Kamloops. Ethnographer James Teit (1909, 599) also mentioned the same beings, xqelmecwétkwe, which he called “water mysteries” and described as half-human and half-fish or as part-animal and part-fish, noting that “they cause storms on lakes, swamp canoes, and make rain fall when people fish. In certain places, when people see them, they die.” During the 1980s and 1990s, Secwépemc elders mentioned xqelmecwétkwe as living at numerous places throughout Secwépemc territory associated with lakes and the Thompson-Fraser River system, identifying them as protectors of water to whom people need to make offerings and as messengers who ensure accountable relations with water and the land.12 In addition to the places noted above, Dawson (1891, 36) mentioned Pípsell as a “resort of the ‘water people’”: “It is also said that in this lake, when the Indians are spearing fish by torchlight, they can see in the bottom a cleft, from which great numbers of fish come out, but all are imperfect or half-fish wanting the tail end. Long ago people used to catch these half-fish, but the water is so deep that they can never spear them now.” It is quite possible that accounts of the local existence of xqelmecwétkwe in various parts of the lake and river system refer to connected underground aquifers containing stygofauna. Geological studies suggest that the area is situated on a geological fault line, although much remains to be learned about aquifers, fissures, and stygofauna in the area (Knight Piésold Consulting 2015; SSN 2017b). Traditional Indigenous ways of telling about ecological interactions among humans, plants, animals, and landscapes often involve tightly woven narratives in the Indigenous language that poetically, yet subtly, reference these interactions and interrelations. Whereas natural scientists explain them within the secular languages of geology, hydrogeology, climatology, biology, ecology, and so on, Indigenous knowledge anchors them in moral teachings and lays out the consequences of reckless and irresponsible human conduct. We have characterized these interactions and interrelations as based on reciprocal or relational accountability (eyemstwécw) and on the moral obligation to show respect (xyemstwécw) to the animate beings on the land and to all future generations. ̓ The phrase xwexwéyt ren kwséseltkten (“all my relations”) expresses this relationship of reciprocal accountability and moral obligation to the sentient landscape and its beings in their many dimensions and manifestations.

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In addressing the consequences of not paying respect to such powers on the land, we also have the concept of x7ensq̓t, which Secwepemctsín speakers and elders translate as “the land (and sky) will turn on you.” Teit (1909, 601) learned about certain places in the mountains where “people painted their faces and asked for good luck or good weather when approaching certain lakes and other parts of the higher plateaus and mountains. They also made offerings to peaks and to the genii of certain places.” He was told how the weather would suddenly change to rain and snow in such places and how people made offerings of cloth, hair, tobacco, and so on. Such offerings and prayers would bring good weather and good fishing and hunting (Teit 1900, 344). The concept of x7ensq̓t is still known by elders who were taught about it as they accompanied their own elders on the land. X7ensq̓t references the respect for places on the land imbued with spiritual power that derives from past events and experiences of ancestors, which are understood as deeds imparted to present generations. Such respect is shown by painting or blackening one’s face, making offerings, and saying prayers that express respect and gratitude to the powers or medicines inherent in this place. They can harm people if one shows disrespect or carelessness. They will benefit people when they are treated with respect. All parts of the Secwépemc land and environment are thus thought of as a sentient landscape (Cruikshank 2005, 76ff; Ignace and Ignace 2017, 382–3). The land communicates with people, and people communicate with it in song, prayer, story, and thought. X7ensq̓t thus expresses the negative consequences of breaching the norms of reciprocal accountability, caretakership, and stewardship of land, water, and atmosphere.13 Put positively, it expresses our collective obligation as Secwépemc to protect and conserve our land for the benefit of future generations. X7ensq̓t embodies an environmental ethic (Armstrong 2009; see also chapter 2, this volume), and from a Secwépemc perspective, it represents our Secwépemc law, stsq̓ey̓s-kucw. ̓ Like many of our landmarks throughout Secwepemcúlecw that speak to the ̓ deeds of our ancestors, Kecúsem̓ , the prayer tree connected to the stsptekwll known as “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents,” is now destroyed, although its story remains. Pípsell and its surroundings, still in existence and reasonably intact, continue to remind us of our obligation to protect the deeds of our ancestors. As Secwépemc Indigenous law, these deeds that emanate from particular places give us guidance on how to address resource extraction developments that will involve long-term alteration of cultural keystone places and potential irreversible harm to our traditional resources and our collective memories of place. As the SSN (2013) informed KGHM early on while addressing the impacts of the mine and their potential mitigation, If the area surrounding Pípsell (Jacko Lake) becomes a tailings pond and an open mining pit, the landscape that manifests our spiritual connection

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and resource use will be forever altered, severing our right to its enjoyment and our own and our descendants’ ability to maintain our physical and spiritual connection to that landscape and within that landscape. More than that, the SSN (ibid.) noted that the concept of x7ensq̓t implies that the ̓ SSN ’s role as the Secwépemc caretakers of this part of Secwepemcúlecw, our homeland, includes that it is our role to protect the integrity of our homeland. The long-lasting impacts – environmental, geological, hydrological, health, cultural impacts and others – of this mine would severely compromise our ability to do this, and would challenge our responsibility, according to Secwépemc law, to act in that manner. Finally, the type of mitigation offered by the standard environmental assessment review and by KGHM implied that spiritual and cultural practices are inherently transportable, the question being asked, “Can all or any Secwépemc practices be engaged in elsewhere?” The SSN (ibid.) replied, This raises the fundamental question of severing and then “transporting” to another location our spiritual and religious connection to a sacred place. It is like trying to transport Lourdes, the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem or the Marian shrine of Jasna Gora to a different locale. It is SSN ’s position that we neither can nor should engage in our activities and practices, nor our spiritual connections that rest on 10,000 years of physical connection to place, elsewhere. With the evidence it presented in its cultural heritage study and additional reports (e.g., Turner 2016), the SSN set out to challenge the assumption that a deep connection to cultural practices, living resources, and spiritual meanings in a place like Pípsell can be severed and re-established in a different place. creatinG an indiGenous Process of cultural and environMental review In light of the SSN ’s declaration of title and interests in the Pípsell area, and noting the inadequacies of British Columbia’s and the rest of Canada’s environmental assessment process, the SSN created its own Indigenous review process involving a panel composed of family-appointed representatives – elders, family, ̓ and youth – of the thirteen extended families in Tkemlúps and Skeetchestn, together with the elected chiefs and councils of the two communities. During a week of hearings in early May 2016, which were attended by the SSN panel, elders, and community members, by KGHM , and by the provincial and federal

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environmental assessment agencies, the SSN panel heard the evidence compiled by KGHM in support of its environmental assessment application. This evidence focused largely on economic, environmental, and health impacts, with further studies on such impacts commissioned by the SSN . In addition, the panel heard live and video-taped evidence on the findings of the cultural heritage study, on ethnoecological and ethnobotanical impacts presented by Dr Nancy J. Turner (2016), on the consequences for the Secwépemc people’s traditional resource harvesting, access to Pípsell, health, and well-being, and on the contemporary economy. The SSN panel process was based on the concept of “walking on two legs”: on the one hand, it engaged SSN members, families, and elders through Secwépemc law, protocol, history, “indigenomics,” and traditional culture and practice; on the other hand, it employed data from Western health science, environmental science, and economics. It engaged youth and community members with the message of the Pípsell epic, supported by invigorated traditional resource harvesting, fishing, plant gathering, and teaching activities. On 4 March 2017, after ten months of review, the SSN (2017a) issued the panel’s unanimous decision: “The SSN does not give its free, prior and informed consent to the development of the lands and resources at Pípsell for the purpose of the Ajax Mine Project. The Ajax Mine Project in its proposed location at Pípsell is fundamentally in opposition to the SSN land use objective for this sacred site.” The declaration also stated that this decision was made “in accordance with Secwépemc laws, traditions, customs and land tenure systems supported by the evidence and assessments as presented in the Pípsell Report and in the SSN Panel Recommendations Report, and in recognition that Pípsell is a cultural keystone area with significant spiritual and historical importance to ̓ the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation, which significance is fundamental and undiminished.”14 On 14 December 2017, the Government of British Columbia denied KGHM ’s application for an environmental assessment review certificate on the grounds that “the proposal posed unacceptable negative effects on First Nations’ traditional use of land in the area, as well as the rights and title asserted specifically by the SSN  First Nation” (CBC News 2014).15 conclusions On 27 June 2018, the Government of Canada issued a negative decision regarding the KGHM project, stating that it was “likely to cause significant adverse environmental effects.” Federal minister Dominic LeBlanc further stated, “Our rigorous and cooperative environmental assessment process determined the environmental effects were simply too great, in particular, to the current use of lands and resources for traditional purposes by Indigenous peoples” (in Baker 2018).

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In this chapter, we have detailed the data on Secwépemc traditional and historic land use and occupancy identified by our cultural heritage study. Moreover, not only did the information in the SSN research, as well as the accounts of community members and present and past elders, testify to our past and ongoing use of traditional resources at the place we call Pípsell, but we also established this place as meeting the criteria of a “cultural keystone place” based on ethoecological, ethnozoological, and ethnobotanical data (Cuerrier et al. 2016; Turner 2016). At the centre of Pípsell’s importance and legacy for present and future generations is the foundational epic “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents,” which embodies Secwépemc Indigenous law about the reciprocal accountability of humans to species on the land and to the land’s sentient beings and powers. Our Indigenous law of x7ensq̓t also lays out the consequences of either ourselves or our guests, such as a mining company, violating these laws. The SSN maintained that the loss of such a deep spiritual connection to a place in terms of history, customs, and resource harvesting cannot be mitigated by doing those things elsewhere. We hope that the SSN ’s review process can serve as a model for Indigenous peoples who are also pursuing such issues by “walking on two legs” – one comprising the details of scientific enquiry and the other representing engagement with Indigenous peoples’ laws, knowledge, and worldviews. acknowledGMents We thank the many past and present Secwépemc elders who told us their stories about Pípsell, traditional land use and stewardship, sense of place, Indigenous laws, and the land that sustains us. Their names are too many to include here, but they are listed in Ignace and Ignace (2017), and they are acknowledged in the published findings of the SSN ’s cultural heritage study (Ignace et al. 2014).

notes 1 The concept of Secwépemc resource use and access involves the collective rights of all Secwépemc people to the resources of our nation throughout our 160,000 square kilometres of Indigenous homeland. Within this territory, particular socio̓ geographic groups like the Stkemlúpsemc – comprised of the people of Skeetchestn and ̓ Tkemlúps – are the stewards or caretakers (yecwmín̓ men) of the specific tracts of territory in their area, which they know best, whose resources they harvest most frequently, and which they are in the best position to protect and manage (Ignace and Ignace 2016, 2017). 2 Throughout south-central British Columbia, grasslands are severely endangered. They represent less than 1 per cent of the British Columbia land base but provide habitat for more than 30 per cent of our threatened and endangered species (Wikeem and Wikeem 2004). Between 76 and 99 per cent of British Columbia’s grasslands have been lost or severely altered since European settlement in our territory began in the mid-1800s. 146 | M. iGnace and r.e. iGnace

3 Elk were likely herded into the gully that features the hunting blind complex from the open grasslands to the east with the help of hunting dogs (see Teit 1909). Soon after the arrival of tens of thousands of cattle in the area beginning in 1859–60, elk became extirpated, apparently the victims of habitat competition but perhaps also of contagious diseases like brucellosis (Blackstock and McAllister 2004; Ignace et al. 2014, 129–31; Spalding 1992). 4 Baptism records for 1867–82, Canada census data for 1881, and the Indian Reserve Commission Census of 1878 all attest to Phillip Jacko (Selpqín, 1840–82) having been a ̓ Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Indian, as was his wife, Melvina. In fact, when Jacko was attempting to get a Crown grant to the area along what became known as Peterson Creek, John Peterson and other white settlers took advantage of the changes to the land ordinance effective since 1866, which excluded Indians from pre-empting and buying land except without the express permission of the surveyor of lands and works. Jacko managed to get legal possession of a small Crown grant at the mouth of Peterson Creek opposite the Kamloops Reserve in the mid-1870s. However, when Jacko suddenly died in late 1882, Peterson claimed to have bought his claim, although he could not produce the deed, and he subsequently gave it to the City of Kamloops as a graveyard. There is also some indication that Peterson married Philip Jacko’s sister – a common way for settlers of the 1860s to 1890s to get access to lands held and used by Indigenous groups (see Ignace and Ignace 2017, 347–8). 5 Data on Indigenous spring trout fishing during the 1920s from Pennask Lake show that this lake – although larger than Pípsell – yielded 45,000 to 50,000 rainbow trout annually, apparently without harm to the trout stock (Ignace and Ignace 2017, 166; see also Thoms 2002, 71). 6 The 1866 colonial land ordinance, subsequently amended as the BC land ordinance, which was in existence until 1953, specifically excluded Indians from pre-empting or buying lands unless they had the specific permission of the Crown – which was almost never granted (see Ignace and Ignace 2017, 447). 7 K̓ ecúsem̓ is the rendition of the term in the Western Secwepemctsín dialect, whereas the Eastern Secwepemctsín equivalent is K̓ acúsa7. It literally means “tears well up in one’s eyes,” subtly commemorating the sorrow felt by the boy when he loses his only sibling. 8 In the Secwépemc way, people acquire an animal or natural phenomenon seméc (“spirit helper”) through étsxem (“spirit guardian questing”) or through inheritance, referred ̓ (“what you are born with”). The woman must have had the skem̓ cis (grizzly ̓ ten to as skúl bear) as her guardian spirit. 9 Secwepemctsín uses a single colour term, kwalt, to describe the spectrum of greenyellow-orange. With the addition of the lexical suffix -escen, the term kweléscen, mentioned in the stsptekwll, could have referred to gold, jade, or other green-yellow-orange minerals. 10 The boy’s name was transcribed by Dawson (1891) as Ta-kutl’-pie’e’has’k. It translates as “the one who comes down from under the sky,” which beautifully expresses the boy’s connection to the sky world, land world, and water world. 11 Between around 1900 and 1904, ethnographer James Teit heard the same stsptekwll from Sexwéy̓lecken, an elder storyteller from Big Bar, who had obviously heard it during one ̓ of his reported trips to Tkemlúps. It adds a few details and identifies the burrowing owl, among other species, as occurring in the story (Teit 1909, 695). 12 Joe Stanley Michel of Xstálen (Adams Lake) knew of xqelmecwétkwe at the outflow of Adams Lake. Sam Camille of Skeetchestn referred to xqelmecwétkwe living near Cmetétkwe (Battle Bluff) on Kamloops Lake. Ida William of Simpcw, along with other Simpcw elders, knew of a certain xqelmecwétkwe – which she called a “mermaid” – at the inflow of Dunn A Place Called Pípsell | 147

Lake. And David Johnson of Esk’ét (Alkali Lake) talked of xqelmecwétkwe in waterways in ̓ the Esk’ét area. Tkemlups elders referred to them as protectors and kind spirits who help us and need to be honoured (Ignace et al. 2014). 13 This awareness of ecological impacts speaks to a conservation ethic that differs from the “hands-off” approach reflected in Western conservation concepts given that it entails responsible resource management and stewardship supported by a variety of concepts and practices entailed in Secwépemc traditional ecological knowledge and wisdom (Ignace, Ignace, and Turner 2016). 14 In its decision, the SSN was supported by some forty nongovernmental organizations and governmental bodies, including the nationwide Assembly of First Nations, the BC Assembly of First Nations, the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs, the BC First Nations Leadership Council, the federal Green Party, and the BC Green Party, among others. 15 The Government of British Columbia’s rejection of KGHM’s application also cited the proposed mine’s adverse health and environmental impacts on Kamloops and its residents. Kamloops City Council had voted to oppose the mine earlier in 2017, and active lobbying by physicians, environmentalists, and others publicized their own scientific data challenging KGHM’s statements on the mine’s impacts and the possible mitigation measures. references Armstrong, J. 2009. “Constructing Indigeneity: Syilx Okanagan Oraliture and Tmixwcentrism.” PhD diss., University of Greifswald, Germany. Baker, R. 2018. “Federal Government Rejects Proposed Ajax Mine near Kamloops, B.C.” CBC News, 27 June. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/federalgovernment-rejects-ajax-mine-proposal-1.4725543. Balf, M. 1969. Kamloops: A History of the District up to 1914. Kamloops, BC: Kamloops Museum and Archives. – 1978. Bunch-Grass Beef: Ranching in the Kamloops District. Kamloops, BC: Kamloops Museum and Archives. Blackstock, M., and R. McAllister. 2004. “First Nations Perspectives on the Grasslands of the Interior of British Columbia.” Journal of Ecological Anthropology 8, no. 1: 24–46. CBC News. 2014. “Environmental Assessment Sinks Proposed Ajax Mine near Kamloops.” 14 December. https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/environmentalassessment-sinks-proposed-ajax-mine-near-kamloops-1.4449434. Coupe, B.J., ed. 2009. Grassland Monitoring Manual for British Columbia: A Tool for Ranchers. Grasslands Conservation Council of British Columbia. http://bcgrasslands.org/ wp-content/uploads/2018/01/bc_grassland_monitoring_manual_for_bc.pdf. Cruikshank, J. 2005. Do Glaciers Listen? Local Knowledge, Colonial Encounters, and Social Imagination. Vancouver: UBC Press. Cuerrier, A., N.J. Turner, T.C. Gomes, A. Garibaldi, and A. Downing. 2016. “Cultural Keystone Places: Conservation and Restoration in Cultural Landscapes.” Journal of Ethnobiology 35, no. 3: 427–48. Dawson, G.M. 1891. “Notes on the Shuswap People of British Columbia.” Transactions of the Royal Society of Canada, 1st ser., 9, no. 2: 3–44. Dalton, K.D. 2011. “A Geospatial Analysis of Prehistoric Hunting Blinds and Forager Group Size at Cowhead Slough, Modoc County, California.” MA thesis, California State University.

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Garibaldi, A., and N.J. Turner. 2004. “Cultural Keystone Species: Implications for Ecological Conservation and Restoration.” Ecology and Society 9, no. 3, art. 1. https://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol9/iss3/art1/. Hebda, R.J. 1982. “Postglacial History of Grasslands of Southern British Columbia and Adjacent Regions.” In Grassland Ecology and Classification: Symposium Proceedings June 1982, ed. A.C. Nicholson, A. McLean, and T.E. Baker, 157–94. Victoria: BC Ministry of Forests. https://www.for.gov.bc.ca/hfd/pubs/docs/mr/Mr037.htm. Ignace, M., and R.E. Ignace. 2013. “The Secwepemc: Traditional Resource Use and Rights to Land.” In Native Peoples: The Canadian Experience, 4th ed., ed. C.R. Wilson and C. Fletcher, 418–43. Don Mills, ON: Oxford University Press. ̓ – 2016. “Re tsúwet.s-kucw ne Secwepemcúlecw: Secwepemc Resource Use and Sense of Place.” In Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 407–39. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. – eds. 2017. Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓s-kucw. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Ignace, M., R.E. Ignace, and N.J. Turner. 2016. “Re Tmicw te Skukwstéls es Tuwítentels: Secwepemc Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Wisdom Now and in the Future.” In Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 407–39. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Ignace, M., D. Marshall, M. Anderson, and C. Nord. 2014. SSN Cultural Heritage Study – Final ̓ Report: Ajax-KGHM Mine Proposal. Kamloops, BC, and Skeetchestn, BC: Stkemlupsemc te Secwépemc Nation. Ignace, M., and K. Favrholdt. 2017. “Le Q̓ 7éses re Scwesét.s-kucw ell re s7eykemín̓emskucw: Trade, Travel, and Transportation.” In Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yerí7 re Stsq̓ey̓s-kucw, ed. M. Ignace and R.E. Ignace, 220–33. Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press. Ignace, M., N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, eds. 2016. Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Knight Piésold Consulting. 2015. Baseline Report – Geology, Landforms and Soils. Vancouver: KGHM Ajax Mining Inc. https://www.ceaa-acee.gc.ca/050/documents/p62225/ 104541E.pdf. Kuipers, A. 1974. The Shuswap Language. The Hague: Mouton. Lepofsky, D., and S. Peacock. 2004. “A Question of Intensity: Exploring the Role of Plant Foods in Northern Plateau Prehistory.” In Complex Hunters-Gatherers: Evolution and Organization of Prehistoric Communities on the Plateau of Northwestern North America, ed. W. Prentiss and I. Kuijt, 114–39. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Manson, W. 1860–65. Journal. Thompson’s River Post, Hudson’s Bay Company. Kamloops, BC: Kamloops Museum and Archives. Matsui, K. 2005. “‘White Man Has No Right to Take Any of It’: Secwepemc Water-Rights Struggles in British Columbia.” Wicazo Sa Review 20, no. 2: 75–101. Ormsby, M. 1976. A Pioneer Gentle Woman in British Columbia: The Recollections of Susan Allison. Vancouver: UBC Press. Peacock, S. 1998. “‘Putting Down Roots’: The Emergence of Wild Plant Food Production on the Canadian Plateau.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. ̓ Peacock, S., M. Ignace, and N.J. Turner. 2016. “Re Secwepemc re Syecwmenúlecwems: Secwepemc Stewardship of Land and Resources.” In Secwepemc People and Plants:

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Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 167–206. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Rousseau, M.K., and S.P. Kaltenrieder. 2002. “An Archaeological Impact Assessment for the Jacko Lake and Afton Mine Parcels Near Kamloops, on Behalf of Land and Water British Columbia Inc. (2002–114).” Unpublished report. Victoria: BC Archaeology Branch. Salmón, E. 2000. “Kincentric Ecology: Indigenous Perceptions of the Human-Nature Relationship.” Ecological Applications 10, no. 5: 1327–32. Spalding, D.J. 1992. “The History of Elk (Cervus elaphus) in British Columbia.” Victoria: Royal BC Museum. Teit, J.A. 1900. “The Thompson Indians of British Columbia.” Ed. Franz Boas. Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History 2, part 4. – 1909. “The Shuswap.” Ed. Franz Boas. Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History 4, part 7. Smith, H.I. 1900. “Archaeology of the Thompson River Region.” Ed. Franz Boas. Memoirs of the American Museum of Natural History 2, part 6. ̓ Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation (SSN). 2013. “Correspondence on Mitigation to KGHM-Ajax.” 26 March. – 2016. “SSN Pípsell Report for the Proposed KGHM Ajax Project at Pípsell.” – 2017a. “The Pípsell (Jacko Lake and Area) Decision.” 4 March. – 2017b. Honouring Our Sacred Connection to Pípsell. https://stkemlups.ca/files/2013/11/ 2017-03-ssnajaxdecisionsummary_0.pdf. Thomas, M., N.J. Turner, and A. Garibaldi. 2016. “‘Everything Is Deteriorating’: Environmental and Cultural Loss in Secwepemc Territory.” In Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 365–401. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Thoms, J.M. 2002. “A Place Called Pennask: Fly-Fishing and Colonialism at a British Columbia Lake.” BC Studies, no. 133: 69–98. Turner, N.J. 1999. “‘Time to Burn’: Traditional Use of Fire to Enhance Resource Production by Aboriginal Peoples in British Columbia.” In Indians, Fire and the Land in the Pacific Northwest, ed. R. Boyd, 185–218. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. – 2016. Cultural Importance of Grasslands and Associated Plant Species and Ecosystems for ̓ ̓ the Stkemlupsemc te Secwépemc Nation. Report prepared for the Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation, 27 April. Turner, N.J., I.J. Davidson-Hunt, and M. O’Flaherty. 2003. “Living on the Edge: Ecological and Cultural Edges as Sources of Diversity for Social-Ecological Resilience.” Human Ecology 31, no. 3: 439–63. Turner, N.J., and M. Ignace. 2016. “Introduction to the Volume.” In Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, ed. M. Ignace, N.J. Turner, and S. Peacock, 1–24. Tacoma, WA: Society of Ethnobiology; Kamloops, BC: Shuswap Nation Tribal Council. Turner, N.J., and D. Loewen. 1998. “The Original ‘Free Trade’: Exchange of Botanical Products and Associated Plant Knowledge in Northwestern North America.” Anthropologica 40, no. 1: 49–70. Wikeem, B., and S. Wikeem. 2004. The Grasslands of British Columbia. Kamloops, BC: Grasslands Conservation Council of British Columbia. http://bcgrasslands.org/wp-content/ uploads/2017/06/bcgrasslandsfinal2004ver3.pdf.

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9 Traditional Plant Medicines and the Protection of Traditional Harvesting Sites Letitia M. McCune and Alain Cuerrier introduction Habitats uniquely influence the plants growing within them, not only in terms of which species occur in particular places but also in terms of the qualities and concentrations of particular medicinal compounds within these plants (Dixon and Paiva 1995; Harborne 1994). This chapter illustrates how traditional knowledge of culturally specific harvesting sites for medicinal plants includes the type and quality of traditional medicines and emphasizes that, given the importance of particular medicines for maintaining health, people’s rights to access the particular sites that produce these medicines must be recognized. In Canada combining traditional herbalist knowledge with Western scientific knowledge of plant medicinal compounds will increase our general understanding and recognition of the medicines’ efficacy and will help to support Indigenous peoples’ rights to the plant medicines that will improve their health. Knowledge of the presence of optimal quantities and qualities of particular plant medicines will contribute to documenting the importance of specific lands for a particular cultural group and serve as evidence of these lands meeting the criteria for the status of cultural keystone places (Cuerrier et al. 2015). Although this chapter emphasizes the science behind the understanding of locations used for medicinal plant harvesting, we additionally want to acknowledge that harvesting medicinal plants is not just an activity but also a journey embedded in stories and the involvement of family in land-human and human-land relationships. Davidson-Hunt and Berkes (2010, 235) have stressed this element: “[L]ocations are described by recalling the journey along paths of travel and places that were encountered along that path.” Harvesting plants is a dynamic process that encompasses not just picking plants but also a rich web of relationships, knowledge, and spirituality.

In 2016 Canada fully adopted the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). Article 31 of the declaration specifically states that Indigenous peoples have the right to maintain, control, protect, and develop, among other things, their medicines – and therefore traditional plant medicines. In conjunction with the adoption of these rights is the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, which states in article 27 that these rights must be viewed from a multicultural perspective. In this context, then, people’s rights to traditional plant medicines should be the same as their rights to conventional Western medicine. Additionally, applying the articles related to the right to life, body, and health (article 7) and to Aboriginal and treaty rights (e.g., article 15 on equal rights under the law and article 35 on consultation regarding impact) further strengthens the argument that Indigenous peoples’ access to traditional medicinal plants is a legal right and should be a factor in deliberations over land-use conflict. This discussion of rights to health and traditional medicines adds to those arguments of historical use and land management related to the First Nations Land Management Act (see chapters 2, 6, and 7, this volume). Although the examples given here illustrate reasons why Indigenous peoples inhabit and use an area, this focus is on the rights to access culturally specific traditional medicines. These rights supporting the access to traditional medicines are echoed in a resolution passed by the World Health Assembly (2009). The World Health Organization (2013) promotes the protection of and research on traditional medicines, as well as their integration into the health system, the first step being their recognition. Without recognition, traditional medicines will receive little attention in terms of rights. In Canada, Indigenous people’s health is a federal responsibility, administered through Health Canada, and represents a large financial investment. This is especially true in relation to diabetes, as Canada has spent between $40 and $50 million annually on the Aboriginal Diabetes Initiative alone (Government of Canada 2013; Parliament of Canada 2018). There have been many scholarly papers detailing the loss of cultural knowledge – which includes the loss of traditional food and medicines – among Indigenous peoples and the resulting loss of health and increase of diabetes (e.g., Kuhnlein and Receveur 1996; Oster et al. 2014; Young 1994; Young et al. 2000). The examples given here focus on medicines for treating diabetes, as well as the importance of specific habitats where medicinal plants grow. Focusing on diabetes and the right to associated traditional medicines potentially serves as a strong tactic in the effort to ensure Indigenous peoples’ rights with regard to their health and the land in Canada. harvestinG sites and PhytocheMicals People’s rights to health and to traditional medicine extend to their rights to access traditional harvesting sites for their medicines. The ability of traditional

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medicines to affect health conditions positively is related to the medicinal compounds they provide, which is directly related not only to the medicinal species themselves but also to the habitats where they occur since the habitat of a plant can determine the levels and types of medicinal compounds it contains (Dixon and Paiva 1995; Harborne 1994). In particular, higher amounts of sunlight and the sunlight associated with increased altitude (often termed ultraviolet stress) cause plants to increase antioxidants, which protect the photosynthetic machinery of plants by fighting oxygen radicals (Close and McArthur 2002; Solovchenko and Merzlyak 2008). As the plants increase photosynthesis due to the higher energy of the sun, there is also an increase in free electrons and hence the need for antioxidants to protect the vital energy-producing areas of the plant. Plants at higher latitudes are thus facing what is known as photoinhibition. Gradients of environmental stresses such as those that occur with changes in latitude and altitude, seasonal and local variations in light, and changes in water conditions all affect the amount and concentration of phenolic compounds in plants (Martz et al. 2009, 2010; McIntyre et al. 2008). Furthermore, damage to plants caused by foraging insects, animals, or even the harvesting practices of traditional herbalists can prompt the plant to produce secondary antioxidant compounds, including tannins and flavonoids, that are deposited in the layer between the sapwood and heartwood of woody plants to prevent bacterial and microbial growth (Polle and Rennenberg 1993). In addition, diseases can cause a plant to change its production of phytochemicals in much the same way as this change is induced by insect damage (Lattanzio, Lattanzio, and Cardinali 2006; Witzel, Gref, and Näsholm 2003). Reverting to a juvenile plant form can also change the chemical makeup of the plant, similar to how textural changes are induced by land and plant management practices (e.g., pruning, coppicing, or burning a plant to induce new young growth to be used as supple basket materials) (Anderson 2006; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013). Oxygen is important in many biochemical processes in both plants and animals, partly because of its ability to easily lose an electron. However, those loose electrons need to be kept in check, or damage can occur. In plants this impact includes the destruction of vital photosynthetic machinery, and in humans it can include harm to vascular tissues. Both plants and animals have endogenous systems in place to protect themselves from free radicals, and these systems include antioxidants. There are many types of antioxidants in plants, including phenolics, such as flavonoids and carotenoids, which make up the pigments giving colour to flowers and fruits; tannins, which give an astringent bitter taste; vitamin C, which gives sour and tart tastes; and vitamin E, which serves as a protective oil. Phenolics have been shown to differ in individual plant parts (Downing et al. 2019; Harris et al. 2007; McCune and Johns 2007; Witzell, Gref, and Näsholm 2003).

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Apart from work done on common juniper (Juniperus communis) (Martz et al. 2009), blueberry (Vaccinium myrtillus) (Martz et al. 2010), and birch (Betula pubescens) (Stark et al. 2008), few phytochemical or pharmacological analyses of medicinal plant populations have been undertaken based on traditional knowledge of North American Indigenous peoples. In addition to conducting phytochemical studies of these plants, our respective labs have worked collaboratively with First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples to document their own knowledge about the properties of plants thriving on their lands, as well as their understandings of these lands and the places where medicinal and other plants can be harvested. Medicinal Plants, diabetes, and harvestinG site choice Antioxidants and Traditional Medicines in Canada’s Boreal Forest

Not only are antioxidants important for plants, but they are also important in the fight against diabetes (McCune, Owen, and Johns 2006; Rahimi et al. 2005). Antioxidants counter the rise in oxidative stress as a result of an increase in the production of damaging “reactive oxygen species” – a common term that encompasses those with a “free” radical or electron, including singlet oxygen, the superoxide anion radical, the hydroxyl radical, hydrogen peroxide, and the peroxyl radical – and a decrease in the function of endogenous antioxidant systems brought on by the hyperglycemia, insulin resistance, and inflammation due to diabetes. Damage to blood vessels and the resulting complications of diabetes, including peripheral neuropathies of finger and toes, retinopathy, and heart disease, can often be attributed to the damage caused by free radicals in combination with hyperglycemia. It has been shown that various phenolics have the ability to decrease damaging tumour necrosis factor-alpha (TNF α), decrease glucose, protect and enhance endogenous defences, inhibit protein glycation, and inhibit aldose reductase and the peroxidation of low-density lipoprotein (LDL ) (McCune, Owen, and Johns 2006). Considering all the potential applications of antioxidants to the treatment of diabetes, traditional medicinal plants and their associated antioxidants are worth protecting and promoting. Research following literature reviews of the use of medicinal plants by Indigenous peoples in North America (Moerman 1998) and in eastern Canada (Arnason, Hebda, and Johns 1981) reveals a number of traditional medicinal plants of the boreal forest that contain antioxidants and are used to treat diabetes. McCune and Johns (2002) selected thirty-five medicinal plant species from these compilations based on their use for twenty-one different symptoms associated with diabetes (as suggested by a medical doctor). They found an association with antioxidants (ibid.), an association with individual or groups of symptoms (McCune and Johns 2003), and subsequent phytochemical identification of specific anti-diabetic compounds (Rapinski et al. 2014). Using a similar

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9.1 | The tart red hairs on the fruit of staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta, syn. Rhus typhina).

list of symptoms, elders interviewed in the Cree Nation of Eeyou Istchee in Quebec identified many of the same plant species as treatments, corroborating their continued use for these conditions (Leduc et al. 2006; Rapinski and Cuerrier 2015). In short, the presence of antioxidants can link anti-diabetic medicinal plants both to the traditional healer’s knowledge and to specific locales on the land. Results from numerous types of antioxidant assays showed that those species traditionally used to treat over five symptoms were generally very high in antioxidant activity, the highest being the fruits of staghorn sumac (Rhus hirta, syn. Rhus typhina) (see figure 9.1) (McCune and Johns 2002, 2003). This should be no

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surprise considering their sour taste and red colour, with close relatives used in many parts of the world, such as sumac spice (Rhus coriaria) in Middle Eastern cooking, “lemonade berry” (Rhus integrifolia) in California, and “lemonade sumac” (Rhus trilobata) in the western United States and parts of Canada. This plant was also studied for its anti-diabetic properties by one of the discoverers of insulin, with subsequent work on the fruit extract producing hypoglycemia in dogs (Fortier 1949). The consumption of Rhus fruits with their high levels of antioxidants, within a traditional lifestyle, would suppress the development of the symptoms of diabetes and its complications. Even though diabetes was not as well known among Canadian Indigenous peoples in the past, those genetically susceptible to diabetes could still have had asymptomatic prediabetes and the fluctuations of blood glucose that over time can lead to the oxidative damage associated with these symptoms. Today, use of antioxidant-containing traditional medicines could reverse the early stages of diabetes and help to alleviate blood glucose fluctuations for those at risk (Beck-Nielson and Groop 1994). Of the thirty-five medicinal plant species in our study used to treat symptoms associated with diabetes, 89 per cent had antioxidant activity greater than the typical market produce that was selected and tested, 14 per cent had activity as high as that of ascorbic acid (similar to vitamin C), and 23 per cent had activity as high as that of green tea (which is widely touted for its health benefits due to its antioxidants) as well as an analogue of vitamin E (McCune and Johns 2002). Given that 63 per cent of these species are used for food or drink as well as for medicine, the consumption of antioxidants is even higher than what one would expect from medicinal use alone. Traditional herbalists already have an arsenal of traditional medicines to fight diabetes, even if the scientific focus in this discussion is only on antioxidant activities. A traditional herbalist is able to identify traits of plant species that have higher antioxidants. Specific cultural harvesting sites as well as collection practices can target those conditions that promote antioxidants in medicinal plant species – which is why a traditional herbalist will collect medicinal species from one area over another and will collect certain parts of a plant in a certain way. The single fruit (sumac) used traditionally to treat diabetes symptoms turned out to have the highest antioxidant content of all the plant remedies in the study (McCune and Johns 2007). A traditional harvesting site for highantioxidant fruit might be selected for having the highest fruit production but also for producing fruits of the greatest colour or the tartest taste as an indicator of potency/efficacy. Other than the sumac fruit, when remedies were grouped according to the corresponding plant part used, those that focused on bark had the highest antioxidant activity of parts traditionally collected. When searching for bark as medicine for specific symptoms such as those of diabetes, a traditional herbalist will look for barks with more intense medicinal

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9.2 | The inner red bark of black spruce (Picea mariana).

properties, such as those red in colour (see figure 9.2), those more exposed to the elements, and/or those more exposed to the damage of insect, animal, or human foragers, as continuous harvesting can increase the production of some compounds. It was also determined that as a group the tree species used to treat these symptoms had higher activity than other plant life forms (e.g., shrubs and herbs) (McCune and Johns 2007). This finding suggests that the traditional herbalist can make use of the fact that trees are longer lived and more exposed to the elements and to foraging damage over time, thereby increasing the strength of their medicinal efficacy – through, at least in part, higher levels of antioxidants. Cree, Land, and Plants

In 2003 a team of researchers and Cree members initiated a multidisciplinary project to tackle diabetes within the Cree Nation of Eeyou Istchee. The Eeyouch suffer from the onset of type 2 diabetes (Légaré 2004), and since compliance with modern medicine is low in this community, the Canadian Institutes of Health Research through its Team in Aboriginal Antidiabetic Medicines has used

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a different, innovative approach in working with community members (mostly knowledge holders) and their traditional knowledge on medicinal plants (Cuerrier et al. 2012; Haddad et al. 2012; Leduc et al. 2006). During interviews and focus group discussions related to diabetes symptoms (Leduc et al. 2006), many Cree elders told stories about plants in which specific harvesting sites were mentioned. Out of these consultations came notions about gradients of medicinal activities, the importance of harvest time, and people’s deep connection to their land. In discussing our ethnopharmacological results with elders and healers, they indicated that plants thriving in higher latitudes or closer to the coast were preferred in terms of medicinal efficacy. Our preliminary results came from different populations of plants within Eeyou Istchee, without our paying full attention to specific sites, other than undertaking a quick comparison between plants collected south and north of Eeyouch territory (Fraser et al. 2007; Harbilas et al. 2009; Spoor et al. 2006). Yet Cree elders and healers were adamant about the importance of harvesting medicinal plants at specific locations. To understand and document their knowledge, we decided to conduct a number of small projects targeting important medicinal plants of the Cree pharmacopoeia. Labrador tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum), which has a wide distribution and was identified as among the best anti-diabetic medicines, stood out as the best candidate to understand the impact of abiotic factors on the concentration of chemically active principles along a latitudinal gradient. For similar reasons, black spruce (Picea mariana), pitcher plant (Sarracenia purpurea), and mountain ash (Sorbus decora and S. americana) were also of interest (see figure 9.3); all were mentioned and ranked highly in the treatment of symptoms linked to type 2 diabetes. These species are discussed in more detail below. Black Spruce (Picea mariana)

In the case of black spruce, many elders pinpointed the fact that the tree had multiple names in their language, including two types called inaahtikw and chikshegatikw. The late Charlie Etapp of Mistissini took us out in the bush and showed us what he considered to be the differences between these two named types of black spruce. It came out that among the Cree the two black spruces from dry lands versus wetlands were named and used differently. In fact, black spruce is known to ecologists to be bimodal and, indeed, lives in both dry and wet habitats. Thus, following the wisdom of Cree elders and healers, we sampled a large number of populations, both inland and coastal, as well as on high land (dry habitats) and on low land (humid habitats). Downing and colleagues (2019) used a bioassay that investigated the role of plant extracts in mitigating nerve damage, a frequent complication of diabetes. Black spruces in coastal habitats, especially in dry locations, showed the greatest medicinal activity with regard to their bark extract. Cones were not investigated due to a lack of materials,

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9.3 | Cree medicinal plants: Labrador tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum) in flower (upper left); black spruce (Picea mariana) bark (upper right); pitcher plant (Sarracenia purpurea) flower (lower left); leaves of mountain ash (Sorbus decora) (lower right).

whereas needles showed medicinal activity with no fluctuation between habitats. For the Cree, bark is usually the plant organ of choice in medicinal applications, although multiple times we saw bark and needles being used together. Cree knowledge holders proved right in identifying the coastal populations of black spruces and other medicinal plants as being preferable since their active medicinal components were higher. Medicinal activity could also be seen in the total content of the phenolics of these plants (Downing et al. 2019). Labrador Tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum) and Pitcher Plant (Sarracenia purpurea)

Labrador tea and pitcher plant were collected along a latitudinal gradient from Mistissini to Whapmagoostui and from Mistissini to Chisasibi respectively. Both plants showed differing concentrations of known active substances in

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populations over this gradient. Elders argued that plants in the northern part of their range would be more effective. Rapinski and colleagues (2014) have determined that plants at higher latitudes have higher concentrations of active compounds until they reach their northern limit, where the concentration goes down. The pattern in populations of both species was similar in regard to the concentration of terpenes in pitcher plants or phenolic compounds like catechin or quercetin in Labrador tea (Rapinski et al. n.d. a). These results support the elders’ statements about plant populations in northern places being more efficient in terms of medicinal strength. Even though, at first glance, ethnopharmacological activities seemed to follow the same pattern from the south to the north of Eeyou Istchee, the bioassay used – which looked at adipogenesis, or fat accumulation through the content of triglycerides – generated results that were not significant across latitudes. This latter study was done only with samples from Labrador tea (Rapinski et al. 2015). Mountain Ash (Sorbus decora and S. americana)

Again, based on Cree knowledge, we investigated and supported what Cree healers and elders shared with our research group. Plant samples of mountain ash were therefore collected at different sites either inland or near the coast as well as along a latitudinal gradient. About eighty samples were taken at four latitudes. Instead of looking at the concentration of active substances in these samples, Bailie and colleagues (2016) targeted specific genes involved in active substance pathways. A clear pattern emerged in comparing coastal to inland populations and across populations from different latitudes. Coastal populations produced more active substances than the inland populations harvested. Also, northern populations generated more active substances than southern ones, as in the cases of Labrador tea and pitcher plant. Cree elders and healers showed little surprise in our results. They were thankful that we could translate into scientific terms what their traditional ecological knowledge indicated. Members of the Cree Nation of Eeyou Istchee felt that such a translation could serve as a template for making their traditional medicine fully recognized by the health authorities. A project involving Cree, Innu, and Naskapi in eastern Canada and Squamish in western Canada is underway, and preliminary results illustrate the obstacles that these nations are facing in their efforts to have their traditional medicines officially recognized. The medical establishment is not open to traditional medicine use and still embraces a colonialism approach where only modern “science-based” medicine is allowed and recognized as suitable. Even open-minded physicians are uneasy about traditional medicine, as supporting it can result in problems with their profession and with adherence to deontological ethics (Ouellet et al. 2018; Rapinski et al. n.d. b).

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Medicinal Plants and MininG Soils high in mineral content can occur in areas of interest to mineral-mining operations and can also be significant in terms of medicinal plant potential. When the antioxidant activity of the traditional plants mentioned above was analyzed in relation to the areas where they typically grow, it was found that as a group those traditional medicines collected from rocky and infertile soil areas contained the highest levels of antioxidants compared to those from woodlands or wetlands (McCune and Johns 2007). The open, rocky collection sites are generally more exposed to ultraviolet stress, browsing and foraging by animals, and drought stress, and these factors, as well as the minerals contained in these rocky soils, can all increase the potential amounts of antioxidants in the plants and, therefore, their associated health benefits. In any case, plants collected from these areas can be expected to be extra high in antioxidants since minerals in and of themselves are antioxidants, with some plants, such as birch and willow, being known to accumulate minerals in their shoot tissues (White and Broadley 2009). Given that the analysis of tea leaves (Camellia sinensis) from numerous places in the world has shown that their associated mineral content pinpoints where they were grown (Moreda-Pineiro, Fisher, and Hill 2003), traditional herbalists are taking advantage of the particular locations where medicinal plants are grown to acquire antioxidant minerals for the teas they create. Mineral-rich soils are also known to increase the production of antioxidants within plants (Babu et al. 2003), so collecting plants in these areas increases the odds of ensuring the presence of these health-giving compounds in traditional medicines. At the same time, mineral-rich areas have become sites sought after for mine development, creating conflicts between mining companies and traditional medicine harvesters. A site for a proposed copper mine, for example, is likely to have soils that are rich in copper, with medicinal plants absorbing some of this copper and thus having increased health benefits, a factor that makes the area of particular importance as a traditional harvesting site. Copper is a trace element important to humans, and although humans do not need much (1.13–1.70 milligrams per day), it is also not hard to have a diet deficient in it (Lopez de Romana et al. 2011). Copper is important in human enzyme systems (including antioxidant function) and in the metabolism of iron, melanin, and histamine. It is also a component in connective tissue, bones, and vascular tissues. In regard to diabetes, copper deficiency affects vascular issues related to the complications of diabetes, increases heart disease, and decreases the body’s ability to process glucose (Klevay 1998). The amount of copper in plant tissues averages 10 micrograms per gram dry weight (Yruela 2005), with some plants providing significant amounts to the diet (e.g., navy beans, Phaseolus vulgaris variety, at

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0.241 milligrams per serving), such that selecting plants higher in copper (i.e., from harvesting sites with copper-rich soils) will add more of this essential element to the diet and decrease the chance of copper deficiency and associated diabetes complications.1 Copper is also essential to plants, especially to the photosynthetic apparatus, and therefore accumulates mostly in the leaf tissue (Maksymiec 1997). Soil conditions, including soil acidity, organic matter, water level, and rhizobacterial symbiosis, affect the amount of copper that plants can access (White and Broadley 2009). As copper accumulates in the plant tissue, there is an increased chance of copper products that cause reactive oxygen species (explained above). This process in turn induces the plant’s antioxidant enzymes as well as the production of antioxidant compounds such as phenolics (Babu et al. 2003). Selecting plants, then, from these copper-rich areas could make use of the antioxidant levels associated with copper accumulation, the antioxidants associated with aspects other than copper, and the induced antioxidants. The increased medicinal potency of the traditional medicines harvested from naturally mineral-rich habitats should be an argument for the protection of, and access to, these harvesting sites. aPPlications related to Parks In 2008 Alain Cuerrier was invited to a meeting in the Cree community of OujéBougoumou about the establishment of future Assinica Park. During discussions on the importance of preserving the community’s traditional activities within the boundary of the park, he asked about the agreement among Cree elders regarding the limits drawn on the map by the provincial ministry overseeing the development of Assinica Park. A number of elders pointed out that, based on the existence of important medicinal plant populations, a particular small area next to the park limits should be included within the park. Although the members of the ministry were not against such inclusion and changes to the park’s boundary, they maintained that another area of the same size within the park would need to be excluded in order not to reduce the overall area to be accessed by the forestry industry. This anecdote exemplifies the importance of recognizing sites where known populations of medicinal plants occur, but it also raises issues regarding the designation of parks. In parallel, another park involving Cree communities, Albanel-TémiscamieOtish Park, was about to be inaugurated in 2017–18. Cree members explicitly asked that portions of the park not be accessible to regular park visitors in order to protect sensitive spiritual places (Cuerrier et al. 2015). In this instance, the Cree retained their legal access to the park, their concerns being met, but this has not always been the case. The Cree see parks today either as a tool for conserving their valued medicinal plants or as a barrier to accessing their own lands.

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Sylvester (2015) has correctly stressed that human rights should be included in the conservation agenda of designated protected areas (see International Union for Conservation of Nature 2004). Parks and other protected areas sometimes fare miserably in  respecting Indigenous peoples’ rights to natural resources. The Baka people of Cameroon have voiced their indignation regarding the protected area called the Réserve de faune de Ngoyla, which encompasses their land (“Les Baka” 2015; see also Jonas, Roe, and Makagon 2014). Parks and protected areas can, if created with the full participation of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis, become a positive tool for medicinal plant conservation, especially since there is a lack of legal policies concerning the conservation of plants that are not considered rare or endangered (Cuerrier and Léger n.d.). conclusion The scientific knowledge presented here is derived from traditional knowledge associated with cultural keystone places. Such knowledge should be used to protect people’s health and well-being, including their traditional medicinal plants and the culture-specific harvesting sites where they grow. In conjunction with historical accounts of plant use, the Western scientific documentation described above can have a key role in land-use conflicts by emphasizing the importance of particular harvesting sites for medicinal plants over other potential areas. Documenting the unique conditions of sites that could influence the medicinal properties of the plants that grow in them, such as soil acidity and mineral content, the amount of ultraviolet exposure, and traditional forms of plant management in the area like fire, pruning, and bark collecting, would augment any analysis of plant content – including antioxidants. Western scientific knowledge led and informed by traditional knowledge of Indigenous peoples can be used to support traditional knowledge and to explain it to policymakers and government authorities. Traditional medicines and their important role in healthcare first need to be fully recognized, not only at international venues but at the national level as well. They are an integral part of all Indigenous cultures, being intricately woven into stories and contributing not only to their physical health but also to their cultural identity and to their memories of the land. Although there is the potential for an increase in rights to traditional medicines in Canada due to the provisions of both the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007) and the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, Canada needs to recognize the valuable assets associated with traditional knowledge about the medicinal plants of Canada’s landscapes. The ratification of the Nagoya Protocol (Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity 2011) and its adoption by the international community illustrate the world’s future recognition of the importance of these assets. This protocol relates not only to the genetic resources Canada holds in regard to medicinal plants and associated

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compounds/pharmaceuticals but also to the added value and need to protect the traditional knowledge that surrounds the use and collection of those plant species, as well as the special places where the knowledge is situated. Canada has yet to ratify the Nagoya Protocol; one will have to ascertain the contributions of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis people to future policies. The Indigenous peoples of Canada need to take a greater part in this matter. Protecting, recognizing, and promoting the knowledge associated with traditional harvesting sites, along with the sites themselves, will ensure that the Indigenous peoples of Canada and of the world are able to benefit from the health-giving properties of these plant species for years to come. acknowledGMents We thank Nancy J. Turner and the organizers for the invitation to speak at the ethnoecology symposium of the Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation. A warm thank you to the Lekwungen and W̱ SÁNEĆ Straits Salish peoples who welcomed us to their territory. Chief Ronald E. Ignace and Marianne Ignace are also thanked for their inspiration and their support of these studies. Nancy J. Turner provided valuable comments on an early version of this chapter.

note 1 In contrast, copper pollution associated with mining is well documented, with the accumulation of toxic levels of copper in plants and the associated plant damage causing a shift in the composition of plant species and a change in their availability in the associated habitat (Maksymiec 1997).

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section three Ethnoecology and the Law in the International Arena

introduction

Nancy J. Turner The issues addressed in this volume – Indigenous peoples’ relationships with their territories and the roles of ethnoecology and ethnobotany – are not restricted to Canada. Just as homelands and territories of Indigenous peoples exist on every habitable continent and transcend national boundaries, so do their relationships with plants and environments. Virtually everywhere, Indigenous peoples also face issues related to their land rights and title as well as other human rights, as reflected in various clauses of the United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity (1992), the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), and other international documents. These issues are also acknowledged in documents from the field of ethnobiology, such as the International Society of Ethnobiology’s Declaration of Belém (1988) (also ratified by the Society of Ethnobiology in North America) and its more recent ISE Code of Ethics (2006) (see chapter 15, this volume). This section presents five chapters – three pertaining to different regions of the United States, one to Sweden, and one to Aotearoa New Zealand – that complement the discussions and examples from Canada and can inform the Canadian experience. Although limited in geographic scope, these cases serve as representative international examples of circumstances that parallel those in Canada: on the one hand, a lack of recognition of Indigenous peoples’ rights to their homelands, encroachment on Indigenous lands by governments and

private interests, and damage to lands, waters, and resources from industrial development; on the other hand, opportunities to recognize Indigenous peoples’ laws and protocols and the potential for meaningful consultation and collaborative management. In the first chapter in this section, “From Traplines to Pipelines,” Linda Black Elk and Janelle Marie Baker transcend the Canada-US boundary as they discuss the impacts of industrial oil and gas extraction on the health and well-being of Canadian First Nations and Native Americans caused by encroachment on and in many cases destruction of their homelands and their ability to harvest and care for berries and other traditional foods, as well as medicines and other culturally significant resources. In the case of plant resources, it is the women who are most deeply affected by this destruction. Despite strong protests in defence of their territories – in particular, at the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in North Dakota with the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline – Indigenous peoples have often lost out to industrial development, and as this chapter underscores, this is an ongoing issue that will require much more attention if the rights of Indigenous peoples are truly to be recognized and honoured. The next chapter, “The Legal Application of Ethnoecology,” by forest ecologist Dr Lars Östlund and colleagues, is set in Sweden. It is an account of a court challenge to affirm the rights of Sami reindeer herders to use the forests, lakes, and resources within their historical homelands. As northern European Indigenous people, the Sami are in a situation parallel to that of Canadian Indigenous peoples, and the court case dealt with similar issues: the validity of oral histories versus written documents, proof of land occupancy, competing land uses, and the strength of traditional ecological knowledge. In this case, ethnobotanical evidence, particularly the documentation of culturally modified living pine trees whose edible inner bark was harvested by Sami over past generations, was crucial to the court’s decision, making this case particularly relevant to many of the First Nations’ land claims in British Columbia. This case aligns well with the work of Lepofsky and colleagues (chapter 6, this volume), which shows how archaeobotanical evidence has strong relevance to and alignment with contemporary land rights issues. In the chapter “Tāne Mahuta,” Dr Jacinta Ruru, a Māori professor of law at the University of Otago in New Zealand, examines Māori perspectives related to the lands, waters, plants, and animals of their territories, as well as their legal rights to own, manage, and govern their terrestrial and marine environments. The story of Tāne Mahuta (“The Lord of the Forest”) attributes personhood to natural entities, underpins Māori laws, and explains Māori’s relationships to their lands and responsibilities to the lifeforms on which they rely. Given the parallel colonial histories of New Zealand and Canada, many of the issues faced by the Indigenous peoples of the two countries are similar,

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and each country has lessons to share with the other concerning legacies of colonialism, knowledge suppression, impacts of industrial development, invasive species, and biodiversity loss, as well as reconciliation, partnerships, Indigenous protected areas, and shared decision making. In the chapter “Cultivating the Imagined Wilderness,” ethnobiologist and geographer Douglas Deur and Quinault Nation member Justine E. James Jr focus on the conception, establishment, and management of America’s national parks and the history of exclusion of Native American tribes from their original homelands in these parks, as well as the ecological changes that have occurred as a result of the enforced cessation of Indigenous management practices such as the use of fire to maintain successional ecosystems. Three national parks – Yosemite, Crater Lake, and Olympic – serve as examples for this analysis. Only recently have parks managers and ecologists recognized that Native American traditional land and resource management strategies serve to maintain and enhance biodiversity, and as in Canada’s and New Zealand’s national parks, there is a growing acceptance of some forms of tribal occupation and reimplementation of use and management practices in US national parks. The final chapter in this section, “Kīpuka Kuleana,” by Monica Montgomery and Mehana Vaughan, both with the Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Management, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa, describes the unique history of Hawaiian customary fisheries and the traditional management of its integrated watersheds. Sophisticated tenure arrangements once balanced local-level decision making within broader district- and island-level laws guided by a conservation ethic reflecting cultural, social, and spiritual values. Colonization and becoming a territory, and then a constituent of the United States, have led to the systematic replacement of local-level resource management systems with centralized state governance of resources. Communally held Hawaiian lands have been widely converted to private property, resulting in the displacement of communities and in cultural and environmental losses. However, in recent decades, despite encroaching development and widespread recreational tourism, Native Hawaiian communities and their allies have undertaken both formal and informal restoration and education efforts. This work includes reviving customary fishing and caretaking practices, restoring local governance, and building partnerships and sharing knowledge across community networks, both locally and globally. The chapter provides many valuable lessons on how Indigenous practices and rights can be mobilized with inspiring outcomes.

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references International Society of Ethnobiology. 1988. Declaration of Belém. http://www.ethnobiology.net/what-we-do/core-programs/global-coalition-2/ declaration-of-belem/. – 2006. ISE Code of Ethics. http://www.ethnobiology.net/what-we-do/core-programs/ ise-ethics-program/code-of-ethics/. United Nations. 1992. United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity. https://www.cbd.int/convention/text/default.shtml. – 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/ development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenouspeoples.html.

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10 From Traplines to Pipelines: Oil Sands and the Pollution of Berries and Sacred Lands from Northern Alberta to North Dakota Linda Black Elk and Janelle Marie Baker I stand on this sacred ground Where oil flows beneath my feet beneath this soil beneath this place On this sacred ground Where buffaloberries1 once grew medicine once grew beauty once grew On this sacred ground Where this pipeline now lay and the people pray and the people stand And I stand, too on this sacred ground Where oil flows beneath my feet. – Linda Black Elk, 2017

introduction: “resist like a berry” As close friends since our first encounter at the 2005 Society of Ethnobiology meeting in Alaska, we were surprised to realize that now, over ten years later, we have gone from studying and celebrating people’s relationship with plants to trying to protect – through research, teaching, and protesting – that very

relationship from the expansion of extreme extraction, or extractivism (Willow 2016), of oil and gas in Indigenous peoples’ traditional territories. It is now rare that anyone doing ethnobiological or ethnoecological work is free from concerns related to political ecology (Nabhan et al. 2011; see also chapter 15, this volume), as we are in a time of social and ecological crises (Nabhan, Wyndham, and Lepofsky 2011). In fact, community-based endeavours in ethnobiology have great potential to help us all cope with crises resulting from climate change and biodiversity loss (Wyndham, Lepofsky, and Tiffany 2011). Inspired by our love and appreciation of ethnoecology, we could say that we are practising resistance as a form of caring for, and tending to, our relationships with people and other species. For us, wild berries, as enduring sources of a delicious, healthy food, symbolize these relationships. Anthropologist Deborah Bird Rose (2017, G 58) states that care is “an ethical response involving tenderness, generosity, and compassion, and care is an ongoing assumption of responsibility in the face of continuing violence and peril. Pulses of harm and care offer a peculiarly telling story of the Anthropocene, highlighting multispecies entanglements, conflicting ways of being human, mass death, and, through it all . . . a great and joyful desire for life.” When we say that we are caring for, and tending to, our relationships with berries and berry plants, we are speaking of the berries as fellow nations, allies, relations, and kin. When proper protocols are followed and berries are shown proper respect, they willingly offer themselves as food and medicine (see Turner 2005). One should always speak kindly to and of berries and never waste them. In this sense, our chapter is a story of protecting our relations. We realize that, in tending to our relationships with berries and other plants, we have to say something about the impacts that oil and gas developments have on them. In reflecting on the animacy of the landscape in northern Alberta, otipemisiwak (Métis) scholar Zoe Todd (2017, 107) remarks, “It is the machinations of human political-ideological entanglements that deem it appropriate to carry . . . oil through pipelines running along vital waterways, that make this oily progeny a weapon against fish, humans, water and more-than-human worlds.” In his article “Resist Like a Plant! On the Vegetal Life of Political Movements,” Michael Marder (2012) describes how the politics of space, enacted in the ways that we protest peacefully (as described by Linda Black Elk below), are learned from plants. During peaceful protests, we are rooted and sedentary, exposed to the elements, and have an increased visibility. “Standing for non-violence par excellence, the plant has been . . . a living icon of peace, a non-oppositional being, wholly included in the place wherein it grows, to the point of merging with the milieu” (ibid., 26). Like plants, peaceful protestors signify their discontent by being present in a place. “To resist like plants, on a common front . . . we would need to learn from them, to be and to live with them, to let something of them flourish in us” (ibid., 31). Below, we take turns telling our stories of

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10.1 | Large swaths of prairie filled with edible and medicinal plants destroyed by the Dakota Access Pipeline.

how ethnoecology and caring for the berries have put us each in the position of resisting oil and gas development. In doing so, we follow the path of the oil by beginning with the extractive zone of Alberta’s oil sands and ending with the unwanted transportation of oil through the Dakota Access Pipeline under Standing Rock sacred grounds (see figure 10.1). traPlines: berry PickinG and so Much More – Janelle Marie baker The projects and research relationships I tend to with sakâwiyiniwak2 (Northern Bush Cree), Dene, and Métis research collaborators, friends, and their communities in northern Alberta were not conceived of with clear and intentional acts of resistance like those needed at Standing Rock, as described by Linda Black Elk,

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but rather are forms of “slow resistance” that grew out of my applied ethnoecological work. Like many ethnoecologists, I am motivated by my love of being in the bush and learning from elders and other land users who read, respond to, and care for the landscape in wise, poetic, and humorous ways. After several years of applied ethnoecological research in traditional land-use consultation, which involved predicting the impacts of proposed oil and gas projects (Westman 2013), I decided to respond to people’s largely unaddressed concerns about their homelands as a form of research reciprocity by pursuing doctoral research on wild food contamination in traditional territories of the sakâwiyiniwak (Baker 2017). At the same time, I became involved in a couple of applied projects, described in more detail elsewhere (Baker 2017), that entailed the use of ethnoecological knowledge to monitor and test bush food for contaminants. The first is an ongoing project to monitor berry patches in Fort McKay in northern Alberta, and the other is a completed project with the Bigstone Cree Nation to collect samples of culturally important plants and animals that are consumed and used as medicine in order to test them for potential contaminants resulting from industrial oil and gas activities. Although the scientific components of these projects are valuable in themselves, the truth and wisdom guiding the project designs are derived from their ethnoecological aspects. We work with an “ethnographic loop” (Fortun 2012, 453), always checking with project members and participants and adjusting our methods according to community knowledge and concerns. We then use the scientific findings to support and elucidate the ethnoecological observations recorded each year. I see these community-designed projects as acts of slow resistance that are intended to grow and exist for at least as long as the “life” of the oil sands that are impacting the plants, animals, and peoples of the region. The projects are undertaken in response to slow violence – the “pervasive but elusive violence of delayed effects” due to pollution (Nixon 2011, 3) resulting from oil sands extraction. The pollution in Alberta’s oil sands region is especially insidious and subtle. The elders detect and observe the contamination before the scientific results, measured in parts per million and parts per billion, are deemed to surpass official thresholds of concern. In scientific studies that do not take ethnoecological knowledge into account, laboratories test for single chemical exposures in controlled conditions rather than analyzing the wide range of lived human experiences on the land, which testify to multiple and diverse exposures to different contaminants (Wylie, Shapiro, and Liboiron 2017). The resulting “regimes of imperceptibility” (Murphy 2006, 129) further alienate people with anxiety and “toxic uncertainty” (Auyero and Swistun 2009, 6; Little 2012, 432) rather than providing clear answers about the safety and security of a food supply – synonymous with tradition, identity, and reciprocity for those dwelling in these places.

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Industrial pollution is now the largest environmental cause of disease and premature death in the world (Landrigan et al. 2017). The slow violence of pollution is a historical agent of colonial dispossession that alienates Fort McKay and Bigstone Cree members from their traditional territories (see Sandlos and Keeling 2016). With good reason, people do not trust foods and medicines obtained near roads and industrial developments. In northern Alberta, as elsewhere in Indigenous peoples’ homelands, it is often the case that traditional territories, berry patches, and other resourceharvesting areas such as traplines are associated with familial ownership (Thornton 1999). Such existing familial territories are recognized in the colonial designation of traplines (McCormack 2010) but seldom for berries or other types of resources. As a result, traplines also serve as a family’s hunting, fishing, and plant collection areas. People respect each other’s traplines and often gain permission before entering another’s trapline or “bothering” anything within it. In northern Alberta, trapline owners are financially compensated when their traplines are infringed upon by oil and gas activities, but when a trapline is mined or significantly disturbed, oil companies claim that the owners can simply use other habitats, without recognizing that they are dislocating an entire extended family from its territory and impacting multiple different harvesting activities (see chapter 8, this volume). Most of the ethnoecological research in relationship to contaminants from oil sands development is in partnership with trapline holders. In such collaborative projects, following Woodlands Cree (sakāwithiniwak) scholar Herman J. Michell’s (2009) metaphor of berry picking as “communitybased research,” we act with and as plant communities. Our research is “vegetalized” (Myers 2015, 42). We spread our roots and grow slowly, sensing air, soil, rain, the quality of berries, and other land-based details. Rather than simply harvesting and analyzing plants, we tend to them as kin. We learn from the berry plant communities about respect and care as well as neglect and harm. From my grandparents and from the elders of the many sakâwiyiniwak and Dene communities where I have had the privilege to work, I have learned over the years that berries, like all components of an ecosystem, are animate; they are living beings who deserve respectful treatment and care (see Thornton 1999; Kimmerer 2013; see also chapters 2 and 3, this volume). In Fort McKay, we focus on low-bush cranberries (Vaccinium vitis-idaea) and velvet-leaf blueberries (Vaccinium myrtilloides). These are both “cultural keystone species” (Garibaldi and Turner 2004) that the Fort McKay berrymonitoring group, made up mostly of elders, identified as berries of high value and concern. There are many other types of berries that the elders involved in both aforementioned projects value highly: “mooseberries” (squashberries or pimbina berries, Viburnum edule), “summer berries” (highbush cranberries, Viburnum opulus), chokecherries (Prunus virginiana), saskatoon berries (Amelanchier

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10.2 | Buffaloberries, or soapberries (Shepherdia canadensis).

alnifolia), currants (Ribes spp.), bog cranberries (Vaccinium oxycoccos, syn. Oxycoccus microcarpus), gooseberries (Ribes oxyacanthoides), raspberries (Rubus idaeus), cloudberries or bakeapples (Rubus chamaemorus), dwarf raspberries (Rubus acaulis), strawberries (Fragaria spp.), and pin cherries (Prunus pensylvanica). A different species of the buffaloberry, mentioned by Linda Black Elk in her poem at the beginning, also grows in the area: soapberry (Shepherdia canadensis) (see figure 10.2). Beyond the value of applied ethnoecology as a study, celebration, preservation, and practice of traditional ecological knowledge, ethnoecological research creates space for monitoring lands and species impacted by industrial development. The literal and metaphorical act of “checking the berries” is an act of tending to one another and to the landscape. I often get the sense that, when we go out to pick berries as a part of ethnoecological research and monitoring in Alberta’s oil sands region, our projects are relegated by oil company staff, consultants, and scientists to a recreational category, separate from and not as relevant as the often biased, but privileged, scientific monitoring occurring in the region. “Berry picking” becomes trivialized, in the same way as “basket

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Table 10.1 | Berry patch activities as important aspects of cultural knowledge and practice

activity

Greater PurPose

benefit

Make offerings (tobacco)

Thanking berries and other foods, medicines, and smudges for offering themselves; thanking ancestors

Caring for cycles of respect and reciprocity; ensuring future abundance

Collect smudges

While walking to and in berry patches, people gather ceremonial smudging plants and fungi. These are used to cleanse oneself and to communicate with the Creator.

Caring for cycles of respect and reciprocity; ensuring future abundance

Health and well-being Collect medicines While walking to and in berry of community members; patches, people gather medicinal plants if they show themselves and continued cultural survival are ready to be collected. Check ecosystem health

While walking to and in berry patches, people note various indictors of ecosystem health that tell them when and where to collect plants or to hunt.

Being on the land enables people to check the health and availability of foods and medicines and their habitats.

Clear trails

Trails are often maintained by trapline holders and are a sign of active care and use. They are tended to with a sense of pride and indicate who is tending to and managing an area.

Trails enable access to collective traditional use areas. People benefit from walking to and visiting traditional places.

Net fish

While picking berries, people often Essential source of protein and fats; continued cultural set nets and smoke fish. Drying large numbers of fish is important survival for sharing and winter storage.

Check wildlife signs

While walking to and in berry patches, people watch for and observe signs of wildlife presence and behaviour.

People observe current animal behaviours that tell them about population health, spiritual observances, hunting possibilities, and seasonal fluctuations.

Share personal life stories

While walking to and in berry patches, people tell stories about their experiences in these places and in general.

Sharing stories about life experiences and histories imparts life skills and knowledge to friends, family, and especially children and youth. /continued

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Table 10.1 | continued

activity

Greater PurPose

benefit

Share current landscape observations

While walking to and in berry patches, people watch for and observe signs from the landscape components.

Being on the land enables people to check the health and availability of foods and medicines. People share observations from other places so that they have a larger picture of what is happening on the land in different locales.

Tell oral traditions

People often tell creation and wîsahkeâhk (Trickster) stories while in the berry patch. These stories are entertaining and educational.

These stories transmit ancient teachings, life skills, and language. Cultural and environmental knowledge is transmitted to friends, family, and youth.

Language use

People often use their language when in the berry patch.

Transmission of environmental knowledge and cultural survival embedded in language and vocabulary

Snare rabbits

While picking berries, people often set snares and catch rabbits (hares). They are an abundant and appreciated source of protein.

Acquiring essential protein, fats, and hides; cultural survival, health, and well-being

Hunt moose

While picking berries, people watch for moose and hunt for them if possible. Drying large amounts of moose meat is important for sharing and winter storage.

Acquiring essential protein, fats, and hides; cultural keystone animal; spiritually significant

Hunt chickens (grouse)

While picking berries, people often Acquiring essential protein shoot grouse. They are an abundant and fats; cultural survival and appreciated source of protein.

Make fire

While in the berry patch, people make a fire to brew tea and have lunch.

Having a fire provides comfort, protection, and a place to share language, stories, and observations. It teaches youth survival skills. People are able to enjoy their preferred bush foods.

Observe industrial disruptions

While travelling to berry patches, people witness new industrial developments and changes that they have not been informed of.

Consultation requirements can be requested. Communities can have a better catalogue of project footprints in their traditional territories.

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Table 10.1 | continued

activity

Greater PurPose

benefit

Observe effects of While walking to and in berry climate change patches, people note various indicators of ecosystem health that tell them about large-scale changes due to climate change and other factors

Being on the land enables people to check the health and availability of foods and medicines. People share observations from other places so that they have a larger picture of what is happening on the land.

Educate children and youth

Knowing the land and culture promotes health, positive identity, and well-being for youth. Knowing how to harvest food promotes food sovereignty and cultural survival.

By participating in berry picking, children learn how to be on the land and how to harvest food. They learn language and stories. They develop a strong sense of cultural pride and identity.

weaving” (also an important land-based cultural activity), rather than being properly recognized as a vital and essential act of food procurement and production. In response to the misconception that berry picking and the accompanying ethnoecological research are merely recreational activities, table 10.1 describes many of the land-based ethnoecological activities intertwined with checking and picking berries that I have observed through ethnographic research in the region. In short, berry picking and its associated activities provide people with the necessary cultural and environmental knowledge to maintain their cultural identity, health, and well-being. They also connect people with the plant world in important, reciprocal ways and provide opportunities both to determine when environmental integrity is being breached and to inform others who are not so closely tied to the land about issues of contamination and pollution. PiPelines: standinG with the Plant nations – linda black elk 3 I first became involved in the fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline because of my role as an ethnobotanist at Standing Rock, where I have taught for almost two decades. On 3 September 2016, I was living in one of the Standing Rock camps in North Dakota near Lake Oahe, adjacent to the Standing Rock Lakota Reservation, and fighting the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline (see figure 10.3). That day, we were called to the frontline to protect sacred burial sites from impending destruction by bulldozers. Moments after arriving there,

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10.3 | Indigenous people facing military-like violence in the protection of water and land at the Standing Rock camps.

I was showered with pepper spray, which lit my eyes on fire and made breathing nearly impossible. It was a shock to my system, further exacerbated when, suddenly, my eyes burning and my breathing short, I was attacked by huge dogs on long leashes held by armed guards. One canine came so close to biting my face that I could actually feel its breath and saliva on my cheek. Elders were crying and wailing at the sight of their relatives’ graves being destroyed. We desperately pushed forward, walking into the path of weaponized security guards and sometimes into the mouths of attack dogs so that we could stand in the path of the bulldozers in an effort to stop the destruction taking place. My mind raced and the world around me moved in slow motion as I thought, “Are they really using attack dogs on us in 2016?” Yet, amid all that chaos, I had a moment of perfect clarity. In that moment, I knew what freedom felt like. It sounds ridiculous and dramatic, but it is the truth. I suddenly knew that I will never again back down in the face of injustice. I knew that I will never be able to stay silent when I enter a museum that uses only verbs in the past tense to describe Indigenous peoples and their cultures. I knew that my voice will never be silenced by any institution’s need to acquire grant funding or to maintain peaceful relationships with corporations that exploit our planet. This is what freedom looks like. Dakota Access, LLC is a subsidiary company of Energy Transfer Partners, LP . In June 2016, together with Phillips 66, Enbridge, and Marathon Petroleum,

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Dakota Access started constructing a pipeline buried beneath the earth that would stretch 1,886 kilometres (1,172 miles) from the Bakken shale oilfields of northwest North Dakota through South Dakota and Iowa to an oil tank farm near Patoka, Illinois.4 This pipeline crosses less than a mile north of the Standing Rock Lakota Reservation and is adjacent to the location of the Sacred Stone Camp, where in 2016 upward of 10,000 Native American grassroots activists and their allies camped for ten months in opposition to the pipeline’s construction. Over the years, I had taken my students to this prairie that now sits within the path of the pipeline. It was once resplendent with sacred food and medicinal plants – some used to make delicious soups and filling stews, others to treat and prevent illness. I had visited this site many times and knew these plants well. I considered them friends, allies, and relatives, and I loved to share their beauty with my students. Now, this place no longer exists. It was decimated by an oil corporation in pursuit of monetary profit. Two of the largest patches of silver buffaloberries (Shepherdia argentea) were completely obliterated by Dakota Access, and if you have ever eaten a buffaloberry, you know what a massive loss that is, nutritionally, emotionally, and spiritually. These precious foods and medicines have been stolen from the people of Standing Rock. Their seeds, their genes, and the precious diversity offered by this prairie have been destroyed forever. The loss to me as an Indigenous woman and as an ethnobotanist is palpable and profound. Our fight against the Dakota Access Pipeline has made me realize that being an Indigenous ethnobiologist sometimes requires a skill set different from that of my non-Indigenous colleagues. While a lot of my friends are conducting exciting fieldwork in distant places, I might be planting tribal gardens, harvesting food and medicine for elders, or standing on the frontline of a pipeline fight in defence of our water and our sacred plants. These undertakings might seem academically tenuous, but I feel that my place is on the frontline next to my people – rebuilding connections with both people and plants and protecting what is important. What does this stand mean for my work as an academic ethnobiologist and for the field of ethnobiology? I think it means that, collectively, we need to push forward the ideas of social and environmental justice and respect for Indigenous ways of knowing and understanding the world as valid academic accomplishments. We need to ask permission to show up in these communities and offer ourselves, our knowledge, or our services to people who need them. We need to make sure that, as we are conducting our fieldwork, writing papers, and attending conferences, we are also willing to stand right next to our Indigenous brothers and sisters on the frontlines when their lands, culture, languages, or sovereignty are threatened. As ethnobiologists, we can be objective observers and researchers, but we can also be allies for the benefit of the communities in which we work.

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I remember my father – a blue-collar factory worker but also a lifetime learner – telling me stories of how college campuses and professors were once at the heart of activism in the United States. But somewhere along the way, academics started staying in the classrooms and watering down their fervour. Objectivity has become an excuse for many, as though somehow the world will benefit if we pull back and become less involved. That must change. Again, we can find strategies for remaining objective without abandoning our Indigenous allies during times of struggle. We must ask ourselves as ethnobotanists and ethnoecologists if we are okay with the status quo. Are we okay with being seen as a perpetuation of old school “helicopter ethnography,” where we simply “fly in and fly out” of Native communities? Or are we willing to push forward and walk the line between academia and activism? Are we ready to see Indigenous communities both as colleagues and as the primary investigators of our research? Are we willing to put our racial or academic privilege on the line to defend the First Peoples of these lands? Are ethnobotanists and ethnoecologists prepared to stand beside Indigenous people as we face police batons and as we stare down the barrels of guns? If you think it couldn’t possibly ever come to that, then you haven’t been paying attention. In spite of the shock and horror of getting attacked in ways reminiscent of the 1950s civil rights movement, we know as Indigenous activists that together we are powerful. Standing Rock and the fight against Dakota Access was a turning point. We have rediscovered our power, and we need staunch allies at all levels. I still think about my rediscovery every day. I thought about it in October 2016 at Standing Rock when camp medics treated 127 people who had been attacked and arrested by their own local law enforcement agency. I thought about it again in November 2016 when Donald Trump was elected president of the United States and I was personally transporting hundreds of hypothermia victims who had been sprayed by water cannons in subfreezing temperatures, all for the crime of standing up to an oil company. My faith in my people and culture did not falter even when the permit for the pipeline, after being denied by the administration of President Barack Obama, was subsequently granted by Trump, and it did not falter even when the federal government joined forces with local law enforcement to “bring in the cavalry” and remove us, once more, from Indigenous lands so that they could rape our Mother Earth, uninterrupted, and drill under the sacred Missouri River. Through all of these events, my heart, like the hearts of the warrior women I stood next to, has never been on the ground. It is because of our hearts that we can still stand. We stand with the Plant Nations, even those that were destroyed by Dakota Access and the other oil companies. We still fight for the plants because they are not merely “vegetation” but are also our relatives and our allies. In the spring of 2017, there were more gardens planted at Standing Rock than at any time in the past seventy-five years. Native people are gardening and saving sacred seeds,

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but they are also getting back out on the land and harvesting their berries: buffaloberries, juneberries (saskatoon berries, Amelanchier alnifolia), sand cherries (Prunus besseyi), wild plums (Prunus americana), and chokecherries (Prunus virginiana). People are rediscovering their ancestors’ foods and medicines by renewing their relationships with breadroot (prairie turnip, Pediomelum esculentum), sumac (Rhus typhina), purple coneflower (Echinacea angustifolia), and gumweed (Grindelia squarrosa). Our people are motivated, strong, resilient, and ready to thrive – just like the Plant Nations. sPeakinG uP for the berries In her article “In Defence of the Wastelands: A Survival Guide,” nēhiyaw (Cree) writer Erica Violet Lee (2016) explains, “To provide care in the wastelands is about gathering enough love to turn devastation into mourning and then, maybe, turn that mourning into hope.” We have told stories here of how being ethnobotanists and ethnoecologists has brought us to different forms of slow and peaceful resistance in response to unfettered industrial oil projects in Indigenous peoples’ traditional territories. These so-called development projects commit many acts of violence: the slow but relentless violence of pollution and contamination, the often-ignored violence of killing plants without following protocols, and the shocking violence that met peaceful protestors and protectors of the land at Standing Rock. In the ethnoecological context, paying attention to and caring for the berries are instances of the human care – a type of tending to all our relations – that has been practised for endless generations. What are our responsibilities in this care? How can ethnoecologists best support the plants and the people we tend to in a time of extreme extraction and destruction? Deborah Bird Rose (2017, G 61) reminds us that, “[i]n this time of extinctions, we are going to be asked again and again to take a stand for life, and this means taking a stand for faith in life’s meaningfulness.” Let us take an ethnoecological stand and, like the berries, resist, take root, and spread into large, shiny-leaved, generous communities.

notes 1 Silver buffaloberry (Shepherdia argentea). 2 “Sakâwiyiniwak” literally means “Bush Cree,” and is how Crees in northern Alberta refer to themselves in their own language, which they call sakaw nehiyawewin. Capitalization is not used in this language. 3 This section represents transcriptions of Linda Black Elk’s oral presentation to the symposium on which this book is based and her keynote talk at the Society of Ethnobiology meeting in Montreal in May 2017, shortly after the symposium. 4 Despite great opposition from so many, the pipeline was completed in 2017.

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references Auyero, J., and A. Swistun. 2009. Flammable: Environmental Suffering in an Argentine Shantytown. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Baker, J.M. 2017. “Research as Reciprocity: Northern Cree Community-Based and Community-Engaged Research on Wild Food Contamination in Alberta’s Oil Sands Region.” Engaged Scholar Journal: Community-Engaged Research, Teaching, and Learning 2, no. 1: 109–23. Fortun, K. 2012. “Ethnography in Late Industrialism.” Cultural Anthropology 27, no. 3: 446–64. Garibaldi, A., and N.J. Turner. 2004. “Cultural Keystone Species: Implications for Ecological Conservation and Restoration.” Ecology and Society 9, no. 3: 1–18. Kimmerer, R.W. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed. Landrigan, P.J., R. Fuller, N.J.R. Acosta, O. Adeyi, R. Arnold, N. (Nil) Basu, A. Bibi Baldé, et al. 2017. “The Lancet Commission on Pollution and Health.” Lancet 391, no. 10119: 1–51. Lee, E.V. 2016. “In Defense of the Wastelands: A Survival Guide.” Guts Magazine, 30 November. http://gutsmagazine.ca/wastelands/. Little, P.C. 2012. “Another Angle on Pollution Experience: Toward an Anthropology of the Emotional Ecology of Risk Mitigation.” Ethos 40, no. 4: 431–52. Marder, M. 2012. “Resist Like a Plant! On the Vegetal Life of Political Movements.” Peace Studies Journal 5, no. 1: 24–32. McCormack, P.A. 2010. Fort Chipewyan and the Shaping of Canadian History, 1788–1920s: “We like to be free in this country.” Vancouver: UBC Press. Michell, H.J. 2009. “Gathering Berries in Northern Contexts: A Woodlands Cree Metaphor for Community-Based Research.” Pimatisiwin: A Journal of Aboriginal and Indigenous Community Health 7, no. 1: 65–73. Murphy, M. 2006. Sick Building Syndrome and the Problem of Uncertainty: Environmental Politics, Technoscience, and Women Workers. Durham, NC, and London: Duke University Press. Myers, N. 2015. “Conversations on Plant Sensing: Notes from the Field.” NatureCulture 3: 35–66. Nabhan, G.P., K. Chambers, D. Tecklin, E. Perramond, and T.E. Sheridan. 2011. “Ethnobiology for a Diverse World Defining New Disciplinary Trajectories: Mixing Political Ecology with Ethnobiology.” Journal of Ethnobiology 31, no. 1: 1–3. Nabhan, G.P., F. Wyndham, and D. Lepofsky. 2011. “Ethnobiology for a Diverse World: Ethnobiology Emerging from a Time of Crisis.” Journal of Ethnobiology 31, no. 2: 172–5. Nixon, R. 2011. Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rose, D.B. 2017. “Shimmer When All You Love Is Being Trashed.” In Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet: Ghosts and Monsters of the Anthropocene, ed. A. Tsing, H. Swanson, E. Gan, and N. Bubandt, G51–G63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Sandlos, J., and A. Keeling. 2016. “Toxic Legacies, Slow Violence, and Environmental Injustice at Giant Mine, Northwest Territories.” Northern Review 42: 7–21. Thornton, T.F. 1999. “Tleikw aaní, the ‘Berried’ Landscape: The Structure of Tlingit Edible Fruit Resources at Glacier Bay, Alaska.” Journal of Ethnobiology 19, no. 1: 27–48. Todd, Z. 2017. “Fish, Kin, and Hope: Tending to Water Violations in Amiskwaciwâskahikan and Treaty Six Territory.” Afterall: A Journal of Art, Context and Inquiry 43, no. 1: 102–7.

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Turner, N.J. 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre. Westman, C. 2013. “Social Impact Assessment and the Anthropology of the Future in Canada’s Tar Sands.” Human Organization 72, no. 2: 111–20. Willow, A.J. 2016. “Indigenous ExtrACTIVISM in Boreal Canada: Colonial Legacies, Contemporary Struggles and Sovereign Futures.” Humanities 5, no. 55: 1–15. Wylie, S., N. Shapiro, and M. Liboiron. 2017. “Making and Doing Politics through Grassroots Scientific Research on the Energy and Petrochemical Industries.” Engaging Science, Technology, and Society 3: 393–425. Wyndham, F.S., D. Lepofsky, and S. Tiffany. 2011. “Taking Stock in Ethnobiology: Where Do We Come From?” Journal of Ethnobiology 31, no. 1: 110–27.

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11 The Legal Application of Ethnoecology: The Girjas Sami Village versus the Swedish State Lars Östlund, Ingela Bergman, Camilla Sandström, and Malin Brännström introduction and backGround In this chapter we discuss the law, Indigenous peoples’ land-use rights, and ethnoecology from a northern European perspective. Our point of departure is an ongoing court case between the Girjas Sami Reindeer Herding Community – a geographical and economic association, or sameby, coordinating Sami land use – and the Swedish state. Specifically, we explore how the past use of trees and other plants and the information present in the forest landscape can be used to clarify the history as well as current land use of Indigenous peoples in this context. The Sami people live in the northernmost part of Europe – northern Scandinavia, Finland, and northwest Russia – and they constitute the only Indigenous people in Fennoscandia. Sami ethnicity evolved 2,000 to 3,000 years ago, and the Sami presence thus predates the national states of Sweden, Norway, and Finland by millennia. In this chapter, we focus primarily on the situation of the Sami living in northernmost Sweden. Traditional subsistence at these northern latitudes among Sami has been based on fishing, hunting, plant gathering, and reindeer herding. Due to the very northerly location, which is around and above the Arctic Circle, the winters are long and the vegetation growing period is short. Under these trying circumstances, advanced subsistence strategies have developed over thousands of years (Bergman 2005; Bergman and Zackrisson 2007; Rautio 2014). Fishing has been very important over this entire time, and lakes and streams have been used on a regular basis (Norstedt and Östlund

2016). Reindeer herding has been practised for at least the past 1,000 years (Bergman, Zackrisson, and Liedgren 2013). Reindeer feed on grasses and herbs, and during the winter, ground and tree lichens are important elements in their diet. The Sami themselves also use the trees and other plants for materials, food, and medicines (Rautio 2014). Movement between reindeer grazing grounds and other Sami resource areas, such as good fishing lakes, hunting grounds, and sites for plant gathering, is a key feature of historic Sami land use (Berg, Josefsson, and Östlund 2011; Josefsson et al. 2010; Norstedt, Axelsson, and Östlund 2014; Rautio et al. 2015). Thus land use contains the material and spiritual foundations of the Sami culture and forms the basis of traditional Sami activities. The Swedish state recognizes Sami territorial rights as usufruct rights, but the content and extent of these rights remain controversial and are still under dispute (Allard 2006, 2011). Historically, the Sami in Sweden had a relatively strong legal position, at least up until the nineteenth century. Sami land rights were accepted by the courts, and they had a legal position that could be compared with that of the more recent arrivals, namely farmers settling on Sami grounds (Korpijaakko-Labba 1994). However, the successive colonization of traditional Sami territories and translocations of Sami people from both the central and the northern parts of Sweden increasingly and continuously undermined the acceptance of land rights (Lundmark 2007). During the nineteenth century, the Swedish state came to control Sami land use more and more, primarily through its administrative systems, and the Sami legal position became successively weaker (Päiviö 2011). The emergence of modern property rights in Sweden and the tendency of the state to control land use through legal means were parallel developments; indeed, the Swedish state’s consistent position throughout the twentieth century was that legislation dealing with land issues also created rights for the Sami, referred to as the “Lap privilege” (Allard 2006, 258). At the beginning of the twentieth century, perceiving these developments as encroachments upon their way of life, the Sami started to organize themselves, claiming stronger land rights and even asserting ownership of lands. The Swedish state resisted these moves, partly due to the dominant idea that the Sami and the settlers would be able to live in parallel because they used different natural resources and thus did not compete with each other. Today, the administrative system that regulates Sami land use is in many ways similar that established a century ago (Lantto and Mörkenstam 2010). However, the legal situation is far more unclear and complicated than the state is willing to admit (Allard 2006). Over the years, there have been numerous public commissions appointed by the Swedish government that have examined various aspects of Sami reindeer herding and Sami culture (SOU 1989, 1999, 2001, 2005, 2006). These public commissions have been based primarily on written public sources from the state’s administrative machinery. But due to the lack of political will to balance Sami

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land use in relation to other primarily economic interests, the legal development in this field has been rather insignificant (Lantto and Mörkenstam 2010). Sweden has not yet ratified the International Labour Organization’s Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention (1989), and in fact the Swedish state is regularly criticized on an international level for the limited progress it has made in respecting Sami rights (Anaya 2011). The few steps to develop the legal understanding of Sami land rights have primarily been taken through court proceedings. An important milestone was the conclusion in 1981 of the Taxed Mountains case, which is still the leading case on Sami land rights in Sweden (NJA 1981, s. 1). In 1966 the Sami sued the Swedish state, their primary claim being to ownership of the disputed area, with an alternative claim to strong usufruct rights to the area. The contending parties brought comprehensive evidence to shed light on the events from early times until 1886, when the first legislation came into force. The state presented a large number of documents from its own administrative archives, but other kinds of potentially useful materials were largely absent from the proceedings. The Supreme Court found that there was no doubt that Sami had lived in large parts of northern Scandinavia long before other people entered this area, but nevertheless the court concluded that the disputed area was owned by the Swedish state. Although the Sami lost the case, the judgment included statements favourable to the Sami, notably one indicating that reindeer herding is a customary right based on the long-time use of land. This important statement made historic land use into a new and strong focus. Two other court cases regarding the right to winter grazing should be mentioned. In both cases a large number of landowners sued Sami reindeer-herding communities and claimed that the Sami had no right to hold reindeer for winter grazing within the areas under dispute. In the first case, in the province of Härjedalen, the reindeer-herding communities lost, and the Court of Appeal for Southern Norrland (2002) found that it was not proved that there were reindeer-herding rights in the area. In the second case, from the municipality of Nordmaling in the county of Västerbotten, all three courts involved, including the Supreme Court, concluded that the reindeer-herding communities were holders of reindeer-herding rights in the coastal area through longtime land use that had led to customary rights (NJA 2011, s. 109). In these cases, the evidence presented was primarily in the form of written documents – some from the late medieval period – historical records pertaining to the Sami people or the Swedish government, or interviews with Sami elders. One crucial point in all of these court cases is the fact that there were no written historical sources authored by the Sami people themselves – mainly because writing and formal orthographies for the Sami languages were developed only during the twentieth century. Virtually all of the relevant historical records used in court were in fact produced by the Swedish authorities. Furthermore,

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these written sources were often the work of government officials whose sole purpose was to tax the Sami people. Thus only parts of Sami subsistence activities were officially documented – mainly those activities of interest to the tax-collecting authorities. As a result, the Sami perspective on land-use issues, what might be termed “the Sami voice,” has usually been muted. In turn, knowledge about historic Sami land use among the majority population and within the apparatus of the state itself has been limited, and the history of the Sami people has been written by others. Only recently has this situation started to change, and through broad archaeological, ecological, and anthropological research undertaken during the past twenty years, new knowledge about Sami historic land use has led to fresh insights and understanding. The overall aim of the present chapter is to discuss how ethnoecological information was presented and used in another important court case between the Indigenous Sami and the Swedish state. More specifically, we want to show how forest structure – particularly the occurrence of Scots pine trees (Pinus sylvestris) with Sami bark-peeling scars and the occurrence of trees felled in connection with prehistoric and historical settlements in order to feed the reindeer their pendulous lichens – provides spatially and temporally precise knowledge on Sami subsistence and land use during the past 600 years or so. the GirJas case The court case in question is the ongoing so-called Girjas case. Girjas is a Sami reindeer-herding community situated within the county of Norrbotten in northern Sweden. The trigger for the case was a recent institutional change in Swedish hunting policy. Swedish laws regarding hunting, fishing, and reindeer herding in the mountain region, dating from 1886 to 1981, reserved the land above the so-called “cultivation border” for exclusive use of the Sami, including the right of free subsistence and commercial hunting for the Sami reindeer herders. Since at the time the state did not consider the Sami capable of managing the resources themselves, the government took control of administering these rights in 1886. Since this time, the government has had the main responsibility for managing the fishing and small-game resources of the region, although this has been done in cooperation with the Sami (Ekenberg 2000; Hahn 2000; Sandström 2009; SOU 2005). When changing the hunting legislation in 1987, the Swedish government made an initial claim to the hunting rights of the mountain region. This new government hunting policy was further extended in 1993 with the introduction of open-access fishing and small-game (primarily snow grouse, Lagopus muta) hunting regulations in the mountain area (Ekenberg 2000; Hahn 2000; Sveriges Riksdag 1992–93; SOU 2005). The official arguments underlying this change, influenced by extensive lobbying from, among others, the Swedish Hunters’ Alliance, were that it would

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allow for better use of what was defined as an unused area, enable better utilization of the state’s hunting resources, and provide landless hunters with a quality recreation experience at a low price (Ekenberg 2000; Hahn 2000; Sandström 2009; Sveriges Riksdag 1992–93). Although the Sami protested that this change would not reflect their strong rights to the land and would have adverse consequences for the reindeer-herding industry, Sami-related tourism, and the sensitive flora and fauna in the area, the government was unmoved. Consequently, in 1993 the Swedish state allowed everybody to hunt and fish within the mountain areas – where members of Girjas and other reindeer-herding communities had been hunting and fishing since time immemorial – through a leasing system administrated by the state. The dispute about hunting and fishing rights has been intense ever since. Although successive adjustments have been made in the open-access system of hunting to avoid conflicts and adverse effects on Sami reindeer husbandry, the legislator has not been able to reach a solution. In 2009 the Sami community of Girjas, with the support of forty-three other reindeer-herding communities and the National Union of Swedish Sami People, brought a legal action against the Swedish state before Gällivare District Court (2016). Girjas claimed exclusive hunting and fishing rights within the mountain areas and argued that the Sami’s long-time intense use of the land without competition from others has led to exclusive rights. The state contested Girjas’s claim to exclusive rights and argued that historic Sami land use had not been intense but extensive and opportunistic. The state claimed to be the landowner and, as such, claimed hunting and fishing rights. Accordingly, the key issue in this case is the nature of Sami historic land use. Both sides have cited extensive evidence and called expert witnesses from different scholarly disciplines, with history, law, archaeology, and historical ecology all represented in various capacities in court. In February 2016 Gällivare District Court came to the conclusion that the Girjas Reindeer Herding Community has exclusive hunting and fishing rights within its reindeer-herding area and that therefore the community should administer the leases. In January 2018 the Court of Appeal for Northern Sweden concluded that Girjas has exclusive hunting and fishing rights within the relevant area. However, the court found that the present leasing system is in compliance with the constitutional protection of property. Accordingly, the conclusion was that the Swedish state can continue to decide on leases to others. Since this was a rather confusing verdict and did not solve the issue, both Girjas and the Swedish state have appealed the verdict. In January 2020 the Swedish Supreme Court ruled that the Sami have a superior right to hunt and fish in the area. The Girjas court case is unique: for the first time ethnobotanical information was presented in a Swedish court dealing with Sami land rights. Along with evidence from elderly Sami reindeer herders of Girjas about the traditional land use both prior to and during the nineteenth century, ecological evidence of

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traditional land use was presented, and the duration and intensity of Sami land use in the past were discussed to help establish how hunting and fishing rights were linked to the traditional Sami way of life. ethnobotanical and ethnoecoloGical evidence used in the GirJas case Historic land use leaves traces in people’s memories, in archives, and in the landscape itself. To analyze and interpret land-use history, and the resulting legacy, different techniques can be applied in isolation, but most often combined methods and analytical tools are the most effective (Buergi, Östlund, and Mladenoff 2017; Östlund et al. 2015). In addition to the physical aspects of landuse strategies, there are social, cultural, economic, and even religious aspects to consider (Bergman et al. 2008). Interpreting Indigenous people’s historical land use poses specific challenges; a particular problem is the fact that most retrospective interpretative methods are based on examples related to sedentary lifestyles and agricultural settings and therefore are not always suited for understanding other forms of historic land use. Other perspectives and methods must therefore be applied, including those from archaeology, oral history, dendrochronology, experimental ecology, and vegetation analysis (Bergman, Östlund, and Zackrisson 2004; Freschet et al. 2014; Josefsson 2009; Josefsson, Hörnberg, and Östlund 2009; Östlund et al. 2015; Rautio, Axelsson-Linkowski, and Östlund 2016; Rautio, Norstedt, and Östlund 2013). People subsisting in the northernmost parts of Europe face several environmental challenges that are rather unique. First, the climate is cold, with very long winters and a short vegetation growing season. Second, the soils are in general poor, and forests and forest vegetation are primarily nitrogen-limited. In combination, these two factors limit the net growth of biomass, which in turn has limited the historical human population numbers. Regardless of the mode of subsistence – either as hunter-gatherers, reindeer herders, or more recently farmers – large tracts of land are needed, and resources must be collected at many diverse harvest sites. From prehistoric times until today, landuse strategies have been adjusted to cope with sharp seasonal disparities, and accordingly settlement patterns have displayed a high degree of mobility. Although only limited archaeological surveys have been conducted in the Girjas area, ancient remains such as hearths, storage constructions, cooking pits, pitfall systems, and so on corroborate the general archaeological picture of interior northern Sweden. Numerous studies show that hunter-fisher-gatherer and pastoralist societies developed logistically organized subsistence strategies in early postglacial times and throughout the prehistoric period (see Aronsson 1991; Bergman 1995; Bergman et al. 2004; Forsberg 1985; Mulk 1994).

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11.1 | Scots pine and mountain birch forest near Vouttasjavri, Sweden.

The Girjas Reindeer Herding Community is located at 67–68° N and 17–20° E . The eastern part lies in coniferous forest, which is dominated by Scots pine and Norway spruce (Picea abies), with a minor component of deciduous trees, primarily birch (Betula pubescens) (see figure 11.1). Toward the higher western parts, the forest changes into subarctic mountain heath, with a treeline dominated by mountain birch (Betula pubescens ssp. tortuosa) at about 700 metres above sea level. Plants have played an important role in determining the extent and antiquity of Sami occupancy of this region. Culturally Modified Trees: Harvest of Scots Pine Inner Bark, Harvest of Lichens, and Marked Trees

Key indicators of Sami land use in forested areas are culturally modified trees (Östlund, Zackrisson, and Hörnberg 2002; Östlund et al. 2009). Trees have provided important resources for the Sami: inner bark of pines for human consumption, pendulous tree lichens as food for reindeer under harsh conditions, markers for places, and borders and trails. They have also been used for sacred

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purposes (Östlund, Zackrisson, and Hörnberg 2002). The density of such trees and their specific locations in relation to archaeological remains give very detailed information on the patterns and intensity of land use (Rautio, Josefsson, and Östlund 2014). Within the traditional lands of Girjas, culturally modified trees are abundant. Along the Gáidumeatnu River, at Čoalmevárri, Bávgegobba, and Guorašjávri, there are abundant clusters of stumps of trees cut for providing pendulous lichens as food for the reindeer during harsh winters, especially in March and April, and dendrochronological dating shows that these trees were cut in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (see figure 11.2). Sami informants confirm that these sites have long been important transitional areas when people are moving reindeer between the mountains and the lowland forests (Saitton and Blind 2016). The numerous clusters of these stumps and the immense number of stumps within each cluster present a clear picture that shows both the Sami’s annual movements with the reindeer through the landscape and the variations in these movements at different times due to changing local conditions (see Berg, Gunnarson, and Östlund 2011; Berg, Josefsson, and Östlund 2011). In several adjacent areas, near Akkalvaara, Vuottasjávri, and Bávgegobba, there are clusters of very old Scots pine trees showing the distinctive scars of having been harvested for their edible inner bark. The harvesting was done in such a way that the trees survived but with identifiable scars (see figure 11.2). This method of harvesting edible inner bark is similar to techniques used in western North America to harvest the inner bark of ponderosa pine (Pinus ponderosa) and lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta) (Turner et al. 2009). In both Sweden and western North America, people were harvesting tree cambium with high carbohydrate content and other nutritional elements in a sharply seasonal climate where plant foods were scarce at the end of the winter (Dilbone, Turner, and von Aderkas 2013; Rautio, Norstedt, and Östlund 2013). In the Akkalvaara area, the density of scarred trees was high (more than twenty trees per hectare), indicating that this was an important harvest site (Rautio, Josefsson, and Östlund 2014). The dendrochronological dating showed a time span of inner-bark harvesting between 1680 and 1829. Close to the settlement of Borrásgorsa, located just at the transitional zone between the forestland and the high-altitude mountain heath, and near very important fishing lakes, there were also clusters of bark-peeled trees. Here, bark peeling was generally more recent, dating from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and the harvested bark was not for food but for making cases from the inner bark to protect reindeer sinews used for sewing. We could also link the traces of the harvest of inner bark in the forest to very precise information provided by a Sami informant who recalled trees where he had witnessed this harvest when he was very young (Blind 2015).

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11.2 | Bark-peeled Scots pine dated to 1680 (upper left), tree felled for harvest of lichens for reindeer (upper right), Sami hearth for a tent hut in the high mountains (lower left), and birch marked for a path through the mountain forest (lower right).

Patterns in Forest Structure and Vegetation around Settlements

Culturally modified trees and associated archaeological remains are legacies of harvest sites or settlement sites. The structure of the forest itself also gives evidence about past land use. Around settlements, there are usually typical gradients in the ground vegetation cover (Freschet et al. 2014) or forest structure (Josefsson, Bergman, and Östlund 2010). The most important indicators are the relative component of deciduous trees (more abundant closer to settlements) and the quantity of coarse woody debris and dead trees (less abundant closer to settlements). The explanation for these gradients lies in the fertilizing effect of repeated occupation and small-scale reindeer husbandry (Freschet et al. 2014) and in the use of standing dead pine trees for fuelwood during the long and cold winters (Östlund, Liedgren, and Josefsson 2013). Also, specific plants are often found in the vicinity of Sami settlements. Angelica (Angelica archangelica) and mountain sorrel (Oxyria digyna), for example, have been very important plants to harvest and also to promote in beneficial locations (Rautio, Axelsson-Linkowski, and Östlund 2016). These features are discernable as distinct “islands” in the landscape, and their size and distribution provide a tool for understanding long-term Sami land use within a larger spatial perspective. In the Girjas area, these islands of more intense land use are very conspicuous. In the forest near a historic settlement site such as Borrásgorsa or Vuottasjávri, one’s sense of the landscape changes palpably due to the developed properties of the ecosystem surrounding the settlement but also because of where Sami settlements are located in the landscape. The Domestication of Landscapes by Millennia of Land Use

The varied use of the mountains, heaths, lakes, streams, mires, and lowland forests by Sami people stretches very far back in time and has been persistent and all-encompassing. The traces of past land use, such as the presence of culturally modified trees and other archaeological features, place names, and oral traditions, all show that the entire landscape was used in a very sophisticated way to support subsistence under harsh environmental conditions. This was, in essence, a domesticated landscape (see Terrell et al. 2003; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013), serving as the Sami’s economic base for millennia. Although the entire landscape was part of a subsistence economy, each patch and each resource was used with low intensity and not always annually, so resources were seldom overexploited in historical times (Rautio et al. 2015). Nevertheless, research has shown that this land use clearly did shape forests and vegetation (Freschet et al. 2014; Östlund, Liedgren, and Josefsson 2013). The testimony of ecologist Lars Östlund and the reindeer herders of Girjas connected the oral

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traditions of land use as experienced by the members of the community with the long-term history of the area. the GirJas case in a wider context: oral history and bioloGical records as evidence in court In many countries, public domain law became a powerful tool during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in the exercise of the nation’s control over the lands of Indigenous peoples. These legal systems have mostly been based on written law and written sources. Furthermore, many legal systems have been based on the presumptions that no legal title existed over those lands and that the use of land by the Indigenous peoples was not intense enough to generate any land rights. Yet the Indigenous land claims of today are frequently based on the assertion that at the time of colonization, Native peoples had already incorporated land and resources into their own cultures and legal systems (Otis and Laurent 2013). A better understanding of Sami historic land use contributes to these discussions. In the Girjas case, a new type of evidence was used in order to support and strengthen the claim that the Sami had used the contested area and all available resources in a structured way, thus creating a domesticated landscape. As has been explained, the Girjas community referred to ethnoecological evidence such as culturally modified trees and patterns in forest structure in conjunction with archaeological information connected to oral evidence presented by Sami elders in court. In other court cases over Indigenous land rights, such nondocumentary evidence has been questioned and sometimes dismissed by judges (Ray 2011, 2016). However, it is clear that Gällivare District Court took the evidence referred to by Girjas into account. As a starting point in its assessment, the court described the natural surroundings within the area of Girjas and then referred to the ethnoecological evidence in several respects. This knowledge clearly underpinned the court’s conclusion that Sami land use during historic times was sufficiently intense and not contested by other groups. Accordingly, it is clear that the ethnoecological evidence presented contributed to the understanding of the historic land use and to the clarification of Sami land rights. Since the Sami people have no substantial written archival sources of their own, it is vital to use all sources of knowledge available in order to improve our understanding of their historic land use. This recognition gives the Sami a stronger voice in discussions about land rights in general and in court proceedings in particular. By considering how an Indigenous people’s traditional land use can be defined and determined partly through the application of ethnoecological data and knowledge, the Gällivare District Court fundamentally changed the preconditions for how evidence of long-term occupancy may be understood. This outcome corresponds to a similar development that we can

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see in court cases in, for example, Canada and will in the long run have wider implications not only for issues such as environmental and social justice but also for the recognition of relational values between humans and nature as defined by the Intergovernmental Science-Policy Platform on Biodiversity and Ecosystem Services (Pascual et al. 2017). As pressure for the development of natural resources continues to increase and become ever more political, the need to settle land claims as equitably as possible becomes even more important. We therefore foresee a growing potential for the legal and governance arenas to use ethnoecological knowledge in policy, planning, and decision making related to Indigenous peoples’ land rights. A deeper understanding of historic Sami land use can surely help to solve the land-use conflicts of today, yet beyond this benefit, we believe that ethnoecological knowledge can also contribute to the Sami’s own internal discussions about their collective health and well-being, identity, and culture. acknowledGMents We thank Josef Blind and Bror Saitton of the Girjas Reindeer Herding Community for providing invaluable information on past land use and ecosystem properties in this area. The Swedish Foundation for Humanities and Social Sciences (grant no. M 11-0361:1) provided funding, and Sees-Editing Limited helped with the copy editing.

references Allard, C. 2006. “Two Sides of the Coin – Rights and Duties: The Interface between Environmental Law and Sami Law Based on a Comparison with Aoteoaroa/New Zealand and Canada.” PhD diss. Luleå University of Technology, Sweden. – 2011. “The Nordic Countries’ Law on Sámi Territorial Rights.” Arctic Review on Law and Politics 3, no. 2: 159–83. Anaya, J. 2011. Report of the Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. United Nations, General Assembly, A/HRC/18/35/Add.2. Aronsson, K. 1991. Forest Reindeer Herding A.D. 1–1800: An Archaeological and Palaeoecological Study in Northern Sweden. Umeå, Sweden: Department of Archaeology, Umeå University. Berg, A., B. Gunnarson, and L. Östlund. 2011. “‘At This Point, the Lichens in the Trees Are Their Only Means of Survival’: A History of Tree Cutting for Winter Reindeer Fodder by Sami People in Northern Sweden.” Environmental History 17, no. 2: 265–89. Berg, A., T. Josefsson, and L. Östlund. 2011. “Cutting of Lichen Trees: A Survival Strategy Used before the 20th Century in Northern Sweden.” Vegetation History and Archaeobotany 20, no. 2: 125–33. Bergman, I. 1995. Från Döudden till Varghalsen: En studie av kontinuitet och förändring inom ett fångstsamhälle i övre norrlands inland, 5200 f. Kr.–400 e. Kr. Umeå, Sweden: Department of Archaeology, Umeå University.

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– 2005. “The Roasting of Plants: Sami Tradition and the Archaeological Record.” In En lång historia: Festskrift till Evert Baudou på 80-årsdagen, ed. R. Engelmark, T.B. Larsson, and L. Rathje, 51–65. Umeå, Sweden: Department of Archaeology, Umeå University. Bergman, I., A. Olofsson, G. Hörnberg, O. Zackrisson, and E. Hellberg. 2004. “Deglaciation and Colonization: Pioneer Settlements in Northern Fennoscandia.” Journal of World Prehistory 18, no. 2: 155–77. Bergman, I., L. Östlund, and O. Zackrisson. 2004. “The Use of Plants as Regular Food in Ancient Subarctic Economies: A Case Study Based on Sami Use of Scots Pine Innerbark.” Arctic Anthropology 41, no. 1: 1–13. Bergman, I., L. Östlund, O. Zackrisson, and L. Liedgren. 2008. “Värro Muorra: The Landscape Significance of Sami Sacred Wooden Objects and Sacrificial Altars.” Ethnohistory 55, no. 1: 1–28. Bergman, I., and O. Zackrisson. 2007. “Early Mesolithic Hunter-Gatherers and Landscape Acquisition by the Arctic Circle.” Journal of Northern Studies, nos 1–2: 123–42. Bergman, I., O. Zackrisson, and L. Liedgren. 2013. “From Hunting to Herding: Land Use, Ecosystem Processes, and Social Transformation among Sami AD 800–1500.” Arctic Anthropology 50, no. 2: 25–39. Blind, J. 2015. Personal communication with authors. Buergi, M., L. Östlund, and D. Mladenoff. 2017. “Legacy Effects of Human Land Use: Ecosystems as Time-Lagged Systems.” Ecosystems 20, no. 1: 94–103. Court of Appeal for Southern Norrland, 2002–12–15, case no. T 58–96. Dilbone, M., N.J. Turner, and P. von Aderkas. 2013. “The Nutrition of Lodgepole Pine Cambium (Pinus contorta Dougl. ex Loud. var. latifolia Engelm. ex S. Wats.): A Springtime Candy of People and Animals in British Columbia.” Ecology of Food and Nutrition 52, no. 2: 130–47. Ekenberg, S. 2000. “The Power of Recognition: The Limitation of Indigenous Peoples.” PhD diss., Luleå Technical University. Forsberg, L. 1985. Site Variability and Settlement Patterns: An Analysis of the Hunter-Gatherer Settlement System in the Lule River Valley, 1500 B.C. Umeå, Sweden: Department of Archaeology, Umeå University. Freschet, G., L. Östlund, E. Kichenin, and D. Wardle. 2014. “Aboveground and Belowground Legacies of Native Sami Land Use on Boreal Forest in Northern Sweden 100 Years after Abandonment.” Ecology 95, no. 4: 963–77. Gällivare District Court, 2016–02–03, case no. T 323–09. Hahn, T. 2000. Property Rights, Ethics and Conflict Resolution: Foundations of the Sami Economy in Sweden. Uppsala, Sweden: Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. International Labour Organization. 1989. Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention. https://www.ilo.org/dyn/normlex/en/f?p=NORMLEXPUB:12100:0::NO::P12100_ILO_ CODE:C169. Josefsson, T. 2009. “Pristine Forest Landscapes as Ecological References: Human Land Use and Ecosystem Change in Boreal Fennoscandia.” PhD diss., Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. Josefsson, T., I. Bergman, and L. Östlund. 2010. “Quantifying Sami Settlement and Movement Patterns in Northern Sweden 1700–1900.” Arctic 63, no. 2: 141–53. Josefsson, T., B. Gunnarson, L.G. Liedgren, I. Bergman, and L. Östlund. 2010. “Historical Human Influence on Forest Composition and Structure in Boreal Fennoscandia.” Canadian Journal of Forest Research 40, no. 5: 872–84. Josefsson, T., G. Hörnberg, and L. Östlund. 2009. “Long-Term Human Impact and Vegetation Changes in a Boreal Forest Reserve: Implications for the Use of Protected Areas as Ecological References.” Ecosystems 12, no. 6: 1017–36. 200 | l. Östlund, i. berGMan, c. sandstrÖM, and M. brännstrÖM

Korpijaakko-Labba, K. 1994. Om samernas rättsliga ställning i Sverige-Finland: En rättshistorisk utredning av markanvändningsförhållanden och rättigheter i Västerbottens lappmark före mitten av 1700-talet. Tampere, Finland: Juristförbundets förlag. Lantto, P., and U. Mörkenstam. 2010. “Sami Rights and Sami Challenges: The Modernization Process and the Swedish Sami Movement, 1886–2006.” Scandinavian Journal of History 33, no. 1: 26–51. Lundmark, L. 2007. “Reindeer Pastoralism in Sweden 1550–1950.” Rangifer, no. 12: 9–16. Mulk, I. 1994. Sirkas: Ett samiskt fångstsamhälle i förändring Kr. f.–1600 e. Kr. Umeå, Sweden: Department of Archaeology, Umeå University. NJA (Nytt juridiskt arkiv/New Legal Archive). 1981, s. 1. [Taxed Mountains Case]. https://lagen.nu/dom/nja/1981s1. – 2011, s. 109. [Nordmaling Case]. https://lagen.nu/dom/nja/2011s109. Norstedt, G., A.-L. Axelsson, and L. Östlund. 2014. “Exploring Pre-Colonial Resource Control of Individual Sami Households.” Arctic 67, no. 2: 223–37. Norstedt, G., and L. Östlund. 2016. “Fish or Reindeer? The Relation between Subsistence Patterns and Settlement Patterns among the Forest Sami.” Arctic Anthropology 53, no. 1: 22–36. Östlund, L., L. Ahlberg, O. Zackrisson, I. Bergman, and S. Arno. 2009. “Bark-Peeling, Food Stress and Tree Spirits: The Use of Pine Inner Bark for Food in Scandinavia and North America.” Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 1: 94–112. Östlund, L., G. Hörnberg, L. Liedgren, T. DeLuca, O. Zackrisson, and T. Josefsson. 2015. “Intensive Land Use in the Swedish Mountains between AD 800 and 1200 Led to Deforestation and Ecosystem Transformation with Long-Lasting Effects.” Ambio 44, no. 6: 508–20. Östlund, L., L. Liedgren, and T. Josefsson. 2013. “Surviving the Winter in Northern Forests: An Experimental Study of Fuelwood Consumption and Living Space in a Sami Tent Hut.” Arctic, Antarctic, and Alpine Research 45, no. 3: 372–82. Östlund, L., O. Zackrisson, and G. Hörnberg. 2002. “Trees on the Border between Nature and Culture: Culturally Modified Trees in Boreal Scandinavia.” Environmental History 7, no. 1: 48–68. Otis, G., and A. Laurent. 2013. “Indigenous Land Claims in Europe: The European Court of Human Rights and the Decolonization of Property.” Arctic Review on Law and Politics 4, no. 2: 156–80. Päiviö, N.-J. 2011. “Från skattemannarätt till nyttjanderätt: En rättshistorisk studie av utvecklingen av samernas rättigheter från slutet av 1500-talet till 1886 års renbeteslag.” PhD diss., Uppsala University, Sweden. Pascual, U., P. Balvanera, S. Díaz, G. Pataki, E. Roth, M. Stenseke, R.T. Watson, et al. 2017. “Valuing Nature’s Contributions to People: The IPBES Approach.” Current Opinion in Environmental Sustainability 26–7: 7–16. Rautio, A.-M. 2014. “People-Plant Interrelationships: Historical Plant Use in Native Sami Societies.” PhD diss., Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences. Rautio, A.-M., W. Axelsson-Linkowski, and L. Östlund. 2016. “‘They Followed the Power of the Plant’: Historical Sami Harvest and Traditional Ecological Knowledge (TEK) of Angelica archangelica in Northern Fennoscandia.” Journal of Ethnobiology 36, no. 3: 615–34. Rautio, A.-M., T. Josefsson, A.-L. Axelsson, and L. Östlund. 2015. “People and Pines 1555– 1910: Integrating Ecology, History and Archaeology to Assess Long-Term Resource Use in Northern Fennoscandia.” Landscape Ecology 31, no. 2: 337–49. Rautio, A.-M., T. Josefsson, and L. Östlund. 2014. “Sami Mobility Patterns and Resource Utilization: Harvesting Inner-Bark in Northern Sweden.” Human Ecology 42, no. 1: 137–47.

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Rautio, A.-M., G. Norstedt, and L. Östlund. 2013. “Nutritional Content of Scots Pine Inner Bark in Northern Fennoscandia: Analyzing Its Role in the Traditional Sami Diet.” Economic Botany 67, no. 4: 363–77. Ray, A.J. 2011. Telling It to the Judge: Taking Native History to Court. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. – 2016. Aboriginal Rights Claims and the Making and Remaking of History. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Saitton, B., and J. Blind. 2016. Personal communication with authors. Sandström, C. 2009. “Institutional Dimensions of Co-Management: Participation, Power, and Process.” Society and Natural Resources 22, no. 3: 230–44. SOU (Statens offentliga utredningar/Swedish Government Official Reports). 1989. Samerätt och sameting. Stockholm, Sweden: Fritzes. – 1999. Samerna – ett ursprungsfolk i Sverige: Frågan om Sveriges anslutning till ILO:s konvention nr 169. Stockholm, Sweden: Fritzes. – 2001. En ny rennäringspolitik – öppna samebyar och samverkan med andra markanvändare. Stockholm, Sweden: Fritzes. – 2005. Jakt och fiske i samverkan. Stockholm, Sweden: Fritzes. – 2006. Samernas sedvanemarker. Stockholm, Sweden: Fritzes. Sveriges Riksdag (Parliament of Sweden). 1992–93. Om samerna och samisk kultur m.m. Proposition 1992/93:32. https://www.riksdagen.se/sv/dokument-lagar/dokument/ proposition/om-samerna-och-samisk-kultur-mm_GG0332. Terrell, J.E., J.P. Hart, S. Barut, N. Cellinese, A. Curet, T. Denham, C.M. Kusimba, et al. 2003. “Domesticated Landscapes: The Subsistence Ecology of Plant and Animal Domestication.” Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 10, no. 4: 323–68. Turner, N.J., Y. Ari, F. Berkes, I. Davidson-Hunt, Z.F. Ertug, and A. Miller. 2009. “Cultural Management of Living Trees: An International Perspective.” Journal of Ethnobiology 29, no. 2: 237–70. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia’s First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33.

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12 Tāne Mahuta: The Lord of the Forest in Aotearoa New Zealand, His Children, and the Law Jacinta Ruru

introduction In the beginning, before the world was light, Rangi the sky-father and Papa the earth-mother were bound together in a tight embrace, their offspring caught in the blackness between them (Grace 1994; Ihimaera 2008; Reed and Calman 2004; Salmond 2017). Their children, including their strongest son, Tāne Mahuta, felt squished and trapped. They craved light and space. One day, frustrated, Tāne Mahuta lay his back upon his mother and thrust his powerful legs upward. He pushed his father away from his mother forever. Rangi and Papa wept and cried, but as Tāne Mahuta held his father above him, light began to seep between them and new life burst forth. Tāne Mahuta helped to foster this new life by giving birth to birds, plants, and trees. All but one of his siblings marvelled at their freedom. Tangaroa became the god of the sea; Rongo became the god of cultivated food; Haumia-tiketike became the god of uncultivated food; and the one who was angered at the separation, Tāwhirimātea, became the god of the winds and storms. Eventually, the lands of Aotearoa were formed – the South Island being the boat of a son of Ranginui and the North Island being a giant fish brought to the surface of the sea by the demi-god Māui. Māori, some of the greatest navigators in the world, migrated from ancestral homelands on waka (boats), placing the first human footprints upon this “land of the long white cloud,” or Aotearoa. They found mountains, forests, wetlands, and coastlines thickly covered in shades of green and brown, including forests of mighty kauri (Agathis australis); rainforests of rimu (Dacrydium cupressinum), beech (e.g., tawhai raunui, Fuscospora truncata), and rātā (Metrosideros robusta)

dense with ferns (e.g., silver tree fern, Cyathea dealbata); dunelands with hairy spinifex (Spinifex sericeus) and pīngao (Ficinia spiralis); alpine and subalpine herb fields; and coasts lined with harakeke (flax; e.g., Phormium tenax) and tussock. They saw lands home to birds, many of them flightless, insects not found anywhere else on the planet, just one kind of mammal, and three species of native pekapeka (bat). They made this place their home and became tangata whenua (“people of the land”), thereby deriving their cultural identity, societal regulation, and daily nourishment. Human impact on Aotearoa was unavoidable. Some species became extinct – most notably the moa, a large flightless bird. But with the arrival of shiploads of Europeans and others, especially from the mid-1800s onward, much of the endemic native flora was swiftly clear-felled to create a land of grass for grazing and agriculture, as well as cities and highways for modern settlement. Today, Aotearoa New Zealand’s native flora and fauna are experiencing a critical and devastatingly fast biodiversity decline. It is a biodiversity crisis. This chapter tells the story of contemporary legislative and policy conservation care for Tāne Mahuta and his children – the flora – and how Māori are seeking opportunities to reimagine this still mostly colonial-inspired conservation law and policy. colonial ProtectionisM for tāne’s children Even though the Europeans recognized the initial sovereignty of Māori, including Māori tribal ownership of the lands, forests, and fisheries, first in the Declaration of Independence signed in 1835 and then in the Treaty of Waitangi signed in 1840 (Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975; see also Anderson, Binney, and Harris 2015), many of the clauses of these early negotiated agreements were, and continue to be, breached (Belgrave, Kawharu, and Williams 2005; Durie 2005; Wheen and Hayward 2012). In particular, the Treaty of Waitangi, signed by the British Crown and over 500 Māori chiefs from throughout the country, provided a blueprint for how Māori and the British could live together in Aotearoa New Zealand (Orange 2011). The treaty contains three articles written in both the Māori and English languages. However, the translations of the two language versions are not identical. In the Māori-language version, Māori retained their sovereignty over their lands but granted the English a right of governance in the country. In the English-language version, the British Crown acquired sovereignty over the country but recognized that Māori retained ownership of their lands and estates for as long as they wished. Following the signing of the treaty, the British did assume sovereignty over the country and proceeded to establish a system of governance that mostly alienated Māori from their lands and culture. In parallel with their activities

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in Canada (see chapter 1, this volume), the Europeans established a system of colonial government that wholeheartedly set about to “civilize” Māori by emphasizing English language, Christianity, and individualized land tenure (Native Lands Act 1862; Native Schools Act 1858). Colonial laws were enacted that made it illegal to collect and use much of the native flora and fauna and that certainly outlawed Māori medicinal knowledge and practices dependent on plants (e.g., Native Plants Protection Act 1934; Tohunga Suppression Act 1907). The colonial-created divide between Māori and the native plants and their habitats of Aotearoa New Zealand has been devastating for the well-being of both Māori and the plants. Native flora and fauna are fast vanishing, and lands and waters have also been seriously affected (Brown et al. 2015; MFE and SNZ 2015; Norton et al. 2016; Ruru et al. 2017). Today, the ecological consequences include the following (MFE and SNZ 2015): • “Many indigenous plants and animals are at risk of extinction” (85, also 108). • About two-thirds of the forests have been clear-felled (74, 76). • Wetlands have been reduced by 90 per cent (72, 74, 76). • “[Soil] compaction is a problem on many dairy and dry-stock farms” (84). • “Lake water quality is lower in urban and agricultural catchments” (72). This is a biodiversity crisis that the government accepts (DOC 2000, 2016). Widespread soil erosion caused by human activity and introduced pests, including invasive plants and possums, rats, and stoats, are serious threats. The crisis has arisen despite early national initiatives to set large swaths of land aside for conservation protection. In fact, today over 30 per cent of Aotearoa New Zealand’s land – much of it covered in native forests – constitutes the conservation estate; few other countries of the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development protect as much of their land as Aotearoa New Zealand (OECD 2016, 5; OECD 2017, 5). European protection of land from private use began in the 1860s but more earnestly in the late 1800s due to the inspiration provided by the creation of Yellowstone National Park in the United States (Cronon 1983). New Zealand legislated its first national park in 1894 and thereafter rapidly grew the national park estate to encompass significant lands and waters, from mountainous areas to coastal habitats (Ruru 2004; Tongariro National Park Act 1894). The country’s first national park was enabled initially by a Māori chief ’s gift of mountain summit land but more expansively by public works legislation whereby the government forcibly confiscated surrounding land from Māori to broaden the boundaries of the park (Tongariro National Park Act 1894, s. 2; Waitangi Tribunal 2013).1 Māori association with the growing number of colonial national parks was mostly limited to mere tourism value (Ruru 2012, 166).

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Today, the conservation estate – all publicly owned protected land for conservation purposes – is managed by the government’s Department of Conservation. Central to the conservation estate are the thirteen national parks that exist for reasons set out in section 4(1) of the National Parks Act 1980: It is hereby declared that the provisions of this Act shall have effect for the purpose of preserving in perpetuity as national parks, for their intrinsic worth and for the benefit, use, and enjoyment of the public, areas of New Zealand that contain scenery of such distinctive quality, ecological systems, or natural features so beautiful, unique, or scientifically important that their preservation is in the national interest. According to section 4(2)(a) and (b) of the National Parks Act 1980, national parks must “be preserved as far as possible in their natural state,” and as a general policy, “the native plants and animals of the parks shall as far as possible be preserved and the introduced plants and animals shall as far as possible be exterminated.” Section 4(2)(e) then states, [S]ubject to the provisions of this Act and to the imposition of such conditions and restrictions as may be necessary for the preservation of the native plants and animals or for the welfare in general of the parks, the public shall have freedom of entry and access to the parks, so that they may receive in full measure the inspiration, enjoyment, recreation, and other benefits that may be derived from mountains, forests, sounds, seacoasts, lakes, rivers, and other natural features. National parks are at the forefront in conserving biological diversity. “Conservation” is the threshold management goal, defined in section 2 of the Conservation Act 1987 as “the preservation and protection of natural and historic resources for the purpose of maintaining their intrinsic values, providing for their appreciation and recreational enjoyment by the public, and safeguarding the options of future generations” (see Mappes 2007 for an international discussion of the purpose of national parks). Other legislation also reinforces the value of native flora. In the 1930s the government sought to ensure protection of flora in and beyond conservation estate boundaries. Section 3(1) of the Native Plants Protection Act 1934 (still current) enables the governor general to declare any native plant to be protected. Section 4(1) states, Subject to the provisions of this Act, every person commits an offence who takes any protected native plant that is growing on any Crown land, or in any State forest land or public reserve, or on any road or street, or

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who, without the consent of the owner or occupier of any private land, takes any protected native plant that is growing thereon. There is an exception in section 4(2): Nothing in the foregoing provisions of this section shall apply to the taking, in reasonable quantities, of any protected native plants required or intended for medicinal purposes or for purposes of bona fide scientific research or nature study in schools or elsewhere or for propagation in private or school gardens: provided that nothing herein shall be deemed to authorise the taking of any protected native plant in such a manner as to deplete the species of that plant in any one habitat. However, this exception has had little resonance for Māori because those within the Māori communities who were the experts in the use of medicinal plants and herbs were not able to proffer their knowledge. Section 2 of the Tohunga Suppression Act 1907 made it a criminal offence to profess “to possess supernatural powers in the treatment or cure of any disease.” This legislation was repealed in 1962 but only after the damage had been done to Māori intergenerational transfer of knowledge (see Stephens 2001). a new foundation for reconciliation The modern political and legal recognition of the Treaty of Waitangi emerged in legal reconciliation discourse of the 1970s. Courageous Māori leaders mounted nationally visible protests, and brave judges for the first time began to listen and respond to calls for truth and justice. In a landmark 1987 case, the Court of Appeal stated that the statutory incorporation of the Treaty of Waitangi’s principles in specific instances requires “the [New Zealand European] and Maori Treaty partners to act towards each other reasonably and with the utmost good faith” (New Zealand Maori Council v. Attorney-General 1987, 667; see also Ruru 2008). That duty is no light one. It is infinitely more than a formality. In that same year, the country’s most important flora protection statute was enacted, the Conservation Act 1987, which is the umbrella statute for more than twenty other statutes, including the National Parks Act 1980. Section 4 of the Conservation Act 1987 states, “This Act shall so be interpreted and administered as to give effect to the principles of the Treaty of Waitangi.” Other plant-related statutes similarly recognize the importance of the treaty principles. Section 8 of the Resource Management Act 1991 states, “In achieving the purpose of this Act, all persons exercising functions and powers under it, in relation to managing the use, development, and protection of natural and physical resources, shall take into account the principles of the Treaty of

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Waitangi (Te Tiriti o Waitangi).” Statutes are also beginning to recognize specific Māori environmental practices. For example, section 7 of the Resource Management Act 1991 states, “In achieving the purpose of this Act, all persons exercising functions and powers under it, in relation to managing the use, development, and protection of natural and physical resources, shall have particular regard to . . . kaitiakitanga.” Kaitiakitanga is defined in section 2 to mean “the exercise of guardianship by the tangata whenua [the tribe] of an area in accordance with tikanga Maori [Māori customary values and practices] in relation to natural and physical resources; and includes the ethic of stewardship.” This developing statutory recognition and jurisprudence have been bolstered by modern Treaty of Waitangi claim settlement statutes that commenced in the mid-1990s and are enabling Māori to regain control of their affairs. These settlement statutes provide the foundation for a new and continuing relationship between the Crown and the claimant group based on the Treaty of Waitangi principles. Settlements contain Crown apologies of wrongs done; financial and commercial redress; and redress recognizing the claimant group’s spiritual, cultural, historical, or traditional associations with the natural environment. More than twenty-five tribal groups have now received historical-district treaty redress, with all other tribes closely following suit (Wheen and Hayward 2012; Office of Treaty Settlements 2017). In addition, there have been financially notable pan-tribal settlements regarding commercial fisheries, commercial aquaculture, and forestry, including the Treaty of Waitangi (Fisheries Claims) Settlement Act 1992, Maori Fisheries Act 2004, Maori Commercial Aquaculture Claims Settlement Act 2004, and Central North Island Forests Land Collective Settlement Act 2008. The increased wealth of the tribes has enabled Māori to have more national political clout (Iwi Chairs Forum 2017) and the means to work with their tribal members in order to grow their tribal assets and provide many social benefits. These new foundations have been instrumental across Aotearoa New Zealand, including within the context of caring for the children of Tāne Mahuta: the native flora and fauna. Of particular relevance, Māori took an expansive national claim to the Waitangi Tribunal, strongly critiquing the Crown’s lack of support for kaitiaki (guardian) relationships with the taonga (treasures) under the Department of Conservation’s control. The tribunal agreed with the Māori claimants that the department has been and continues to be in breach of its Treaty of Waitangi obligations: Given the importance of the environment under DOC control to the survival of the Māori culture, Treaty principle requires that partnership and shared decision-making between the department and kaitiaki must be the default approach to conservation management. Within that overall partnership framework, decisions can be made case-by-case about

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management of individual taonga, taking into account the interests of kaitiaki, the interests of the taonga themselves, and other interests. (Waitangi Tribunal 2011, 372) Although the government has yet to respond to the tribunal’s recommendations in this report, some specific progress has been made. As a contribution to this book’s consideration of international comparative modern strategies, this chapter now considers some examples of how contemporary law is recognizing the value of reintroducing Māori knowledge and rights of governance related to flora and fauna. conteMPorary care of tāne’s children Many new legal and policy mechanisms have been developed in Aotearoa New Zealand to recognize the importance of the rights and values initially agreed to in the Treaty of Waitangi. Three contemporary examples of conservation estate management are discussed here, chosen because they all embrace the ontology of Tāne Mahuta, with forest trees being central to each of their different conservation management mechanisms, which together cross three geographical areas: Paparoa, a coastal forest national park on the west coast of the South Island; Te Urewera, a legal entity with its own legal personality on the east coast of the North Island; and Waipoua, a kauri forest reserve in Northland. Paparoa National Park

Paparoa National Park, established in 1987, is renowned as a luxuriant coastal forest on the west coast of the South Island. It was established with little regard to the traditional guardians of these lands: Ngāi Tahu. A more respectful platform for engagement between the Department of Conservation and Ngāi Tahu was laid in the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998 and has most recently been further capitalized on in the new Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017 (DOC 2017a). Ngāi Tahu was one of the first tribes to lead the way in enabling modernday Treaty of Waitangi settlements to produce a package of new cultural mechanisms – in addition to financial and commercial redress – for better recognizing Ngāi Tahu relationships with the lands. This tribe’s traditional area covers two-thirds of the South Island and includes large tracts of land densely covered in native vegetation. Much of this land is held in the conservation estate, including Paparoa National Park. There are many special features in the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998. It provides financial, commercial, and cultural redress, an extensive Crown apology to Ngāi Tahu for a history of breaching the principles of the Treaty

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of Waitangi, and detailed acknowledgments of the tribal worldviews and histories of the lands, including the mountains, forests, and lakes of this place. As stated in section 80, the centrepiece of this legislation is recognition that Aoraki/Mount Cook – the country’s tallest mountain, which is encased within the Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park2 – is the “most sacred of ancestors” to Ngāi Tahu. Section 15 provides that Aoraki will be returned to Te Rūnanga o Ngāi Tahu for a period of seven days, after which, under section 16, Ngāi Tahu will gift it back to the nation as a symbol of reconciliation.3 More than twenty years on, Ngāi Tahu have yet to act on this gifting mechanism (Solomon 2014). The Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998 introduced many new mechanisms – beyond solely temporarily returning Aoraki – for recognizing modern Ngāi Tahu relationships with the lands. Tools include declaring tōpuni (cloaked) areas that acknowledge specific Ngāi Tahu “cultural, spiritual, historic, and traditional association” and that require particular regard to Ngāi Tahu views in developing any conservation policy, strategy, or plan (ss. 237, 241, and 242). Statutory acknowledgments, deeds of recognition, and Department of Conservation protocols are further enhanced devices enabled in the legislation to ensure further regard for Ngāi Tahu values in conservation management (ss. 205–22 and 281–6). Also, the legislation provides a range of representation governance rights that allow Ngāi Tahu persons to sit on conservation boards and the New Zealand Conservation Authority, and section 232 provides for Te Rūnanga o Ngāi Tahu to be a statutory advisor in certain respects. Of specific note for this chapter is the taonga (treasured) species mechanism. Section 288 of the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998 states, “The Crown acknowledges the cultural, spiritual, historic, and traditional association of Ngāi Tahu with the taonga species.” Schedule 97 contains a long list of native plants, birds, and marine mammals that are taonga species. However, section 292 heavily qualifies this acknowledgment, stating explicitly that this recognition does not give rise to “any rights of any kind whatsoever relating to any taonga species.” Nonetheless, as stated in section 293, the recognition does put an onus on the minister of conservation to consult Te Rūnanga o Ngāi Tahu “with respect to all taonga species, including those subject to recovery plans or species recovery groups.” The Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017 lists fifty-two plant species found within the park’s boundaries as having this taonga status (DOC 2017a, appendix 3). This Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act is now more than twenty years old. It has laid a framework for the Crown and government to have a more respectful relationship with Ngāi Tahu. This developing relationship, based on reconciliation, is showing effect. For example, the most recently published management plan for a national park that lies in the Ngāi Tahu traditional boundaries is remarkably different from predecessor plans for its embracement of Māori understandings of the place, Māori long associations with the lands, and the

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Māori language. The Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017 recognizes upfront that the Treaty of Waitangi provides the framework for “active and shared management and decision-making” (DOC 2017a, 25). This is a truly striking management plan, filled with Ngāi Tahu values and artistic images. Recognizing the distinction, this plan commences with a section titled “How to read this Plan / Me pēhea te pānui tika i tēnei mahere,” which explains, This Plan has been developed in a unique way in conjunction with Te Rūnanga o Ngāi Tahu, Te Rūnanga o Ngāti Waewae. The metaphor of a great forest has been woven throughout the Plan to pay respect to and personify the living ecosystems that comprise Paparoa National Park. Part One is Te Wao Nui – the great forest. In the same way that the vast tree canopy arches over a great forest creating shape and purpose, this section provides the vision and framework for managing Paparoa National Park. Part Two is Ngā Tamariki a Tāne – the children of Tāne. This section focuses on the relationship between the children of Tāne – both humankind, and flora and fauna. This section divides Paparoa National Park into four management areas (Places) named after and embodied by the values and attributes of the four children of Tāne: the Nīkau [an endemic palm, Rhopalostylis sapida], Tī Kōuka [“cabbage tree,” Cordyline australis], Mānuka [New Zealand teatree, Leptospermum scoparium] and Horoeka [lancewood, Pseudopanax crassifolius] trees. Part Three is Te One Haumako – named after the fertile soil we find in strong, thriving forest ecosystems. This section outlines how the Plan will be implemented, including milestones, to ensure that it is effective in its management of the Paparoa National Park. These components create a fertile soil from which the development and management of Paparoa National Park can grow. (DOC 2017a, 7) The plan embraces a seven-point vision for Paparoa that recognizes from the outset that Ngāi Tahu are the kaitiaki (guardians) of their ancestral lands, with which they maintain their living relationship, and are to be actively involved in decision making to protect the taonga (treasures), mauri (life force), and wairua (spirituality) of Paparoa National Park. Part of the vision also recognizes that “[t]he species and ecosystems of Paparoa National Park are valued and thriving, and make a major contribution to the wellbeing of the whole region” (DOC 2017a, 9). This contribution extends to a recognition that an inherent component of Ngāi Tahu well-being must include use of the park when appropriate. This view is in stark contrast to earlier colonial attitudes and Department of Conservation aims that sought to discredit any Māori conservation knowledge and practice. The plan reads,

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Ngāti Waewae are kaitiaki of the species and ecosystems of Paparoa National Park. This kaitiaki responsibility for native taonga, derived from whakapapa, is passed through the generations and relies on mātauranga Māori (traditional knowledge) to guide the care and use of native species. Native species and their associated ecosystems are particularly valued as mahinga kai. Mahinga kai is defined in the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998 as “the customary gathering of food and natural materials, and the places where those resources are gathered.” Traditionally mahinga kai was a fundamental part of survival, both as a food source but also as a commercial activity. Resources were exchanged, and everything had its place in the trading world. Not only was pounamu used as a source of trade but plant and animal species were used in barter to obtain other valued resources from travelling or neighbouring communities. Today the practice of mahinga kai enables Ngāi Tahu/Ngāti Waewae to reconnect with the land and their tūpuna (ancestors), who traversed those lands in search of food and resources. It enables Ngāi Tahu/Ngāti Waewae to continue a fundamental aspect of their identity and culture, and enables the knowledge and practice to be passed on to the next generations. As kaitiaki of native species in Paparoa National Park, Ngāti Waewae have a right and responsibility to manage natural resources and practise mahinga kai as their ancestors once did. Enhancement and rejuvenation of priority species and improved access will enable future generations to continue the traditional practice of mahinga kai. (DOC 2017a, 29–30) The intent in this plan is to be celebrated and honoured, and it provides a strong example of a modern, respectful shift in conservation management in Aotearoa New Zealand. Te Urewera

New legislative imaginings for conservation management are most remarkably exemplified in the Tūhoe Claims Settlement Act 2014 and more specifically in its companion statute the Te Urewera Act 2014. Te Urewera lies on the eastern part of the North Island of Aotearoa New Zealand. This land densely covered in native forests was named a national park in 1954 and managed as Crown land by the Department of Conservation. The Māori of this area – Ngāi Tūhoe – never consented to their homeland being turned into a national park. After years of negotiation between Ngāi Tūhoe and the Crown, a “world first” settlement for national parks was reached. In July 2014, Te Urewera National Park became simply Te Urewera – “a legal entity” with “all the rights, powers, duties, and liabilities of a legal person” (Te Urewera Act 2014, s. 11(1)).

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Section 12 of the Te Urewera Act 2014 makes it clear that Te Urewera ceases to be vested in the Crown, ceases to be Crown land, and ceases to be a national park. Te Urewera is now freehold land.4 Rather than being managed by the Department of Conservation, it is managed by the new Te Urewera Board. Under section 17(a), this board is responsible “to act on behalf of, and in the name of, Te Urewera.” Te Urewera will still have a management plan like other national parks in New Zealand, but the board, rather than the Department of Conservation, will approve the plan. For the first three years, Tūhoe (the Māori tribal group of this place) and the Crown each appointed four of the board’s eight members. Thereafter, the board increased by one, and the ratio changed to six persons appointed by Tūhoe and three persons appointed by the Crown (Te Urewera Act 2014, s. 21). The Te Urewera Board, in contrast to nearly any other statutorily created body, including the Department of Conservation, is directed to reflect Tūhoe customary values and law. Section 18(2) of the Te Urewera Act 2014 states that the board needs to consider “Tūhoe concepts of management,” which are described in the Māori language.5 Sections 33 and 34 mandate that the board must strive to make some decisions by unanimous agreement, such as the approval of Te Urewera management plans, and some decisions by consensus. The board must work with the chief executive of Tūhoe and the director general of conservation to develop an annual budget. Section 38(2) of the Te Urewera Act 2014 states, “The chief executive and the Director-General must contribute equally to the costs provided for in the budget, unless both agree to a different contribution.” Under Section 39(1), “[a]ll revenue received by the Board must be paid into a bank account of the Board and applied . . . for achieving the purpose of [the legislation].” Section 40(2) states that for the purposes of taxation, Te Urewera and the board are deemed to be the same person. Under section 50, the chief executive of Tūhoe and the director general of conservation “are responsible for the operational management of Te Urewera,” and under section 53, they “must prepare an annual operational plan.” Section 55 of the Te Urewera Act 2014 stipulates what activities are permitted in Te Urewera and what activities require authorization and in what form; the National Parks Act 1980 does something similar for national parks. Section 58 of the Te Urewera Act 2014 lists activities that require an activity permit, including “taking . . . any plant”; “disturbing . . . [or] . . . hunting . . . any animal (other than sports fish)”; “possessing dead protected wildlife for any cultural or other purpose”; “entering specially protected areas”; “making a road”; “establishing accommodation”; “farming”; and “recreational hunting.” This is a comprehensive list and demonstrates that the tight rules for preserving national park land have been transported to Te Urewera. Section 3 of Te Urewera Act 2014 is so meaningfully expressed that it is worth presenting in full here:

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Te Urewera (1) Te Urewera is ancient and enduring, a fortress of nature, alive with history; its scenery is abundant with mystery, adventure, and remote beauty. (2) Te Urewera is a place of spiritual value, with its own mana and mauri. (3) Te Urewera has an identity in and of itself, inspiring people to commit to its care. Te Urewera and Tūhoe (4) For Tūhoe, Te Urewera is Te Manawa o te Ika a Māui; it is the heart of the great fish of Maui, its name being derived from Murakareke, the son of the ancestor Tūhoe. (5) For Tūhoe, Te Urewera is their ewe whenua, their place of origin and return, their homeland. (6) Te Urewera expresses and gives meaning to Tūhoe culture, language, customs, and identity. There Tūhoe hold mana by ahikāroa; they are tangata whenua and kaitiaki of Te Urewera. Te Urewera and all New Zealanders (7) Te Urewera is prized by other iwi and hapū who have acknowledged special associations with, and customary interests in, parts of Te Urewera. (8) Te Urewera is also prized by all New Zealanders as a place of outstanding national value and intrinsic worth; it is treasured by all for the distinctive natural values of its vast and rugged primeval forest, and for the integrity of those values; for its indigenous ecological systems and biodiversity, its historical and cultural heritage, its scientific importance, and as a place for outdoor recreation and spiritual reflection. In 2017 the Te Urewera Board released its management plan, Te Kawa o Te Urewera. It reads like no other national park management plan in Aotearoa New Zealand. It deliberately sets out to “disrupt the norm” (Te Urewera Board 2017, 7). It strives to manage “people for the benefit of the land” rather than managing the land for the benefit of people (ibid.). It is a remarkable document that embraces “a process of unlearning, rediscovery and relearning to seize the truth expressed by [Tūhoe] beliefs” (ibid., 9). The orientation of the draft plan is stated as follows: “Deliberatively, we are resetting our human relationship and behaviour towards nature. Our disconnection from Te Urewera has changed our humanness. We wish for its return” (ibid., 8, emphasis in original). The draft plan proclaims, “In all decisiveness, we are returning to our place in nature, as her child” (ibid., 15). This plan knows that the answers to biodiversity lie intimately within the lands themselves if we listen carefully:

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Nature speaks all the time and is understood only by the sincere observer and heedful mind and heart. Humanity has much to gain from reigniting a responsibility to Te Urewera for within these customs and behaviours lies the answers to our resilience, to meet a forever changing climate. Through committing to Te Urewera values, we are innovating our instincts and adjusting our behaviour to ensure a prosperous future that is secure. (Ibid., 11) Whereas the Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017 provides a significantly new lens for reading and understanding a Department of Conservation management plan, Te Kawa o Te Urewera drastically turns the lenses upside down and inside out. It is perhaps the most innovative and the bravest modern piece of conservation writing in existence in the world. Waipoua Forest Reserve

This section of the chapter moves to a different area of the country that tells a different story of conservation in order to emphasize that Aotearoa New Zealand still has much to learn from listening to Māori and nature about caring for the children of Tāne Mahuta. The Waipoua Forest Reserve protects the largest remaining native forests in the Northland Region in the northernmost part of Aotearoa New Zealand. No national park exists in this part of the country. The Waipoua Forest Reserve is managed under the Reserves Act 1977. At the heart of this forest reserve is the largest known living kauri tree, aptly named Tāne Mahuta. The Department of Conservation explains to visitors, “When you catch your first breath-taking view of this magnificent tree, you’ll feel compelled to pause for a while. You can almost feel Tāne Mahuta’s strength and ancient presence, and its overwhelming size makes visitors look like dwarfs” (DOC 2017b). For some years now, the highest conservation protection mandate of the national park status has been sought to preserve Tāne Mahuta and his siblings in this area. The stalemate seems to be the government’s reluctance to engage meaningfully with Te Roroa, the local tribe of the area, in the creation of a co-governed and co-managed national park. In 2014 the New Zealand Conservation Authority responded to the minister of conservation’s request for a formal recommendation on the establishment of a national park in Northland. The authority gave its formal recommendation but noted some concerns, namely that the Authority does not have the support of Te Roroa for the establishment of the Park. The Authority’s view is that such support is necessary. The Authority has met with Te Roroa, heard and understood the points it has raised (primarily that it wants a co-governance relationship over the Park) but responding to those points is not within its mandate. It is the

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Authority’s hope that you will be able to secure Te Roroa’s confidence that national park status will not harm or diminish their values; and, that their kaitiakitanga and tikanga will be recognised and respected. (DOC  2014, 1) Some years on, Tāne Mahuta remains under the protection mantel of the forest reserve, not the national park. This is the case even at a time when the future survival of kauri trees remains uncertain. A microbe called Phytophthora taxon Agathis is causing severe kauri dieback. Keep Kauri Standing is a major crossgovernment-funded program (O’Connor and Sage 2017). conclusion This chapter has provided a glimpse into the comparative experience of Aotearoa New Zealand regarding the recognition of Māori relationships to and responsibilities toward plants and environments. The Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017 is an example of what has recently been achieved within existing law. Te Urewera is an example of what has been achieved with new law. The Waipoua Forest Reserve is an example of how conservation management is still being worked out even in the face of a prospect of complete kauri tree dieback. As a country, we certainly still have a lot to learn from listening to Māori and nature about caring for all the children of Tāne Mahuta. acknowledGMents Parts of this chapter have been inspired by conversations with many, including Jason Arnold, Phil Lyver, and Will Ngakura. My thanks to Jonathon Yeldon for expert research assistance. notes 1 An example of the perceived uselessness of the area is the following comment by government minister John McKenzie in 1894: “[A]ny one who had seen that portion of the country . . . which he might say was almost useless so far as grazing was concerned . . . would admit that it should be set apart as a national park for New Zealand” (New Zealand 1894, 679). 2 The park name was officially changed from Mount Cook National Park to incorporate “Aoraki” in 1998. See Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998, s. 162(1). 3 Sections 15 and 16 are interpreted in accordance with section 14. 4 Nonetheless, this land is inalienable, except in accordance with the Te Urewera Act 2014 (see s. 13). 5 Aotearoa New Zealand first recognized the Māori language as an official language of the country in 1987. See Māori Language Act 1987 (repealed) and Te Ture mō Te Reo Māori 2016/Māori Language Act 2016.

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references Legislation

Central North Island Forests Land Collective Settlement Act 2008, 2008 no. 99 (NZ) Conservation Act 1987, 1987 no. 65 (NZ) Maori Commercial Aquaculture Claims Settlement Act 2004, 2004 no. 107 (NZ) Maori Fisheries Act 2004, 2004 no. 78 (NZ) Māori Language Act 1987, 1987 no. 176 (repealed) (NZ) National Parks Act 1980, 1980 no. 66 (NZ) Native Lands Act 1862, 1862 no. 42 (NZ) Native Plants Protection Act 1934, 1934 no. 15 (NZ) Native Schools Act 1858, 1858 no. 65 (NZ) Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act 1998, 1998 no. 97 (NZ) Reserves Act 1977, 1977 no. 66 (NZ) Resource Management Act 1991, 1991 no. 69 (NZ) Te Ture mō Te Reo Māori 2016/Māori Language Act 2016, 2016 no. 17 (NZ) Te Urewera Act 2014, 2014 no. 51 (NZ) Tohunga Suppression Act 1907, 1907 no. 13 (NZ) Tongariro National Park Act 1894, 1984 no. 55 (NZ) Treaty of Waitangi Act 1975, 1975 no. 114 (NZ) Treaty of Waitangi (Fisheries Claims) Settlement Act 1992, 1992 no. 121 (NZ) Tūhoe Claims Settlement Act 2014, 2014 no. 50 (NZ) Secondary Sources

Anderson, A., J. Binney, and A. Harris. 2015. Tangata Whenua: A History. Wellington, NZ: Bridget Williams Books. Belgrave, M., M. Kawharu, and D. Williams, eds. 2005. Waitangi Revisited: Perspectives on the Treaty of Waitangi. 2nd ed. South Melbourne, Australia: Oxford University Press. Brown, M.A., R.T.T. Stephens, R. Peart, and B. Fedder. 2015. Vanishing Nature: Facing New Zealand’s Biodiversity Crisis. Auckland, NZ: Environmental Defence Society with New Zealand Law Foundation. Cronon, W. 1983. Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England. New York: Hill and Wang. DOC (Department of Conservation). 2000. The New Zealand Biodiversity Strategy 2000– 2020. http://www.doc.govt.nz/nature/biodiversity/nz-biodiversity-strategy-andaction-plan/new-zealand-biodiversity-strategy-2000-2020/. – 2014. NZCA Advice on the Kauri National Park Proposal March 2014. http://www.doc.govt.nz/about-us/statutory-and-advisory-bodies/nz-conservationauthority/advice-to-the-minister-and-or-director-general/kauri-national-parkproposal-march-2014/. – 2016. New Zealand Biodiversity Action Plan 2016–2020. http://www.doc.govt.nz/nature/ biodiversity/nz-biodiversity-strategy-and-action-plan/new-zealand-biodiversityaction-plan/. – 2017a. Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017. http://www.doc.govt.nz/paparoa. – 2017b. “Tāne Mahuta Walk.” http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/ places-to-go/northland/places/waipoua-forest/things-to-do/tane-mahuta-walk/. Durie, M. 2005. Ngā Tai Matatū: Tides of Māori Endurance. South Melbourne, Australia: Oxford University Press. Grace, P. 1994. Collected Stories. Auckland, NZ: Penguin.

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Ihimaera, W. 2008. Pounamu Pounamu. North Shore, NZ: Raupo. Iwi Chairs Forum. 2017. “Kaupapa.” http://iwichairs.maori.nz/our-kaupapa/. Mappes, H.A. 2007. “National Parks: For Use and ‘Enjoyment’ or for ‘Preservation’? and the Role of the National Park Service Management Policies in That Determination.” Iowa Law Review 92, no. 2: 601–36. MFE (Ministry for the Environment) and SNZ (Statistics New Zealand). 2015. New Zealand’s Environmental Reporting Series: Environment Aotearoa 2015. http://www.mfe.govt.nz/publications/environmental-reporting/environmentaotearoa-2015. New Zealand. 1894. Parliamentary Debates, First Session, Twelfth Parliament, Volume 86. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc1.32106019787958&view=1up&seq=5. New Zealand Maori Council v. Attorney-General. 1987. 1 NZLR 641 (HC and CA). Norton, D.A, L.M. Young, A.E. Byrom, B.D. Clarkson, P.O’B. Lyver, M.S. McGlone, and N.W. Waipara. 2016. “How Do We Restore New Zealand’s Biological Heritage by 2050?” Ecological Management and Restoration 17, no. 3: 170–9. O’Connor, D., and E. Sage. 2017. “Stronger Action to Protect Iconic Kauri.” Ministerial press release, 20 December. https://www.beehive.govt.nz/release/stronger-actionprotect-iconic-kauri. OECD (Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development). 2016. Analysing Data on Protected Areas: Work in Progress. https://www.oecd.org/environment/indicatorsmodelling-outlooks/OECD_Data_Analysis_on_Protected_Areas_Spreads.pdf. – 2017. OECD Environmental Performance Reviews: New Zealand 2017. https://www.oecd-ilibrary.org/environment/oecd-environmental-performancereviews-new-zealand-2017_9789264268203-en. Office of Treaty Settlements. 2017. “Treaty Settlement Documents.” https://www.govt.nz/treaty-settlement-documents/. Orange, C. 2011. The Treaty of Waitangi. 2nd ed. Wellington, NZ: Bridget Williams Books. Reed, A.W., and R. Calman. 2004. Reed Book of Māori Mythology. 2nd ed. Wellington, NZ: Reed Books. Ruru, J. 2004. “Indigenous Peoples’ Ownership and Management of Mountains: The Aotearoa/New Zealand Experience.” Indigenous Law Journal 3: 111–38. – ed. 2008. “In Good Faith”: Symposium Proceedings Marking the 20th Anniversary of the Lands Case. Wellington, NZ: New Zealand Law Foundation. – 2012. “Settling Indigenous Place: Reconciling Legal Fictions in Governing Canada and Aotearoa New Zealand’s National Parks.” PhD diss., University of Victoria, British Columbia. Ruru, J., P.O’B. Lyver, N. Scott, and D. Edmunds. 2017. “Reversing the Decline in New Zealand’s Biodiversity: Empowering Māori within Reformed Conservation Law.” Policy Quarterly 13, no. 2: 65–71. Salmond, A. 2017. Tears of Rangi: Experiments across Worlds. Auckland, NZ: Auckland University Press. Solomon, M. 2014. “Locked out of National Parks: A Call to Action from Kaiwhakahaere Tā Mark Solomon.” Te Karaka 63: 14–17. http://ngaitahu.iwi.nz/our_stories/ locked-national-parks/. Stephens, M. 2001. “A Return to the Tohunga Suppression Act 1907.” Victoria University of Wellington Law Review 32, no. 2: 437–62. Te Urewera Board. 2017. Te Kawa o Te Urewera. Tāneatua, NZ: Te Urewera Board. http://www.ngaituhoe.iwi.nz/Te-Kawa-o-Te-Urewera.

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Waitangi Tribunal. 2011. Ko Aotearoa Tēnei: A Report into Claims Concerning New Zealand Law and Policy Affecting Māori Culture and Identity. Wellington, NZ: Legislation Direct. https://forms.justice.govt.nz/search/Documents/WT/wt_DOC_68356416/ KoAotearoaTeneiTT2Vol1W.pdf. – 2013. Te Kāhui Maunga: The National Park District Inquiry Report. Lower Hutt, NZ: Legislation Direct. https://forms.justice.govt.nz/search/Documents/WT/wt_DOC_ 75211378/Kahui%20Maunga%20Report%20Vol%203%20W.pdf. Wheen, N.R., and J. Hayward, eds. 2012. Treaty of Waitangi Settlements. Wellington, NZ: Bridget Williams Books with New Zealand Law Foundation.

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13 Cultivating the Imagined Wilderness: Contested Native American Plant-Gathering Traditions in America’s National Parks Douglas Deur and Justine E. James Jr introduction In myriad ways, the creation of national parks in the United States not only displaced Native peoples but also displaced traditional ecological practices that had sustained Indigenous peoples and ecosystems in what are today parklands. These effects reflected a Western worldview that interpreted North America as a wild, rather than a meaningfully inhabited, landscape. Over time, in many places, this fiction was made manifest as Native people were displaced from “wilderness” parks and as plant communities were changed in ways that often concealed scenic vistas, increased fire hazards, reduced biological diversity and resiliency, and otherwise detracted from the ecological and scenic values of parks. These outcomes are both ironic and instructive: US national parks stand as cornerstones in the history of land conservation, both nationally and globally. Not only are national parks like Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Crater Lake, Olympic, and Glacier Bay widely admired but, as “crown jewels” within the world’s first national park system, they were also early models of land conservation, inspiring the development of parks and protected lands internationally. In spite of this reputation, a growing academic literature and political recrimination from both the left and the right have problematized the national park model in the United States and beyond. Portions of these critiques are particularly germane to this volume and to the experiences related to protected areas in Canada. A recurring theme is that the creation of national parks and other protected areas has commonly displaced Indigenous peoples from their ancestral

homelands, with a range of damaging social, cultural, ecological, and economic effects. Through this process, not only did Indigenous peoples lose title to lands once occupied by their settlements, burials, sacred places, and subsistence-use areas, but federal agencies have in addition often significantly restricted further tribal access to those lands through myriad mechanisms, in effect completely cutting Indigenous peoples off from key portions of their original territories (Catton 1997; Kantor 2007; Keller and Turek 1998; Spence 1999; Stevens 2014). Underlying the priorities and prejudices of early park boosters were a variety of cultural and class biases rooted in values of the Victorian era and America’s “Gilded Age.” So too was the agency culture shaped by park founders’ own astonishing privilege as members of the American plutocracy of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. John Muir, Theodore Roosevelt, and John D. Rockefeller Jr were exceptional not only for their conservation ethic, which led to the creation of many US national parks, but also for the almost unparalleled reach of their wealth (at least as regards the last two) and influence. As has been widely noted, the concept and glamour of “wilderness” informed such early park promoters as they set aside lands that would become national parks – with “wilderness” understood as a counterpoint to the rapidly industrializing portions of North America and Europe. New national parks were meant to protect cherished, undeveloped landscapes from extractive uses. Yet the very wilderness concept implicit within their creation was fictional, manifesting European notions of terra nullius, the perceived absence of actual or meaningful prior Indigenous occupation of the land (see chapters 1, 7, and 19, this volume). Clearly, most parklands were sites of long-term Native occupation, use, and stewardship, while also containing landmarks that continue to serve as cornerstones of Native culture and cosmology. Nevertheless, the concept of wilderness has persisted throughout the history of US national parks, being codified in the Wilderness Act of 1964, and it continues to shape parks policy to this day. The agency culture of the national parks was also shaped in no small part by late-nineteenth-century military values and organization. An emphasis on park patrolling, policing, and the forcible removal of all extractive resource users arguably began with the 1869 forced expulsion of bison hunters from Yellowstone. Prior to the establishment of formal ranger programs under the newly formed National Park Service (NPS ) in 1916, US military troops served as rangers in many Western parks, their mission primarily to clear the land of “squatters” – from frontier venture capitalists to entire Native communities (Sellars 1997). The new parks, perceived as wilderness, with humans permitted only as visitors or employees, were made so by the militaristic mechanisms of enforcement. Even today, the uniforms of NPS rangers echo the military garb of the service’s early-twentieth-century US Army rangers. The object of this enforcement was clearly defined. The Organic Act of 1916 stated that the NPS ’s purpose was “to conserve the scenery and the natural and

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historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations” (16 USC 1). The issue in question, of course, has been whose “future generations” were to benefit from this style of park management. In the founding years of the NPS , the mandate tended to be interpreted by members of a small, privileged Anglo-American leisure class. Catering largely to the needs and expectations of these people, national park management in the early years was characterized by relative indifference to the lives and needs of subsistence hunters, fishers, gatherers, farmers, and others – Native but also non-Native. Telling, in that light, is the fact that US national park officials also frequently removed non-Native settlers from the land. To note one dramatic example, upon the creation of Great Smoky Mountain National Park, up to 1,100 Anglo-American families were forcibly removed from the area with the active involvement of John D. Rockefeller Jr because their homesteads did not match his aesthetic expectations of a wild park (Deur and Mark 2011). Native communities proved even more jarring to the aesthetic preferences of park founders, who, at least in the early days, famously decried the impacts of Indigenous peoples upon the aesthetics of their imagined wilderness. Muir (1869, 92–3) complained of the large Native American community residing at Yosemite Valley in his day: “A strangely dirty and irregular life these dark-eyed, dark-haired, half-happy savages lead in this clean wilderness . . . [T]hey seemed to have no right place in the landscape.” In time, various mechanisms for removal and enforcement spread the assumptions and preferences of Muir and his colleagues widely throughout the cultural landscapes of the American West. In the early institutional context that gave us the “crown jewel” parks, such aesthetic concerns were prioritized well above the biological or cultural integrity of parklands or of surrounding human and biotic communities – concerns that would become paramount only in the second half of the twentieth century (Sellars 1997). Hardly mentioned, if at all, by most historical accounts, the displacement of Native peoples from designated parklands seriously disrupted their traditional lifeways, including widespread plant harvesting and associated activities. By extension, a wide range of dietary, spiritual, medicinal, and material traditions were disrupted. Even less acknowledged has been the critical interference by national park administrators with the active management of habitats and plant and animal resources by First Peoples. Such caretaking was commonplace but was little recognized. The imprint of anthropogenic fire was especially widespread, fire-managed landscapes arguably being the rule rather than the exception, with lands throughout the United States traditionally modified through annual or semiannual burning prior to their designation as parks. As a result, many of the habitats today preserved and managed as “natural” landscapes within the parks

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are in fact artifacts of long-term cultural practices (Boyd 1999). Just as the NPS restricted Native American access to plants as part of larger patterns of exclusion, park managers also restricted burning and a range of other plant management traditions. The effects are felt both in natural and cultural arenas. Tribes have experienced an erosion of their sovereignty and cultural practices. In turn, ironically, they have witnessed the erosion and deterioration of culturally modified natural habitats – in some cases, the very habitats the parks were created to protect. Here, we illustrate these points with a brief synopsis of the Native American experiences at Olympic, Yosemite, and Crater Lake National Parks – drawn primarily from original research with tribes associated with these places. We close with a discussion of recent NPS efforts to re-establish gathering rights within parks, a remarkably complex corrective discourse in which documentation of Native American land management has been of paramount importance. In this respect, the US experience may serve as a counterpoint, and an important cautionary tale, for policymakers considering the intersection of First Nations, traditional resource and environmental management, and protected public lands in the Canadian context. the tribes of yoseMite national Park Founded in 1864 and designated a national park in 1890, Yosemite National Park was among the first national parks in the world. Yet well before its founding as a wilderness park, Yosemite was home to many Native American tribes. Especially on the valley floors, traditional resource management was intensive. Elders have consistently reported a wide range of cultivation methods traditionally employed within Yosemite: fires of diverse scale served to clear conifers and shrubs from the Yosemite Valley floor and to perpetuate and enhance a mosaic of wetland, meadow, shrub, and forest communities of high cultural importance; edible lily bulbs (especially Brodiaea spp.) and the acorns of California black oak (Quercus kelloggii), beneficiaries of this traditional management, were among the staple foods of Southern Sierra Miwok, Mono Lake Paiute, and other Native peoples linked to this valley. Such practices received frequent mention by early writers, such as Willis Baxley (1865, 476), who observed, “A fire-glow in the distance, and then the wavy line of burning grass, gave notice that the Indians were in the Valley clearing the ground, the more readily to obtain their winter supply of acorns and wild sweet potatoe root – “huckhau” [huch-hau, Brodiaea spp.].” In addition to these fires, interviewed elders also reported ancestors “smoking” or heating xerophytes and serotinous cones to enhance their output. In black oak groves, families removed diseased or dead limbs from individual trees, thereby reducing fire hazards to living trees while also contributing to their

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13.1 | Paiute woman grinding acorns on a matate stone in Yosemite Valley, c. 1900. Yosemite Valley peoples, Paiute and Miwok, have managed, harvested, and processed black oak acorns since before remembered time. Although these practices were curtailed by park management, certain families have sustained them into present times.

overall vitality. Families also manually removed underbrush and conifer seedlings from around the bases of the trees – not only reducing fire risk and competition for light and water but also demonstrating reciprocal respect to the trees. Many other types of ceremonial interventions are said to have enhanced plant output generally. Elders also report extensive pruning of basketry plants – redbud (Cercis occidentalis), willow (Salix spp.), and others – to enhance the development of long, strait shoots used in basketry. When digging bulbs from firecleared ground, harvesters intentionally aerated the soil, harvested selectively, and returned young bulbs to the ground to mature at a later date. Such selective harvests and other conservation strategies were said to demonstrate a “respect”

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that the plants reciprocated by coming back abundantly in the future (Anderson 2013; Deur 2007). This carefully maintained anthropogenic landscape abruptly changed with the advent of park management. First under direct control of the State of California, and only later under federal control, all fire was actively suppressed. For a generation or two, burning persisted, usually clandestinely and on very small scales. Tribal communities were forced to relocate. Initially, villages consolidated to avoid newly developed areas of the park given over to recreational and scenic tourism. Yet over time, only tribal members who worked for the park as labourers or interpretive specimens were allowed to remain (Spence 1999; Keller and Turek 1998). With this displacement, the extent and intensity of traditional management practices declined. The effects were almost immediate, as dense carpets of young conifers quickly encroached on complex mosaics of forest and meadow. M.C. Briggs of the California State Board of Commissioners noted in 1882 that the park’s vegetation was changing, rapidly obscuring the vistas for which the park was already famous: “While the Indians held possession, the annual fires kept the whole floor of the valley free from underbrush, leaving only the majestic oaks and pines to adorn the most beautiful of parks. In this one respect protection has worked destruction” (in Briggs 1882, 10–11). Over time, the effects became more dramatic. Responding to complaints of flooding and muddy conditions, park managers allowed for the dynamiting of river channels and of the El Capitan terminal moraine, causing a drop of 1 to 2 metres in water tables throughout the Yosemite Valley floor. Wetland species – estimated to be up to 71 per cent of the plant species utilized in the valley – quickly disappeared, and conifer encroachment accelerated into former freshwater wetlands (Deur 2007). As one Southern Sierra Miwok elder observed, “The plants are all disappearing. Everything is overgrown, all those places we gathered plants are all covered with pines. They can’t grow under brush and pine needles” (in Deur 2007, 46). Not only were burning and hunting prohibited, but the most basic types of plant gathering were also challenged in this highly visible park setting. The “tourist gaze” took its toll. As tribal members gathered plants in this venue, they were approached, photographed, and even openly challenged or threatened by tourists with myriad opinions about plant harvesting. So too do elders suggest that rangers began to formally and informally obstruct plant gathering in the park. In the twentieth century, many forms of plant gathering became illegal agency-wide, and Yosemite was simply too open to allow for the subtle and relatively invisible harvests that persisted in some other park settings. Plant gathering has persisted into the present day, but quietly and clandestinely, in remnant anthropogenic plant communities on the margins of Yosemite’s recreational landscape. Only direct human management – guided by tribal knowledge and administered within the context of modern NPS management – seems likely

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to restore these species to anything approaching their historical vitality; parkassociated tribes increasingly petition for these types of interventions. the klaMath and other tribes at crater lake national Park On the western slopes of Crater Lake, Oregon, on the ridge of a mountain called Iwamkani (“huckleberry mountain”), Klamath, Modoc, Molalla, and other tribal families returned every year to pick and manage patches of black huckleberry (Vaccinium membranaceum) and other plant resources. There, they maintained seasonal, multitribal berry-picking camps that served as a base of operations for women, children, and the elderly who picked berries while men fanned out over a broader geographical range to hunt and fish. Families returned to these areas year after year since berry camps and usufruct rights to proximate gathering areas were inherited matrilineally. So too did men’s hunting areas have loose usufruct rights of tenure, most often descending down paternal lines. These camps were an important nexus of tribal families’ social and ceremonial life where members of multiple tribes gathered annually to share in the harvest (Deur 2002; Turner, Deur, and Mellott 2011). As one Klamath elder explained, “You could get just about everything you needed to live at Huckleberry Mountain – berries, deer, fish that you’d be using all year . . . and then you would see old friends up there, people from other tribes . . . [Y]ou would go there to meet the person you were going to marry” (in Deur n.d.). In this setting, berry patches were actively enhanced. Women maintained berry patches and other culturally preferred plants by igniting understory and clearing fires at the end of the gathering. Elders also faintly recall first-fruit ceremonies, in which the first berries harvested were ceremonially tossed to the ground each year to show gratitude. Marilyn Hall, a Klamath Tribes elder, remembered what she was taught by her childhood elders in the early decades of the twentieth century: “They burned up there . . . [and] the old Indians used to tell us that you had to take the first berries that you gathered up and throw them to the ground, and give them back to ‘Mother Earth’ . . . they would always come back better then . . . [O]nly the women did it” (in Deur 2002, 28). In the process, these burned areas were effectively reseeded each year. Even today, the understory of forests near some historic campsites, managed with fire and firstfruit ceremonies, consist of large and nearly uniform patches of huckleberry. As at Yosemite, tribal members report that introduced land management regimes in large part eliminated these practices. Designated in 1902, Crater Lake National Park did not include the core campgrounds, which sat on US Forest Service land, but did include significant portions of the actively managed berry grounds. By 1903 park staff were collaborating with the Klamath Indian Agency

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to halt not only hunting in the new park but also all burning practices, which were believed to increase the risk of wildfires and obscure scenic vistas with smoke. Together, they began to actively patrol and police the subalpine berry grounds – allowing plant harvests but prohibiting all fires. As Indian Agent O.C. Applegate (1904, 315) reported to the Oregon commissioner of Indian Affairs, “I have kept a vigilant patrol of policemen in the region to prevent the violation of the game laws and the rules of the forest reserve and National Park.” Clandestinely, tribal members continued their ceremonies and fires on a smaller scale and close to their camps. But quickly, on the fringes of the traditional berrying grounds, stands of lodgepole pine (Pinus contorta) began to spread. As elders attest, “It doesn’t look right . . . [A]ll those trees have grown up over the huckleberry meadow . . . [Y]ou can’t use it any more” (in Deur 2002, 32). Furthermore, growing conflicts with park rangers, coupled with the scrutiny of tourists, discouraged berry picking within the park. By the mid-twentieth century, almost all of the park’s berry patches had been effectively eliminated, with only a few remaining in well-watered or exposed areas. Today, camping and picking are restricted to the Forest Service lands nearby – undermined in places by industrial logging but enduring where traditional management was most persistent. A few tribal members continue to visit and pick to this day, although traditional management practices have been largely extinguished. the Quinault at olyMPic national Park Quinault elders consistently assert the historical importance of montane resources in the Olympic Mountains of the State of Washington – a fact that was shared consistently with co-author Justine E. James Jr by his father, Justine E. (“Butch”) James Sr. Like other Quinault elders, Butch James shared views and practices of these mountains with younger tribal members – recounting that summertime plant gathering and elk and deer hunting in the subalpine zone were integral to the Quinault seasonal round and that montane spiritual activities were often undertaken nearby. Tribal members widely appreciated that the berries were abundant in places such as Enchanted Valley, the elk large and fat from abundant montane browse. The elder James described how Olympic mountain plants are traditionally valued for unique properties associated with their montane provenance. For example, wood taken from high-elevation areas – such as Pacific yew (Taxus brevifolia), a popular material for durable tools – is considered more robust than wood from the same species found at lower elevations, perhaps reflecting the shorter growing season and shallower soils of montane sites. James and other elders also described how mountain habitats possess uniquely effective medicine plants, including species such as palmate coltsfoot (Petasites frigidus var. palmatus), reported to have greater anti-inflammatory and

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other potency than low-elevation specimens, reflecting both the biophysical and cosmological distinctiveness of high-elevation areas (Deur 2017; see also chapter 9, this volume). The Quinault, like the other Native American communities described in this chapter, also traditionally managed plant communities on which they depended, reflecting long-term ancestral effort and “investment.” Butch James described Quinault subalpine resource use within Olympic National Park that was nearly identical to what Klamath elders report for Crater Lake some 650 kilometres (400 miles) distant – with men’s traditional hunting areas encircling berry patches maintained primarily by women and enhanced through myriad means. In places such as Enchanted Valley, James recalled that families regularly burned over black huckleberry (Vaccinium membranaceum) patches. He explained that ancestral Quinault not only understood that the use of fire mechanically enhanced berry production by eliminating competing vegetation and dead woody branches but was also part of a larger ritual of “showing respect,” said to sustain these patches. Near the berry patches, he noted, families maintained yearly campsites, having usufruct rights to berry patches closest to the campsites, as well as defined hunting territories with usufruct rights of ownership nearby. He explained that these berrying grounds were shared with people from other tribes, who visited seasonally to take part in the harvest of berries and elk. James described these camps as places of peaceful coexistence, where families from many tribes might gather and put aside any differences to share in the harvest and the many social activities linked to it. Trails leading to river canoe portages enabled access to the berry patches – as canoes were used to transport people, gear, berries, and meat to and from the berrying grounds. To facilitate this process, Butch James recalled, men regularly set fire to logjams in the rivers during the dry summer season to clear the canoe routes. He said that, when returning to the large villages near tidewater each fall, families widely shared the mountain berries and meat within the Quinault community. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Quinault families also shared foods obtained in the mountains with recently arrived non-Native settlers who lacked the skill and local knowledge required to obtain montane resources – forging inter-ethnic friendships between families that sometimes endure into modern times. Closer to the ocean, James and other elders have described similar burning carried out on prairies in order to enhance many culturally important plant species. Butch James taught how, especially in wetlands and wetland margin sites, this practice increased the quality and productivity of camas (Camassia quamash), bracken fern (Pteridium aquilinum), Indian tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum), bog cranberry (Vaccinium oxycoccos), and other cultural keystone species. Carried out ordinarily in late spring, as wet prairies began to dry, this practice enhanced the production of new shoots, released nutrients into the soil, and removed competing brush and trees. The plants in these settings were

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also enhanced through activities such as weeding and selective harvesting. In the case of camas, oral tradition attests to in situ replanting of smaller bulbs and even to transplanting over distances. In well-drained glacial deposits, fire enhanced the output of beargrass (Xerophyllum tenax), a basketry plant important throughout the region and a source of considerable Quinault trade wealth. These fires removed competing vegetation and dead leaves from the beargrass patches, while also increasing the germination of seeds (Anderson 2009; Deur 2017; Shebitz, Reichard, and Dunwiddie 2009). According to terms of the 1856 Quinault Treaty, the tribe maintained rights to harvest roots and berries in their usual and accustomed places. However, as the Olympic Mountains and the coastal strip were given national park status, the tribe gradually lost access rights and associated management traditions linked to these places. Most of the range comprising the Olympic Mountains was first declared a national monument in 1909. But in 1938 these lands, plus a strip of the Pacific coast abutting the Quinault Reservation, became Olympic National Park. Butch James reported that when the lands were incorporated into Olympic National Park, recruitment of park rangers took place in local communities. These rangers, James suggested, understood the rudiments of Quinault history, including the tribe’s reserved rights of access throughout their traditional lands; not only did these rangers seldom seek to restrict tribal access, but they also sometimes encouraged tribal members to continue entering the park for traditional camping, berry picking, and hunting. Over time, however, local rangers were replaced by career NPS rangers from other places who manifested agency-wide values. They began to discourage and even issue citations to hunters, berry harvesters, and others seeking to use and manage traditional resources. Burning and other forms of management were prohibited outright and, after the Second World War, actively patrolled. As Butch James reported of this transition and its effects on traditional mountain harvests, “You can’t do anything like that anymore.” He often experienced direct conflicts with new rangers attempting to patrol longstanding tribal use areas, cultivated over generations: “They try to stop me from using those areas . . . [I say,] ‘Arrest me! Give me a ticket. We’ve done this traditionally. I’ll go to court with you!’ But our people just lie down and let them walk all over them.” Members of Quinault and other Olympic Peninsula tribes did occasionally litigate in support of their subsistence harvest rights within Olympic National Park, with mixed results – establishing a complex and often contradictory legal precedent that compounded the effects of agency policy, surveillance, and other pressures that contributed to Native exclusions from park lands (Holt 1986; Rothman 2006). In Olympic National Park, too, berry patches have diminished over time with the cessation of active management, declining in productivity and shrinking due to encroachment of conifers and shrubs. In addition, James noted that as access has declined, so has tribal familiarity with places and practices once key

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to traditionally managed ecosystems. With the passing of generations, the longstanding investment in these areas has been all but forgotten. James lamented: “People, especially young people, have forgotten that we used to go up there at all . . . what we used to do there.” As an outcome, and in spite of the terms of their treaty, this loss of access to traditionally managed plant communities has eroded Quinault culture, diet, and sovereignty. Along with his fellow tribal members, James noted that the notion of an “Olympic wilderness” – which they once considered a laughable fiction of the non-Indian world – is becoming a reality. endurinG contradictions and corrections: the evolution of us Policy on Plant GatherinG in national Parks Prohibitions on plant gathering were integral to the original creation of national parks, which involved policing, surveillance, and exclusion as mechanisms for removing resource users, both Native and non-Native, from the land. Throughout much of the twentieth century, park superintendents were given latitude to decide how these matters were handled within their jurisdiction. However, in each case, the decisions manifested a nationwide policy and “culture” that commonly excluded tribal communities and those traditional activities that might leave any visible impact on the landscape. After decades of ambiguous guidance on the matter of access to plant resources, the NPS was pressured into carefully reassessing resource access policy. In part, this reassessment reflected the outcome of a heated political debate throughout the 1970s regarding parklands in Alaska – specifically parks created under the Alaska National Interest Land Conservation Act of 1980. Bowing to intense political pressure from the State of Alaska and its congressional delegation on the behalf of rural subsistence users, this legislation allowed for subsistence harvests of berries, mushrooms, and other plant materials by rural Alaskans regardless of Native status and without a permit. Still, this legislation made no provisions for traditional resource management or for plant gathering for ceremonial and religious uses. In many respects, the legislation was written in response to the interests of non-Native subsistence users. Access to parks for such purposes was allowed, provided the mode of access was deemed to be “traditional” – ultimately defined as commonplace at the time of the legislation’s passage in 1980 (Deur, Brewster, and Mason 2015). In turn, the debate over subsistence access to Alaska parks was reflected in nationwide NPS policy in the 1983 Code of Federal Regulations. Codifying longstanding agency policy, the regulations allowed park superintendents to “designate certain fruits, berries, nuts, or unoccupied seashells that may be gathered by hand for personal use or consumption if it will not adversely affect park wildlife, the reproductive potential of a plant species, or otherwise adversely affect

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park resources” (36 CFR 2.1, 13). These provisions did not allow for the use of plants for “ceremonial or religious purposes” except where explicitly allowed by treaty or federal statute, and no subsistence uses were permitted. Moreover, there were no provisions or guarantees regarding access to parklands for this purpose and no provisions for any type of traditional management that might ensure that culturally important plants were present in harvestable quantities within parks. Many parks maintained precarious “wink and nod” arrangements with tribal harvesters who gathered types of plants or quantities of plants inconsistent with the regulations. In spite of these changes, many types of plant use remained illegal, contrary to treaties that were supposed to protect such interests. Throughout the country, legal contradictions persisted. As Native American tribes gained political leverage during the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s, they began to exert greater pressure on the US federal government to redress plant-gathering exclusions in national parks and other protected areas throughout the country. So too did the NPS undergo a period of intense self-critiquing during this same period – hiring Native American staff as well as regional and park-level anthropologists, increasingly consulting with tribal governments, and exploring opportunities for the co-management and collaborative management of certain parklands and resources. As part of these developments, tribes and NPS representatives sought to address issues of tribal access, especially for ceremonial and commemorative activities. During this time, some parks administrators and tribes made efforts to establish bilateral plant-gathering agreements, although these efforts were largely rebuffed by solicitors and national NPS bureaucracy. In the absence of formal changes in the Code of Federal Regulations, such agreements were deemed illegal. However, tribes did not relent on this point, asserting that access to traditionally managed plant communities was critical to their cultural, spiritual, and dietary practices, as well as consistent with legal protections of tribal sovereignty. Additionally, in spite of a century or more of prohibitions against traditional land management, parks had been engulfed by adjacent nontraditional development, with plant communities inside parks becoming biotic “islands” and a source of culturally important plants no longer widespread beyond their boundaries. In the 2010s deliberations over an agreement on plant gathering reached a crescendo. A growing number of studies demonstrated that park vegetation was significantly anthropogenic, and the legal and political pressures from tribes escalated. Although senior NPS officials expressed concern about political and legal backlash from competing constituencies – such as environmental organizations that might object to plant-gathering rights for tribes – the burden of proof shifted to those seeking to exclude access to Native Americans. After considerable input from tribes, the NPS determined to revise the regulations addressing access under the oversight of Dr Patricia Parker, the director of the

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American Indian Liaison Office, and Dr Frederick York, the NPS Pacific West Region Anthropologist. In spite of a protracted legal review that resulted in substantive changes to the proposed regulation, the effort was successful. In 2016 the NPS approved revised plant-gathering regulations that allow federally recognized tribes to harvest plants within park boundaries for most cultural uses, provided the harvest is demonstrated to have no negative effect on the integrity of sensitive natural habitats. The regulations represent a novel and formal federal acknowledgment of what tribal elders have long asserted. The regulatory language acknowledges enduring attachments between plants and people to this day as well as the anthropogenic origin of many plant communities existing in parks. The related regulations and their justification were published in full within the Federal Register, the official journal of the US Congress (2016, 45025–6). To quote that notice in part, Over the past 20 years, studies in ethnobotany and traditional plant management, along with consideration of traditional ecological knowledge in scientific symposia and scholarly gatherings, have increased greatly. Research findings have shown that traditional conservation of plant species includes gathering and management techniques as well as social and cultural rules for avoiding over-exploitation (Berkes 2012; Blackburn and Anderson 1993; Anderson 2005; Deur and Turner 2005). Traditional gathering is carried out in ways that ensure plant replacement and abundance by using specific harvest criteria and foraging and cultivation strategies (Anderson 1993; Turner and Peacock 2005) . . . Wild plant species used for food have been managed for thousands of years by native groups using specific gathering techniques to maximize both harvest and sustainability (McCarthy 1993; Farris 1993; Parlee and Berkes 2006), and the general management of landscapes and ecosystems by native peoples have been well documented (e.g. Hammett 2000; Nabhan 2000). Again, highly significant within this revisionary step was the revelation, consistently reported by Native knowledge holders and increasingly encoded in peer-reviewed academic venues, that Indigenous peoples were responsible for creating many of the “natural” landscapes within parks – that their harvests enhanced, rather than damaged, the pre-existing ecological integrity of such places. The revisionary literature addressing traditional ecological knowledge had made its mark on national policy; this literature was, for the first time in history, cited in the Federal Register as a basis for legal redress. Throughout the public debate regarding draft regulations, and continuing well afterward, significant political backlash and forceful counterarguments presented themselves. Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility

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(PEER ) was the lead organization, representing the sentiment of many individuals and organizations opposed to the resumption of Native American gathering rights within parks. PEER had become an especially active detractor of Native American gathering rights after the controversial 1999 proposal by the Hopi to collect eaglets from nests as part of a longstanding ritual tradition tied to the Wupatki National Monument in Arizona. In so doing, they applied a “slippery slope” argument against tribal gathering rights, suggesting that restoring plant-gathering rights to tribes might open opportunities for commercial plant harvests, wildlife harvests, and other more objectionable outcomes. The following are among the primary points raised by PEER (2015) in its comments on the proposed regulation: Plant Gathering Does Not “Conserve” Plants . . . PEER seeks to learn which plants, in which parks, and in which ecosystems will Indian Tribal plant destruction (by uprooting, digging, trimming, pruning, thinning) “conserve” the plants. We are unaware of plant communities whose natural processes of growth, succession, replenishment and/or replacement would be advanced by human harvesting or removal. (3) Plant Gathering Undermines Wilderness Act . . . Cultivated landscapes are especially inimical to the congressionally-described purpose of designated wilderness. When Congress designates lands as wilderness it is to preserve “land retaining its primeval character and influence, without permanent improvements or human habitation, which is protected and managed so as to preserve its natural conditions.” 16 U.S.C. § 1131(c). Manmade and artificially-managed areas do not preserve a natural condition, even when the manipulation is by Indians. (22) Plant Gathering a Departure from Administrative Precedent . . . This notion that the “first peoples” have an unbroken connection or claim to the land reduces the last century of park preservation history to a footnote . . . It was 119 years ago, in 1896, when the Supreme Court effectively ended the Bannock Shoshone hunting rights in Yellowstone National Park. Reversing so many years of history is neither easily done nor wise. (24) As PEER (2015, 26) concluded in its formal critique of the new regulations, “To clear the path for plant gathering the NPS has, in essence, applied an intellectual wrecking ball to long-held agency understanding of its strict resource preservation mandate.” To be sure, the issue of Native American plant-gathering rights remains actively and legally contested by those who still seek to impose dubious Western notions of “wilderness” on the many anthropogenic landscapes of US national parks.

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toward a conclusion Not only have Native peoples of the United States been frequent users of plants and plant communities in lands now within national parks, but they have often been active managers of the environments as well. Although largely extinguished, these practices persisted on the margins of emerging recreational landscapes – in a few cases, persisting into the present day. Throughout the national parks, especially those of the American West, there still exists an abundance of traditionally managed huckleberry patches, beargrass patches, camas plots, and an astonishing diversity of other anthropogenic plant communities – some intact, some in residual form, and some detectable on the basis of historical, archaeological, or paleo-botanical evidence. Today, there can be little debate on this point: plant communities conserved as “natural” places actually bear the imprint of long-term human stewardship. The exclusion of Native American communities from park landscapes was integral to broader park policies meant to exclude resource harvesters generally and to remove Native American harvesters specifically. Arguably, these policies of exclusion not only affected US parklands and Native peoples but also, by virtue of the NPS ’s standing as an early global model of park management, transmitted these effects beyond US borders. This process of exclusion has eroded both the environmental integrity of parks – especially for anthropogenic plant communities – and the cultural, spiritual, technological, economic, and dietary practices of tribes and other Native peoples throughout the United States and beyond. Perhaps for the first time, the US government has formally acknowledged these effects implicitly and explicitly through the logic of revised plantgathering regulations. This change reflects a new view of history – one that recognizes the sophistication and pervasiveness of Indigenous peoples’ management and use, as well as the role humans have played in shaping and stewarding some of America’s most important natural areas. If there is any need for further proof that the “representation” of Native American environmental practices matters, it is the fact that erroneous representations of “wilderness” shaped policies that effectively eliminated people from the landscape. The rerepresentation of Native peoples as active and constructive land stewards has brought a shift in policy that will impact human communities and plant communities for generations to come. Prevailing worldviews have been exposed. Issues of representation, dispossession, cultural integrity, and biological integrity have been fundamentally linked in national park policy. Positive changes in US policy and land management would not have occurred if Native American communities had not assisted in dissemination of previously misunderstood traditional knowledge, collaborating with scholars, both Native and non-Native,

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in correcting a far-reaching historical oversight (Anderson and Barbour 2003; Senos et al. 2006). The present situation is relatively hopeful. Tribes now exercise treaty rights on parklands, and the NPS entertains formal plant-gathering agreements. In some parks, such as Yosemite, NPS resource managers seek tribal input on environmental restoration efforts guided significantly by Native American traditional ecological knowledge and Native American plant-harvesting preferences – looking not only to the past but also to the future of Native American gathering and plant management within park boundaries. By reconnecting Native harvesters to the landscape, parks may yet preserve the integrity of certain natural resources currently eroding rapidly or being threatened by visitor pressures. By maintaining access to these lands, tribes may yet retain some portion of their food, medicinal, spiritual, and craft traditions, as well as knowledge of plants, habitats, and places that sustained their ancestors – and were sustained by them – for generations. acknowledGMents The authors would like to thank the Klamath Tribes Culture and Heritage Department, American Indian Council of Mariposa County, Cow Creek Band of Umpqua Tribe of Indians, Quinault Indian Nation, and in particular, Justine James Sr and the many other elders and knowledge holders of these tribes who have contributed to our understanding of traditional plant use within lands now designated as parks. We are also grateful to the US National Park Service and the US Forest Service (Rogue River National Forest) for supporting the research addressed in this chapter, with special thanks to Dr Frederick York, Steve Mark, Jeff LaLande, Rochelle Bloom, and Eirik Thorsgard. references Anderson, M.K. 1993. “Native Californians as Ancient and Contemporary Cultivators.” In Before the Wilderness: Environmental Management by Native Californians, ed. T.C. Blackburn and M.K. Anderson, 151–74. Menlo Park, CA: Ballena. – 2005. Tending the Wild: Native American Knowledge and the Management of California’s Natural Resources. Berkeley: University of California Press. – 2009. The Ozette Prairies of Olympic National Park: Their Former Indigenous Uses and Management. Final report to Olympic National Park, Port Angeles, Washington. https://www.nrcs.usda.gov/wps/portal/nrcs/detail/?cid=stelprdb1045246. – 2013. Tending the Wild: Native American Knowledge and the Management of California’s Natural Resources. Berkeley: University of California Press. Anderson, M.K., and M.G. Barbour. 2003. “Simulated Indigenous Management: A New Model for Ecological Restoration in National Parks.” Ecological Restoration 21, no. 4: 269–77.

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Applegate, O.C. 1904. “Report of School Superintendent in Charge of Klamath Agency.” In Annual Report of the Commissioner of Indian Affairs for the Year 1904, part 1, 311–16. Washington, DC: US Department of the Interior. http://images.library.wisc.edu/ History/EFacs/CommRep/AnnRep04p1/reference/history.annrep04p1.i0020.pdf. Baxley, W. 1865. What I Saw on the Coast of South and North America and at the Hawaiian Islands. New York: D. Appleton and Company. Berkes, F. 2012. Sacred Ecology. 3rd ed. New York: Taylor and Francis. Blackburn, T.C., and M.K. Anderson, eds. 1993. Before the Wilderness: Environmental Management by Native Californians. Menlo Park, CA: Ballena. Boyd, R.T., ed. 1999. Indians, Fire and the Land in the Pacific Northwest. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. Briggs, M.C. 1882. “Report of the Commissioners to Manage the Yosemite Valley and the Mariposa Big Tree Grove.” In Biennial Report of the Commissioners to Manage the Yosemite Valley and the Mariposa Big Tree Grove, so extended as to include All Transactions of the Commission from April 19, 1880, to December 18, 1882. Sacramento, CA: State Office, J.D. Young, Supt. State Printing. Catton, T. 1997. Inhabited Wilderness: Indians, Eskimos, and National Parks in Alaska. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Deur, D. n.d. “Fieldnotes: Klamath.” Unpublished ethnographic fieldnotes, in D. Deur’s possession. – 2002. Huckleberry Mountain Traditional Use Study: Final Report. Seattle: National Park Service. https://digital.sou.edu/digital/collection/p16085coll13/id/10855. – 2007. Yosemite National Park Traditional Use Study: Plant Use in Yosemite Valley and El Portal. Seattle: National Park Service. – 2017. Ethnobotany in the Land of the Quinault: Culturally Important Plants and Their Uses. Taholah, WA: Quinault Indian Nation. Deur, D., K. Brewster, and R. Mason. 2015. A Study of Traditional Activities in the Exit Glacier Area of Kenai Fjords National Park. Anchorage, AK: National Park Service. Deur, D., and S.R. Mark. 2011. Resident Communities and Agriculture in National Parks: An Assessment and Prospectus. Seattle: National Park Service. Deur, D., and N.J. Turner, eds. 2005. Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Farris, G. 1993. “Quality Food: The Quest for Pine Nuts in Northern California.” In Before the Wilderness: Native Californians as Environmental Managers, ed. T.C. Blackburn and M.K. Anderson, 229–40. Menlo Park, CA: Ballena. Hammett, J.E. 2000. “Ethnohistory of Aboriginal Landscapes in the Southeastern United States.” In  Biodiversity and Native America, ed. P.E. Minnis and W.J. Elisens, 248–300. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Holt, H. Barry. 1986. “Can Indians Hunt in National Parks? Determinable Indian Treaty Rights and United States v. Hicks.” Environmental Law 16, no. 2: 207–54. Kantor, I. 2007. “Ethnic Cleansing and America’s Creation of National Parks.” Public Land and Resources Law Review 28, no. 41: 441–64. Keller, R.H., and M.F. Turek. 1998. American Indians and National Parks. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. McCarthy, H. 1993. “Managing Oaks and the Acorn Crop.” In Before the Wilderness: Native Californians as Environmental Managers, ed. T.C. Blackburn and M.K. Anderson, 213–28. Menlo Park, CA: Ballena. Muir, J. 1869. The Mountains of California. Reprint, New York: Century Co., 1907.

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Nabhan, G.P. 2000. “Native American Management and Conservation of Biodiversity in the Sonoran Desert Bioregion.” In Biodiversity and Native America, ed. P.E. Minnis and W.J. Elisens, 29–44. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Parlee, B. and F. Berkes. 2006. “Indigenous Knowledge of Ecological Variability and Commons Management: A Case Study on Berry Harvesting from Northern Canada.” Human Ecology 34, no. 4: 515–28. PEER (Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility). 2015. Comments on NPS Proposed Rule for Tribal Gathering of Plants in Parks. Washington, DC: Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility. https://www.PEER .org/assets/docs/nps/6_9_15_ IndianGatheringRule_PEER_comments.pdf. Rothman, Hal K. 2006. American Eden: An Administrative History of Olympic National Park. Seattle: National Park Service, Pacific-West Region. Sellars, R.W. 1997. Preserving Nature in National Parks: A History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Senos, R., F. Lake, N.J. Turner, and D. Martinez. 2006. “Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Restoration Practice in the Pacific Northwest.” In Encyclopedia for Restoration of Pacific Northwest Ecosystems, ed. D. Apostol, 393–426. Washington, DC: Island. Shebitz, D.J., S.H. Reichard, and P.W. Dunwiddie. 2009. “Ecological and Cultural Significance of Burning Beargrass Habitat on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington.” Ecological Restoration 27, no. 3: 306–19. Spence, M.D. 1999. Dispossessing the Wilderness: Indian Removal and the Making of National Parks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stevens, S. 2014. Indigenous Peoples, National Parks, and Protected Areas: A New Paradigm Linking Conservation, Culture, and Rights. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and C.R. Mellott. 2011. “‘Up on the Mountain’: The Ethnobotanical Significance of Montane Sites in Pacific Coastal North America.” Journal of Ethnobiology 31, no. 1: 4–43. Turner, N.J., and S. Peacock. 2005. “Solving the Perennial Paradox: Ethnobotanical Evidence for Plant Resource Management on the Northwest Coast.” In Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America, ed. D. Deur and N.J. Turner, 101–50. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. United States Congress. 2016. Federal Register, vol. 81, no. 133, 12 July. https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/FR-2016-07-12/pdf/2016-16434.pdf.

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14 Kīpuka Kuleana: Restoring Reciprocity to Coastal Land Tenure and Resource Use in Hawaiʻi Monica Montgomery and Mehana Blaich Vaughan introduction Hawaiʻi has a long history of local-level customary fisheries management. Survival in one of the most isolated archipelagos in the world depended on knowing island ecosystems well and living within their limits. With fish and shellfish serving as the primary source of protein, Native Hawaiians developed specialized harvesting practices, including fishpond aquaculture, a deep understanding of their nearshore environments, and a conservation ethic based on shared cultural, social, and spiritual values (Jokiel et al. 2011; Titcomb 1972). Nearshore fisheries were cared for at the local level of the moku (district) and ahupuaʻa, defined as a “culturally appropriate, ecologically aligned, and place specific unit with access to diverse resources” (Gonschor and Beamer 2014, 71). Ahupuaʻa are traditional land divisions, often extending from the top of the mountains to the edge of the reefs, and were designed for local-level self-sufficiency (Akutagawa, Williams, and Kamaka‘ala 2016). Within ahupuaʻa, residents and konohiki (resource managers appointed by a ruling chief) shared stewardship responsibilities and exclusive fishing rights. Konohiki, literally meaning “to invite ability,” were responsible for coordinating communal caretaking and harvesting efforts (Andrade 2008). Konohiki had extensive place-based knowledge of the fishery, including spawning times, lifecycles, feeding habits, and preferred habitats of nearshore species (Titcomb 1972). This knowledge guided regulation of harvests, based not on allowable catches but on kapu (closures) that determined when and where fishing could occur (Friedlander, Shackeroff, and Kittinger 2013). Konohiki opened and closed the harvest of certain species to protect natural processes such as spawning and in response to local-level changes in species’ abundance.

This system of local-level management was holistic and adaptive, effectively sustaining a Native population estimated to have reached as high as 1 million prior to Western contact (Higuchi 2008; Kirch 1985). However, following the illegal overthrow of Hawaiʻi’s monarchy in 1893 and annexation of Hawai‘i as a territory of the United States, a Western model of centralized fisheries management gradually replaced the konohiki system (Jokiel et al. 2011). Currently, one state agency, the Department of Land and Natural Resources, manages fisheries through its subsidiary, the Division of Aquatic Resources. The agency, located in the state capital of Honolulu, has a few staff on neighbouring islands like Kauaʻi. Most regulations apply uniformly across the state, and changes require input from the “public,” as public access to fisheries is protected. Declining resources under state management have driven communities across Hawaiʻi to seek restoration of local-level fisheries governance (Friedlander, Shackeroff, and Kittinger 2013). To better understand how the konohiki system operated in contemporary times and to document how communities are currently reclaiming their rights and responsibilities as caretakers of their nearshore fisheries, we focus on two cases. The first, the rural ahupuaʻa of Kahana, is located in the moku of Koʻolauloa on the windward coast of Hawaiʻi’s most urbanized island, Oʻahu. Kahana encompasses a single watershed characterized by an abundance of fresh water and a rich fishery, famed for the large schools of akule (bigeye scad, Selar crumenophthalmus) and ʻamaʻama (striped mullet, Mugil cephalus) that spawn in its bay. Today, the ahupuaʻa of Kahana is a state park, although some families with ancestral ties continue to reside here on sixty-five-year leases. The second case includes Kauaʻi Island’s north shore moku of Halele‘a, which comprises nine ahupuaʻa spanning from Hā‘ena to Kalihiwai. Hā‘ena is home to one of Hawaiʻi’s largest fringing reef systems. Kalihiwai, like Kahana, is distinguished by its bay, which provides spawning and nursery habitat for culturally and economically important fish species like akule. Kahana and Haleleʻa communities face increasing pressure from recreational tourism, including jet skis and snorkel tours, from commercial fishing operations (Montgomery 2018; Vaughan and Ayers 2016), and from decreasing access to coastal areas due to development of luxury homes and resorts (Vaughan 2018). Kahana and parts of Haleleʻa are particularly unique in that they maintained their konohiki fishing rights six decades longer than most parts of Hawaiʻi. These communities are also actively engaged in co-management efforts with state agencies and provide models for other communities seeking to restore local-level fisheries governance. Just as kīpuka – stands of native Hawaiian forest spared from destruction by lava flows – can regenerate forests in surrounding areas (Pukui and Elbert 1975), rural communities that have maintained Indigenous subsistence practices and

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caretaking despite economic, demographic, and tenure changes offer cultural kīpuka in contemporary Hawaiʻi (McGregor 2007). Kahana and Haleleʻa communities, as cultural kīpuka, have the potential to revive and perpetuate Native Hawaiian culture and more respectful relationships with land and sea. Elders are also cultural kīpuka, serving as repositories of life’s experiences and lessons, Indigenous ecological knowledge, stories, and culture passed down through the generations. Kuleana is another key concept that underpins Indigenous relationships with natural resources in Hawaiʻi. Kuleana is often translated as “rights and responsibilities” (Pukui and Elbert 1975), both of which are inextricably based in ‘āina (land and sea). ʻAnakala Eddie, a revered Hawaiian elder, defined kuleana as the land that is in your family’s care. He taught that how you take care of these lands demonstrates to others the kind of person you are and the responsibilities with which you can be entrusted (Vaughan 2018). Methods Looking to Kahana and Haleleʻa communities as cultural kīpuka, we explore two questions. First, how are relationships with land and natural resources built upon obligations to care for, restore, and protect them? Second, how are communities perpetuating ancestral values and relationships with land and sea while working to restore local-level governance? This study applies a mixed-methods approach combining focus groups, participation in community events and work days, archival research of Hawaiian-language newspapers, observation of thirty community meetings, analysis of fifteen fishery rules drafts over nine years, and a participatory fishing study, which included 600 human-use counts and tracked catch shares from ten fishermen over the course of fifteen months. In-depth interviews conducted throughout the past twenty years are a critical foundation of this research, including seventy interviews with community elders, fishers, and youth along with twenty interviews with resource management personnel from state government agencies and nonprofit organizations. hawaiian relationshiPs with natural resources and local-level caretakinG Native Hawaiian fishing practices and relationships with place revolve around the shared understanding that people are part of the natural environment to which they are familially connected and therefore carry the responsibility to care for it. Each island was birthed from the union of Papahānaumoku the earth-mother and Wākea the sky-father. Individual plants, animals, and rocks are each manifestations of certain akua (Hawaiian deities) and ʻaumākua (deified ancestors). In this way, community consists not just of people within a specific

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locality but also of the surrounding living and nonliving beings, which are also considered family. Because Hawaiian knowledge and values are based on these family relationships with the land, sea, sky and resources therein, one’s access to and use of nearshore resources are not separate from the responsibility to respect and nurture them (Poepoe, Bartram, and Friedlander 2003). ʻĀina (land and sea, literally “that which feeds”) was not owned by anyone but was held in trust for the akua, overseen by the ruling chiefs and konohiki, and communally harvested from and cared for by ahupuaʻa residents. land and sea tenure chanGe Ownership of land in Hawaiʻi began with the Māhele of 1846–55, which divided the land and required ahupuaʻa residents to register for title to the lands they farmed and resided upon. The Māhele was intended to protect Native Hawaiians’ rights to their lands and resources by apportioning land among the king, the ruling chiefs or konohiki, and the common people (Stauffer 2004). However, the process instead enabled land to be more readily purchased by foreigners through fee simple title, facilitating the transition from communal Hawaiian land tenure to a private property regime. Prior to the Māhele, King Kamehameha III and his council adopted written protections of Hawaiʻi’s independence with the 1839 Declaration of Rights, shortly followed by the 1840 Constitution of the Kingdom of Hawaiʻi (McGregor and Mackenzie 2014). These laws, and later the Civil Code of 1859, formally recognized exclusive fishing rights of ahupuaʻa residents and konohiki from the shore to the fringing reefs or 1 mile seaward where there were no reefs (Kosaki 1954). By law, konohiki could regulate the fishery by placing a kapu on one species each year for his or her personal use. They could also, upon consultation with area residents, prohibit all fishing during certain months and then exact one-third of the catch upon reopening the fishery (ibid.). With the Organic Act of 1900, which established Hawaiʻi as a territory of the United States, Congress sought to repeal konohiki fishing rights and open all fisheries for public access. The federal policy required those with “vested rights” to file a claim to their fishery in circuit court within two years of enactment; otherwise, they would forfeit their rights. About 100 of the estimated 300 to 400 known konohiki fisheries were registered and thus remained protected by law (Kosaki 1954). However, throughout the twentieth century, the Territory and later State of Hawai‘i systematically sought to terminate even these registered fisheries through condemnation and payment of “just” compensation (Meller 1985). Today, questions remain regarding whether fair payment was provided upon condemnation, whether ahupua‘a residents should also be compensated given their shared legal right to the fishery, and whether all konohiki fisheries were officially condemned (Kosaki 1954; Meller 1985).

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continuity of local-level caretakinG Hawaiian fishing communities have endured significant social-ecological change over the past century. The early 1900s saw not only the loss of most konohiki fisheries but also the transition from a subsistence to a cash economy, with registered konohiki fisheries increasingly used for commercial ventures. Hukilau, communal surround net fishing, was used both to feed ahupuaʻa families and to provide fish for sale to the many Hawaiian families moving from rural areas to the city of Honolulu. Yet, even as these changes reached the rural communities of Kahana and Haleleʻa, the underlying values and principles of konohiki management persisted. One such feature was the management of land and sea as an integrated unit. For Hawaiians, fisheries management begins with taking care of the land. One Kahana elder remembers how one konohiki always made sure people were “keeping their yards clean . . . make sure the rivers were clean, the stream beds, and just responsibilities and kuleana that belong to our people anyway” (B.U. 2016). Elders commented in particular on how the hau (Hibiscus tiliaceus), an invasive tree, never used to reach the stream banks. However, under state management, hau has overgrown the stream, reducing water quality, disrupting flood pulses that act as spawning cues, and blocking migratory pathways of endemic anadromous fish species (Mueller-Dombois and Wirawan 2005). Emphasizing the importance of land-sea connections, another elder shared how one konohiki family from a neighbouring ahupuaʻa was required to maintain one loʻi (wet taro patch) in Kahana in order to be able to hold the konohiki rights to the fishery (G.C. 2016). Families on Kauaʻi shared how they created habitat and cultivated nearshore environments in Haleleʻa and the neighbouring moku of Koʻolau. Some families weeded limu (marine macro-algae) beds like gardens on the land, particularly before their sporing season, to encourage new growth. Elders emphasized the crucial role of fresh water from streams and springs to fuel growth of limu, believed to be the foundation of the entire marine ecosystem. They described special care taken in harvesting, rubbing freshly picked limu on pant legs to release their spores before bagging and cutting, or gently plucking the seaweed rather than pulling it out by the roots (i.e., holdfasts). One area elder explained, “[That’s why] today no more limu. [People these days] don’t care how they pull it. You pull easy, by the edge like this, come out easy” (Kam 2013). In addition to irresponsible harvesting practices, land-based sources of pollution, including a nearby golf course, the spread of invasive species, and decreases in stream and spring flow, are all cited as causes of depletion. Another persistent feature of local-level management was the importance of maintaining respectful reciprocal relationships with fish. As recently as the 1960s in Haleleʻa and the late 1940s in Kahana, some of the well-known fishermen of

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these areas took care of kūʻula (fishing stones) to help them call or move schools of fish into their nets. Stories from Haleleʻa describe shark ʻaumākua, embodiments of specific ancestors, helping area families to fish. Paʻitulu, a fisherman of Hāʻena who lived through the turn of the twentieth century, is said to have called a particular shark whenever he wanted to fish along the Nā Pali Coast, which neighbours Haleleʻa. The shark would carry him on its back down the coast and then return him with his catch (Maly and Maly 2003). One Kahana elder retold a story about how his family, who once held the fishing rights, had to amend a broken relationship with akule. He shared the story that was passed down to him: “[They] used to go out and catch akule all the time, and all of a sudden the akule never came in for a long time. Long time the akule never came in. So this is the story that I learned from my mom. She told me that her family went [and] kalua [baked] a big pig, and they took it out and threw it in the ocean . . . so not long after that, there was so much akule coming in!” (G.C. 2013). This story demonstrates that fishing was more than simply taking from the resources and was based on a relationship of respect. When fish stopped coming, it was attributed not just to ecological factors but also to something wrong and out of balance in families’ relationship with the resource or with one another. To make things right in this case, the family had to hoʻoponopono – a practice of reconciliation and forgiveness used to put things back into balance – which resulted in the restored abundance of akule. Fishers also protected natural processes, such as spawning. Both Kahana and Kalihiwai are havens for schools of akule, which are attracted to their brackish waters and enter their sandy bays to spawn. Kahana’s konohiki protected akule spawning behaviour by placing a kapu that prohibited harvest of akule as well as entry to the centre of the bay so as to avoid “scaring the fish away.” Residents could still exercise their right to the fishery by accessing the bay’s edges and fringing reefs (see figure 14.1). The spawning of akule was also protected in Kalihiwai, where the konohiki waited to harvest until the changing colours of the school indicated that spawning was complete. One resident, referring to more general harvest protocols across species, explained, “The management was in the harvesting, and in respecting the seasons. They knew the spawning cycles. They never took out of season” (Sproat 2015). Another key feature of konohiki management was the communal benefits derived from sharing in the work. Hukilau, for example, required the whole community, including skilled fish spotters, rowers, divers, and many others who helped to pull the large net to shore. Following a surround in Kahana, community members helped to clean the boats and net, built makeshift racks for the net to dry on, patched the net, and returned everything to the net and boat houses for storage, ready to go for the next surround. Although the konohiki of both Kahana and Kalihiwai reserved exclusive rights to harvest akule, as allowed

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14.1 | Fisherman with a squid box and pole for harvesting octopus at Kahana Bay, Hawaiʻi, in 1959, the year Hawaiʻi was admitted into the union.

by law, they needed many hands to harvest and were responsible for feeding the community with the resulting abundance. Konohiki oversaw the catch distribution from each surround, ensuring that everyone – the workers, community members, and even visitors – had fish to bring home to their families. In Halele‘a, one konohiki would stand with the pile of harvested fish after a surround, and all the area families would gather around him in a circle. Every family had a large bamboo basket, and he threw fish into each one, around the circle, until all the fish were gone and everyone had a full basket to take home. Describing the generosity of another area konohiki, his daughter shared, “[My father] gave the fish to the people first before he sell. He never keep the fish to sell first, no. The people come first. He was so kind, my papa. And the people, oh, they do anything for him. They love him because the way how he treat them”

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(Piʻilani 2007). Sharing to ensure that all of the people, especially elders, were well fed and taken care of was an important value that continues today. centralized fisheries ManaGeMent Today, the Hawaiʻi State Division of Aquatic Resources exercises authority over all marine resources within 3 miles of Hawaiʻi’s shorelines. Under centralized state management, Hawaiʻi’s fisheries have considerably declined (Friedlander and Rodgers 2008; Shomura 1987), in part due to the division’s lack of sufficient funds, staff, and place-based knowledge to adequately care for coastal resources across the Hawaiian Islands (Friedlander, Shackeroff, and Kittinger 2013; Jokiel et al. 2011). Recognition of these challenges, along with the increasing pressures of Hawai‘i’s commercial fisheries, growing population, and ever-growing tourism industry, have inspired a renaissance of community-based management of Hawaiʻi’s nearshore fisheries. inforMal restoration and education efforts Although Hawai‘i’s communities may not have the authority to regulate the industries driving fishery depletion, families continue to find informal ways to exercise their kuleana (reciprocal relationships) with the places that sustain them. Kahana and Haleleʻa families are actively working to restore traditional food systems, revive customary practices, and rebuild their capacity to manage their fisheries through community monitoring, educational programs, and networks. Taro is a culturally important staple crop in Hawai‘i. This starchy root vegetable is grown in loʻi (wet taro patches), which function as sediment traps, filtering stream water as it flows to the nearshore. A few key community members have led efforts to restore and maintain loʻi and traditional irrigation ditches in Kahana with the help of families from neighbouring ahupua‘a and grade school and university students across Oʻahu. In Hā‘ena, families have had to move away due to rising taxes on coastal lands, increasingly coveted by investors from the mainland United States. However, they have successfully negotiated a stewardship agreement to restore loʻi within an area state park, taro patches their families once farmed.  Although these loʻi are now situated on public lands, they are accessible only with keys held by the families who take care of them. Here, access is based on caretaking, not ownership. Kahana’s and Hā‘ena’s loʻi provide families with places to build community and to fulfil kuleana by regularly gathering to care for their homes. In this way, even small areas like loʻi create powerful spaces in which families can deepen their connections with the watersheds that feed their fisheries. Kahana and Haleleʻa families also exercise their kuleana by reviving customary fishing and caretaking practices. The Hāʻena community has reintroduced

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the practice of maintaining imu kai, in which rocks are piled up in nearshore areas to create sheltering habitat for fish. These simple structures cultivate fish abundance and allow families to harvest even in high surf. Another fishing method being rediscovered is the older practice that gives communal surround net fishing its name, hukilau. In true hukilau, community members huki (pull) a long rope with hundreds of lau (dried ti leaves, Cordyline fruticosa) tied along its length. The shadows and movement of the leaves on the surface of the water scare schools of fish into the shallows, where they can be surrounded with a short length of net. Kahana is most remembered for its large communal surrounds of akule during konohiki times, which ended in the mid to late 1960s. However, over the past decade, with the guidance of elders, Kahana’s fishing families have brought back hukilau for ʻamaʻama. Despite faster and easier ways of surrounding fish using long lengths of monofilament net rather than rope and leaves, hukilau offers a way to perpetuate culture while also building community bonds through the shared experiences of relearning, reconnecting, and working together. Another way that Kahana and Haleleʻa families informally exercise their kuleana is by organizing educational programs, such as Lawaiʻa ʻOhana (Family Fishing) Camps. These week-long summer camps create the space needed for families to get together on the land, share traditional knowledge with the younger generations, and teach responsible fishing practices. One Kahana community member captures the importance of these gatherings for educating across generations: “A lot of the things that I’ve been taught today [through Lawaiʻa ʻOhana Camp and other community gatherings] was never ever taught to our young ones or even to our old ones” (B.U. 2016). At these camps, and those run by Nā Kilo ʻĀina in Haleleʻa, community members observe ecological health, blending Western and traditional scientific monitoring methods to create place-based calendars and to document seasonal as well as long-term fluctuations related to climate change. Finally, families build their capacity to manage nearshore resources by cultivating partnerships and sharing knowledge across community networks, both locally and globally. Through the community-based nonprofit organization Kuaʻāina  Ulu ʻAuamo, Kahana and Haleleʻa families are able to network with more than thirty-three communities across the Hawaiian Islands who are also working to restore local-level governance of their lands and fisheries. In 2016 Kuaʻāina Ulu ʻAuamo expanded this network beyond Hawaiʻi to include over 100 Indigenous and community leaders, practitioners, and supporters from thirtyfive nations who took part in a gathering leading up to the World Conservation Congress in Honolulu organized by the International Union for Conservation of Nature. All participants in this gathering took part in rebuilding a traditional fishpond in Kahana and helping to reintroduce a native species of seaweed for

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fish to feed on within the pond. Through networks like these, the local-level efforts of individual communities are strengthened by the support of many. restoration of local-level Governance Hawaiʻi fishing communities are also working on formal policy fronts to perpetuate their responsibilities to care for nearshore resources. As the first Hawaiʻi community permanently designated as a Community-Based Subsistence Fishing Area (CBSFA ), Hāʻena has been a leader in efforts to restore local-level governance based on ancestral practice. This designation allows communities to work with the Division of Aquatic Resources to create local-level rules regulating fishing and coastal use. For Hāʻena, the process of obtaining designation as a CBSFA , negotiating draft rules with the state, and seeing them passed into law took nearly a decade. The group of fishermen and community leaders leading the rule-making process faced opposition from government officials, commercial-fishing lobbies, and even other community members worried about having to give up key fishing areas. The rules process was additionally held up each time state government underwent changes in administration or when community leaders shifted. The final rules reflect compromise with government as well as with representatives of the many different groups that use the Hāʻena coast, including surfers, kite boarders, and the nearly 1 million tourists who visit each year. Community members had to settle for a much smaller protected “nursery” area for fish and other marine life than originally proposed, and rules related to landbased sources of pollution, fresh water quality, and boating activities were delegated to other divisions within the Department of Land and Natural Resources for future action. The final rules do preclude highly extractive gear-like spear guns and lay nets, require people to harvest with traditional techniques such as catching octopus by hand instead of spearing them, and place a moratorium on the harvest of key species. Perhaps more important than the content of the rules was the way the rulemaking process mobilized the support of area families and allies from fishing communities across Hawaiʻi (see figure 14.2). Of sixty-five testimonies received in the public hearing process, 97 per cent were in support, and in August 2016, Hawaiʻi’s governor signed the Hāʻena CBSFA rules into law. Due to community leaders’ perseverance despite many obstacles, Hāʻena has become known as a community proactively working to protect its fishery. Current community efforts include working on education and outreach about the rules, as well as beginning to patrol the coast and collaborate with the state on enforcement. An initial study of the ecological effects of the rules, just one year after their implementation, documented the increased biomass and abundance of many

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14.2 | A prayer before giving testimony on the rules package of the CommunityBased Subsistence Fishing Area, 3 October 2014.

species. The Hāʻena community’s fishery work has also helped to build other partnerships and alliances. These partnerships facilitate other efforts within Hāʻena, such as local stewardship of the area state park, while also engaging Hāʻena leaders in working for protection of larger areas such as the Papahānaumokuākea National Marine Monument, which encompasses the Northwestern Hawaiian Islands. Nineteen communities have taken steps toward becoming CBSFA s, with eight, including three entire islands, submitting bills for legislative designation (Ayers and Kittinger 2014). One community’s rules package is currently making its way toward the public-hearing process, and another community has successfully passed a ten-year moratorium on fishing along its coast. Multiple communities across Hawai‘i are working on local management rules, collaborating with the state on enforcement, and pursuing other formal means of local-level management integrating traditional practices. cultural kīPuka: autonoMous sPaces of coMMunity caretakinG and Governance Despite the proliferation of recreational tourism in important subsistence fishing areas, as well as decreasing access to globally coveted coastal lands where communities have lived for generations, rural Hawaiian communities have

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continued to care for their coastal lands and nearshore fisheries by perpetuating ancestral values and the principles of konohiki management. These teachings include the importance of managing land resources and their impacts on nearshore environments, maintaining reciprocal family relationships with nearshore resources, sharing in the work, and ensuring that abundance is equitably distributed among the community.  Although the ability of communities to manage ahupuaʻa fisheries is limited within a centralized state management system, communities are pioneering both formal and informal ways to restore local-level governance based on responsibilities, not ownership of land and resources. Communities continue to demonstrate this kuleana by working with state agencies and land owners to manage both public and private lands based on ancestral values and caretaking practices. By maintaining reciprocal relationships with place, families are able to perpetuate Hawaiian culture and ancestral values in even small areas, like a restored loʻi or fishpond. These community kīpuka not only provide spaces of refuge, teaching, continuity, connection, and gathering, but they also fuel other efforts both within and beyond the community through networks and partnerships across Hawaiʻi and around the world. This research suggests ways that Indigenous caretakers can both maintain and adapt cultural practices, while upholding the integrity of underlying values and functions that these practices serve within communities. Working within existing imposed governance structures and even land-use and ownership arrangements, communities can still cultivate an abundance of people and the resources that sustain them while carving out small, but interlocking and spreading, spaces of sovereignty.

references Akutagawa, M., H. Williams, and S. Kamaka‘ala. 2016. Traditional and Customary Practices Report for Manaʻe, Molokaʻi: Traditional Subsistence Uses, Mālama Practices and Recommendations, and Native Hawaiian Rights Protections of Kamaʻāina Families of Manaʻe Moku, East Molokaʻi, Hawaiʻi. Prepared for Office of Hawaiian Affairs, Honolulu. Andrade, C. 2008. Hā‘ena: Through the Eyes of the Ancestors. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Ayers, A.L., and J.N. Kittinger. 2014. “Emergence of Co-Management Governance for Hawai‘i Coral Reef Fisheries.” Global Environmental Change 28: 251–62. B.U. 2016. Interview with authors. Friedlander, A.M., and K.S. Rodgers. 2008. “Coral Reef Fishes and Fisheries of South Molokaʻi.” In The Coral Reef of South Moloka‘i, Hawai‘i: Portrait of a Sediment-Threatened Fringing Reef, ed. M.E. Field, S.A. Cochran, J.B. Logan, and C.D. Storlazzi, 59–66. US Geological Survey Scientific Investigations Report 2007–5101. http://pubs.usgs.gov/sir/ 2007/5101/sir2007-5101_chapter07.pdf. Friedlander, A.M., J.M. Shackeroff, and J.N. Kittinger. 2013. “Customary Marine Resource Knowledge and Use in Contemporary Hawaiʻi.” Pacific Science 67, no. 3: 441–60.

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G.C. 2013. Interview with authors. – 2016. Interview with authors. Gonschor, L., and K. Beamer. 2014. “Toward an Inventory of Ahupua‘a in the Hawaiian Kingdom: A Survey of Nineteenth- and Early Twentieth-Century Cartographic and Archival Records of the Island of Hawai’i.” Hawaiian Journal of History 48: 53–87. Higuchi, J. 2008. “Propagating Cultural Kipuka: The Obstacles and Opportunities of Establishing a Community-Based Subsistence Fishing Area.” University of Hawai‘i Law Review 31: 193–224. Jokiel, P.L., K.S. Rodgers, W.J. Walsh, D.A. Polhemus, and T.A. Wilhelm. 2011. “Marine Resource Management in the Hawaiian Archipelago: The Traditional Hawaiian System in Relation to the Western Approach.” Journal of Marine Biology 2011: 1–16. http://dx.doi.org/10.1155/2011/151682. Kam, Anabelle ‘Ōulilani Pa. 2013. Interview with authors. Kirch, P.V. 1985. Feathered Gods and Fishhooks: An Introduction to Hawaiian Archaeology and Prehistory. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Kosaki, R.H. 1954. Konohiki Fishing Rights. Honolulu: Legislative Reference Bureau, University of Hawaiʻi. Maly, K., and O. Maly. 2003. Ka Hana Lawai‘a a me nā Ko‘a o na Kai ‘Ewalu: A History of Fishing Practices and Marine Fisheries of the Hawaiian Islands. Honolulu: Nature Conservancy. McGregor, D. 2007. Na kua‘aina: Living Hawaiian Culture. Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press. McGregor, D., and M.K. MacKenzie. 2014. Mo‘olelo Ea O Nā Hawai‘i: History of Native Hawaiian Governance in Hawai‘i. Prepared for Office of Hawaiian Affairs, Honolulu. Meller, N. 1985. Indigenous Ocean Rights in Hawaiʻi. Honolulu: Sea Grant Program, University of Hawai‘i. Montgomery, M. 2018. “Ma Kahana ka ‘Ike, Lessons from Kahana, O‘ahu: Building Capacity for Community-Based Coastal Resource Management.” MS thesis, University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. Mueller-Dombois, D., and N. Wirawan. 2005. “The Kahana Valley Ahupua‘a: A PABITRA Study Site on O‘ahu, Hawaiian Islands.” Pacific Science 59, no. 2: 293–314. Piʻilani, Nancy Malia. 2007. Interview with authors. Poepoe, K.K., P.K. Bartram, and A.M. Friedlander. 2003. “The Use of Traditional Hawaiian Knowledge in the Contemporary Management of Marine Resources.” Fisheries Center Research Reports 11, no. 1: 328–39. Pukui, M.K., and S.H. Elbert. 1975. New Pocket Hawaiian Dictionary: With a Concise Grammar and Given Names in Hawaiian. Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press. Shomura, R.S. 1987. Hawaii’s Marine Fishery Resources: Yesterday (1900) and Today (1986). Honolulu: Southwest Fisheries Center, National Marine Fisheries Service, Honolulu Laboratory. Sproat, David. 2015. Interview with authors. Stauffer, R.H. 2004. Kahana: How the Land Was Lost. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Titcomb, M. 1972. Native Use of Fish in Hawaii. Vol. 29. Honolulu: University of Hawaiʻi Press. Vaughan, M. 2018. Kaiāulu: Gathering Tides. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. Vaughan, M., and A. Ayers. 2016. “Customary Access: Sustaining Local Control of Fishing and Food on Kauai’s North Shore.” Food, Culture and Society 19, no. 3: 517–38.

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section four Ethnoecology, Law, and Policy in the Current Context

introduction

Nancy J. Turner The previous chapters in this volume have alluded to particular laws, policies, and legal decisions that have been key points of reference in considering the roles of ethnobotany and ethnoecology in the context of Indigenous peoples’ perspectives and rights to lands and plant resources. The chapters in this section focus on these laws and outcomes, nationally and internationally, and on how they intersect with Indigenous legal traditions, ethics, and values related to human-environment relationships. Dr Kelly Bannister, author of the first chapter in this section, is uniquely suited to discuss the “Legal and Ethical Context for Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and Responsibilities.” As a student of ethnobotany, phytochemistry, and traditional medicine, she soon realized that her work was set within a controversial context, with the potential for cultural appropriation, the violation of intellectual property rights, and even the threat of “biopiracy” if the results of her research were taken and used for commercial gain without permission or out of the context of the original applications of a particular medicine. This concern and the threat of the harm that might ensue from her research compelled her to study the ethical considerations surrounding ethnobotanical research and to lead the International Society of Ethnobiology (2006) in developing a Code of Ethics, which then became a key document in formulating Canada’s Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans (Canadian Institutes of Health Research et al. 2014), aimed at

university-affiliated researchers. Dr Bannister has thus played a major role in supporting positive relationships between researchers and Aboriginal participants in ethnobotany and related fields and in promoting respectful and productive collaboration in addressing the issues identified in this volume. Indigenous law – setting out the relationships and responsibilities among lands and waters, plants, animals, fish, marine ecosystems, and humans – is the topic of the next chapter in this section, “Ethnoecology and Indigenous Legal Traditions,” authored by the University of Victoria’s Dr Deborah Curran, jointly appointed in the Faculty of Law and the School of Environmental Studies, and Dr Val Napoleon, Law Foundation Chair of Aboriginal Justice and Governance. This chapter provides us with a comprehensive overview of the interplay between Indigenous law and the various historical treaties, agreements, court decisions, and collaborative management initiatives that have set the stage for wider recognition of Indigenous legal traditions and better opportunities for self-determination and collaborative environmental management in the future. The information they provide resonates with many other chapters in the book. The next chapter, “Indigenous Environmental Stewardship,” is well matched with the previous one. The authors, Dr Monica Mulrennan and doctoral candidate Véronique Bussières, both of the Department of Geography, Planning and Environment at Concordia University, present a deep analysis of how Indigenous peoples’ conservation and stewardship practices have been viewed, ignored, overlooked, honoured, and/or embraced in various situations nationally and internationally. Examining an entire range of official documents and protocols – from the Brundtland Report (United Nations 1987) to the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007) and the Nagoya Protocol, prepared by the Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity (2011) – they consider the roles ascribed to Indigenous peoples and the mechanisms that have either damaged or supported Indigenous opportunities and approaches to biodiversity conservation. The authors complete their analysis by considering initiatives that enhance and promote Indigenous resurgence, biocultural restoration, fairness, and gender equity in conserving the richness of life on earth. In the following chapter, “Tsilhqot’in Nation Aboriginal Title,” lawyers David M. Robbins and Michael Bendle of Woodward & Company in Victoria, focus on the specific application of ethnobotanical evidence in the well-publicized Tsilhqot’in land title case, which culminated in the Supreme Court of Canada’s affirmation of the Tsilhqot’in Nation’s Aboriginal title to a significant area of its traditional territory in central British Columbia. They emphasize the importance of expert witnesses who base their testimony on careful research and who provide the court with consistent, reliable, and meaningful evidence to assist its work. Significant sources of evidence leading to the ultimate decision

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in favour of the Tsilhqot’in were elders’ oral testimony, ethnobotanical and ethnoecological information on plant names and plant use, stories about plants and landscapes, and descriptions of traditional plant management. This type of evidence has not been prominent in other court decisions, but it is likely to be drawn upon more frequently in future land-use deliberations. Finally, the last chapter in this section, “Plants, Habitats and Litigation for Indigenous Peoples in Canada,” by lawyer Stuart Rush, begins with an acknowledgment of the spiritual aspect of Indigenous peoples’ relationship to the land, a concept that is critically important but often overlooked in considering Indigenous stewardship and use of lands and resources. Rush centres his considerations on the current and ongoing Haida land title case in Haida Gwaii, British Columbia. He provides compelling evidence of continuity in Haida plant use over centuries and examines the spectrum of evidence that can be applied in Aboriginal title litigation, including language, archaeology, oral history and narrative, gifts and attendant protocols, spiritual and related stewardship practices, traditional food systems, medicines, technologies, and protocols of governance and decision making, all of which are informed by aspects of ethnobotany and ethnoecology.

references Canadian Institutes of Health Research, Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council of Canada, and Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 2014. Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans. Version 2. Ottawa: Secretariat on Responsible Conduct of Research. International Society of Ethnobiology. 2006. The ISE Code of Ethics (with 2008 additions). http://ethnobiology.net/code-of-ethics/. Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity. 2011. Nagoya Protocol on Access to Genetic Resources and the Fair and Equitable Sharing of Benefits Arising from Their Utilization to the Convention on Biological Diversity. Montreal: United Nations Environmental Program. United Nations. 1987. Report of the World Commission on Environment and Development: Our Common Future. https://sustainabledevelopment.un.org/content/documents/ 5987our-common-future.pdf. – 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/ development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenouspeoples.html.

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15 Right Relationships: Legal and Ethical Context for Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and Responsibilities Kelly Bannister

We directed our consultations to one over-riding question: What are the foundations of a fair and honourable relationship between the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people of Canada? – Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP 1996a)

introduction In a keynote address, “People in Place: The Worldview We Need,” presented at the ethnoecology symposium on which the present volume is based, John Ralston Saul (2017) described Indigenous peoples’ conceptions of land rights as being a matter of “enormous responsibility and authority, not power.” He suggested that responsibility and obligation offer a whole other notion of relationships – based not on top-down approaches but on relationships between people and place that are rooted in values reflected in the phrases “food as sovereignty” and “I wonder if I will make a good ancestor?” Likewise, as part of the formal opening of the symposium, Professor Jeremy Webber, dean of the Faculty of Law at the University of Victoria, noted significant shortcomings in addressing Indigenous land rights through purely Western legal traditions. In the spirit of the findings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015), he pointed out the need for a fundamental shift from focusing on “rights” to developing “right relationships.” This reconciliatory and relational direction that both Saul and Webber urge us toward in addressing Indigenous peoples’ land rights is not new, and their comments, even if compelling, are not novel. They are preceded by reports from formalized expert groups such as the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP 1996b) and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015), by published works of scholars in many disciplines, particularly those related

to Indigenous law and natural law (see Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Battiste 2016; Borrows 2002, 2010, 2019; Borrows and Coyle 2017; Napoleon 2012), and by the teachings of countless Indigenous elders and practitioners that point us to the laws of the lands and waters as the logical and just basis for resolving Indigenous land, water, and other rights in this Canadian era of reconciliation. In British Columbia, for example, Tla-o-qui-aht master carver Joe Martin is one of many Indigenous elders who tirelessly share traditional teachings of the lands and waters he calls home. Martin speaks of the Nuu-chah-nulth concept of ha’huulthii as referring to both a “marriage to the land” and a responsibility to leave the earth in abundance for future generations, adding that “Nature will provide for our needs, but not our greed” (in Bannister 2017, 52). Martin explains how Nuu-chah-nulth law is represented artistically, such as embodied in a totem pole. “It represents our rights and responsibilities based on the Natural Law of Mother Earth,” he says. “It is a reflection of Hishuk Ish Ts’awalk – our understanding of the world where everything is connected.” Martin goes on to speak of “gratitude and responsibility to our past and future ancestors . . . We are accountable to them and all living beings to live in accordance with the Natural Law” (in Raygorodetsky 2014). Nuu-chah-nulth Canadian political scientist Eli Enns explains the “cultural logic” behind the widely held tenet that “rights and responsibilities are intertwined as two sides of the same coin” (in Bannister 2017, 12). According to the teachings of his elders, the basis for this belief is the “Original Treaty” between the Creator and the people of the land: The People of this Land receive all of the wealth and abundance of life from Isaak, the sun, and the Creator, Naas. They receive this abundance in reciprocity for the three things that are promised: 1) Give thanks, be grateful for what is provided; 2) Treat what has been provided with respect (plants, animals). This is a promise, a sacred oath with the Creator; and 3) A lateral promise – wherever possible be generous with others, emulate the generosity that the Creator has shown. The third promise of generosity is the piece of the contract that allows Indigenous peoples to make treaty with others. (In ibid.) Cultural anthropologist Brian Noble (2008, 465–6) articulates the twinning of rights and responsibilities and the interconnection of people and place in terms of “being owned by” the land rather than “owning” it. He contrasts the Eurocentric legal notion of “owning as property” with the Indigenous understanding of “owning as belonging.” He defines the former as “a system that emphasizes property as a commodity capable of individual ownership and alienation for the purposes of resource use and wealth maximization.” He goes on to say, “In contrast, ‘owning as belonging’ places greater emphasis on transactions that strengthen relationships of respect and responsibility between people and what Right Relationships | 255

they regard as ‘cultural property.’ It assumes a largely inextricable connection and continuity between people and the material and intangible world.” Likewise, Cree author Gregory Younging (2018, 25) writes, “Indigenous Peoples think of Creation as something that includes and sustains all living things. People are part of it and responsible for caring for it. The question of ‘who owns it’ has no context.” The many “inextricabilities” described above are well known to ethnoecologists and ethnobotanists – their fields of inquiry being premised on interlinkages between ecological, cultural, and linguistic diversity, with their scholarship and practice often situated at the messy interface of different cultural worldviews, legal orders, and ethical norms. Not surprisingly, a strong rights-based discourse and call for legal remedies arose in ethnobiology in the 1990s, largely in response to concerns over biological and cultural appropriation through the practice of biodiversity prospecting and the often unauthorized use of Indigenous cultural knowledge and traditional resources for commercial exploitation. Years of intensive international attention to these issues fuelled division and turmoil among many ethnobiologists but also catalyzed tremendous learning and evolution at the personal, institutional, and professional levels within and far beyond ethnobiology. Thanks largely to the vision, leadership, and determination of the late Dr Darrell Posey, some significant innovations resulted from these tensions, which continue to inspire many to this day (Bannister and Solomon 2009). To complement the rights-oriented focus of the present volume, this chapter revisits some specific legal and ethical contexts of the past, including how they have evolved. It offers a touchstone for considering today’s role of ethnoecology and ethnobotany in addressing Indigenous peoples’ land rights and responsibilities through the lens of applied ethics with a relational focus. traditional resource riGhts Darrell Posey was an ethnobiologist well known for his passionate voice as a scientific ally to Kayapó Indigenous communities in Brazil who were facing destruction of their Amazonian homelands in the 1980s and 1990s. But Posey was ahead of his time in this respect, as he was among the few ethnobiologists who were willing to use their positions as scientists and academics to speak out on behalf of community partners against industrial development and political oppression. A striking illustration of the controversial nature of Indigenous peoples’ rights in the early 1990s is found in a lengthy “Editor’s Note” published as an endnote to an article by Posey (1990) in The Journal of Ethnobiology entitled “Intellectual Property Rights: What Is the Position of Ethnobiology?” Journal editor Willard Van Asdall (1990, 98) gives a rationale for why the article was included, last minute, and without review. Excerpts are included here to illustrate how challenging Posey’s ideas were to his peers at that time:

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It is important to point out that Posey’s article on Intellectual Property Rights (IPR ) is a position/opinion paper . . . It is important that all aspects be intelligently and compassionately considered and assessed before this or any other society or organization makes any firm decisions or rulings about it . . . I wish to make it known that I did not send this paper out for peer review because of lack of time. I felt it was important that the readers of this journal be made aware of the complexities of IPR and be invited to make their opinions and facts at their disposal known so they can be taken into account during the discussions of IPR in China, 21–25 October, 1990. I recognize that many readers of the Journal will agree in whole or in part with this paper. At the same time other readers will object vehemently to it, again, either in whole or in part. Had there been time for the paper to have been peer-reviewed, it is likely that reviewers would have suggested revisions, given additional or what they might consider better sources of information; it’s possible that one of the reviewers might have recommended that the paper not be published. It was within this premonitory academic milieu that Posey was inspired to create an institutional platform for developing Indigenous rights-based solutions with ethnobiologists and allies by co-founding and organizing the first meeting of the International Society of Ethnobiology (ISE ) in 1988, held in Belém, Brazil. The meeting led to the international Declaration of Belém (ISE 1988), which outlined the responsibilities of scientists and environmentalists in addressing the needs of Indigenous and local communities. It is seen by many as the first international declaration to explicitly and fully recognize the expertise of Indigenous knowledge holders and to call for compensation to them for use of their cultural knowledge and biological resources. Posey (2002) realized that Western legal systems of property rights were significantly limited in their ability to adequately protect Indigenous biocultural knowledge and resources and that applying intellectual property rights regimes could facilitate exploitation of cultural knowledge. In collaboration with Dr Graham Dutfield (Posey and Dutfield 1996), Posey (1995, 193) proposed a new concept based on “bundles of rights” referred to as “traditional resource rights” according to the following rationale: Given that knowledge and traditional resources are central to the maintenance of identity for indigenous peoples, the control over these resources is of central concern in their struggle for self-determination . . . Traditional Resource Rights (TRR ) has emerged as a concept that more accurately reflects indigenous and traditional peoples’ views and concerns. TRR amasses ‘bundles of rights’ already widely recognized by international legally and non-legally binding agreements in an effort to

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build a solid foundation for more equitable systems of protection and benefit sharing. Basic principles upon which TRR is based include: basic human rights, right to development, rights to environmental integrity, religious freedom, land and territorial rights, right to privacy, prior informed consent and full disclosure, farmers’ rights, intellectual property rights, neighbouring rights, cultural property rights, cultural heritage recognition, rights of customary law and practice. . . . TRR is more of a process than a product. The concept can grow as additional rights accrue and adapt through the development of national and international legislation. It goes beyond other sui generis models in that it seeks to protect not only knowledge relating to biological resources; it also asserts the right of peoples to self-determination and the right to safeguard ‘culture’ in its broadest sense. TRR is rights driven, not economically motivated. Yet by prioritizing indigenous peoples’ rights to say no to exploitation, and by acknowledging their basic rights to control access over and receive benefits from traditional resources, commercial and research institutions should find equitable agreements and partnerships more easily attainable. (Ibid., 192–3) Posey and Dutfield’s (1996) concept of traditional resource rights has since been superseded by new legal analyses and approaches, including those of legal scholars and practitioners in Canada such as Catherine Bell (2014), Val Napoleon (2012), John Borrows (2019), and Chidi Oguamanam (2018), as well as by the innovative work of interdisciplinary research projects, such as Protection and Repatriation of First Nations Cultural Heritage at the University of Alberta, Intellectual Issues in Cultural Property at Simon Fraser University, Access and Benefit Sharing Canada at the University of Ottawa, and Accessing Justice and Reconciliation at the University of Victoria. Nonetheless, the issues remain. It is clear that even as legal theory and practice evolve, legal approaches alone continue to be inadequate. Ethnobiologists inspired by Posey have long recognized the limitations of legal remedies for addressing Indigenous rights concerns (Bannister and Solomon 2009; Riley 2004; Solomon 2004; Stephenson 1999). Tremendous effort has been invested over decades into developing complementary innovations in ethics, most notably through the International Society of Ethnobiology, as described in the next section. ethics in research The term “ethics” has many meanings, formally and informally. As used here, ethics is a formal branch of philosophy that seeks to resolve questions dealing

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with human morality, involving concepts of right and wrong, good and bad, and virtuous and vicious. For our purposes, ethics is about how we choose to relate to one another and other sentient beings and their habitats, as well as about our capacity to know what harms or enhances the well-being of sentient creatures. Research ethics can be understood as a form of applied ethics that deals with difficult moral questions, typically drawing on the codification of agreed rules of conduct to guide the research endeavour. There is a lengthy history of research ethics codification since the 1960s and 1970s that has led to the development of codes of ethics, codes of conduct, and ethical guidelines by many disciplines and professions (for a detailed review of research ethics related to ethnobiology, see Hardison and Bannister 2011). the code of ethics of the international society of ethnobioloGy The seed for the ISE Code of Ethics (ISE 2006) was planted in 1988 with the Declaration of Belém (ISE 1988) at the International Society of Ethnobiology’s first congress, and it was germinated by a request from Posey (1990, 98) two years later that the second congress in 1990, held in Kunming, China, “[i]nclude on the agenda of an Ethics Committee the issues of IPR in relation to activities of researchers with indigenous populations.” Posey considered the 1990 congress to be “the next step toward the development of a position of ethnobiologists toward IPR ” and the “‘just compensation’ of native peoples for their knowledge,” expressing his hope that “both the Society of Ethnobiology and the International Society of Ethnobiology will take the intellectual lead – as well as appropriate actions – toward the development of a new ethic that serves as a model for other disciplines” (ibid., 97–8). By the fourth ISE congress in 1994, held in Lucknow, India, members agreed to develop the first ever code of ethics for ethnobiologists, which was to be completed in 1995 under Posey’s leadership. However, the magnitude of the commitment to involve Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples from all over the world, combined with a challenging political climate – the peak of bioprospecting controversies was in the late 1990s – and then Posey’s untimely death in 2001, resulted in an extended ten-year process to develop the ISE Code of Ethics. The process successfully involved hundreds of individuals from many different cultures and backgrounds and from all regions of the world, and the code was unanimously adopted by members in 2006 at the congress held in Chiang Rai, Thailand, with minor additions being made in 2008 (for a brief history of the ISE Code of Ethics, see ISE 2019). The ISE Code of Ethics (ISE 2006) remains in place to this day, its goals being “to facilitate ethical conduct and equitable relationships, and foster a commitment to meaningful collaboration and reciprocal responsibility by all parties.” The

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spirit of the ISE Code of Ethics is truly intended to foster working better together. The code not only offers concrete guidance through seventeen principles and twelve practical guidelines but also compels each of us to interpret and implement them in relationship with those we are working with. A commitment to uphold the ISE Code of Ethics is a condition of ISE membership. Moreover, the Society of Ethnobiology, Society for Economic Botany, and Latin American Society of Ethnobiology, among other societies, have all formally adopted the code, which is currently available in eight languages. What has always set the ISE Code of Ethics (ISE 2006) apart from other ethical guidance and given it particular relevance over the past twenty years is its explicit emphasis on Indigenous peoples’ proprietary rights, cultural responsibilities, and interrelationships within a framework of mindfulness – with mindfulness invoking “an obligation to be fully aware of one’s knowing and unknowing, doing and undoing, action and inaction.” Rather than a checklist or rule book of steps to follow for ethical research, the code points to a range of deeper considerations needed to give expression to rights of self-determination and responsibilities of care for past, present, and future ancestors amid the global diversity of peoples, cultures, experiences of colonialism, and visions of sovereign futures. The ISE Code of Ethics also underscores “layers of duty in research that compel researchers to be concerned about the dignity and autonomy not only of individuals, but also of collectives or groups” (Bannister and Solomon 2009, 158). It extends the concept of research ethics “beyond just humans to the surrounding environment upon which human well-being depends, and includes rights and responsibilities to the living and non-living, and extends into past, present and future” (ibid.). Researchers are obliged to consider larger temporal scales – years, decades, or generations – for projects and to commit more comprehensive resources (e.g., time and funds) in order to put in place what is needed to understand and meet mutual research expectations. This process ought to include defining goals, obtaining consent, sharing outcomes and benefits in meaningful and useful forms, and adequately protecting community knowledge and property from misrepresentation or misappropriation (ibid.). In contemporary terms, the original goal of the ISE Code of Ethics was to move thought and practice concerning research ethics away from a prescriptive recipe for how to do research “right” and toward an exercise in the democratization and decolonization of the research enterprise by putting relationships back into research, or as Webber and others have said, creating “right relationships.” University-affiliated research in Canada, similar to some other countries, is currently governed by a national ethics policy regarding how humans are to be treated as research participants, called the Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans (TCPS ) (Canadian Institutes of Health Research et al. 2018). Of relevance to ethnoecologists and ethnobotanists, the

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TCPS contains extensive guidance on qualitative research (chapter 10) and on research involving Indigenous communities (chapter 9). The TCPS was under extensive development during the early 2000s, not long after my ISE colleagues and I had finalized the ISE Code of Ethics. I served on a technical advisory committee for chapter 9 of the 2008 version of the TCPS , and there is considerable congruence between chapter 9 and the ISE Code of Ethics. the royal coMMission on aboriGinal PeoPles The essence of the ISE Code of Ethics has much in common with the Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP 1996b), although they were independently created. This report, almost twenty-five years old, was only recently revived from the dusty confines of CD-ROM archives and made available online. It underscores the need for a “renewed relationship” based on “mutual recognition, mutual respect, sharing and mutual responsibility” (RCAP 1996c, 645). Each of these principles is eloquently elaborated in a way that imbues them with spirit and lifts them off the page. Significantly, the commission explains the principles as an ongoing process: “These principles define a process . . . [W]e have chosen a circle to represent this process because a circle has no beginning and no end; the process is continuous. As we move through the cycle represented by the four principles, a better understanding is gradually achieved. As the cycle is repeated, the meanings associated with each principle change subtly to reflect this deeper level of understanding” (ibid.). Marlene Brant Castellano, a co-director of research for the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, describes the familiar refrain from many Aboriginal researchers who were consulted about the research program during the initial stages in the early 1990s: “We’ve been researched to death!” (Brant Castellano and Reading 2010, 3). She goes on to speak of a pivotal intervention by an elder in 1992: “If it’s true that we have been researched to death, maybe it’s time we started researching ourselves back to life” (in ibid.). Brant Castellano and Reading (2010, 3) note that, in the ensuing years, “researching ourselves to life” has become a positive refrain affirming the value of research when it involves Aboriginal ownership of the processes and outcomes – arguably hallmarks of “a fair and honourable relationship” (RCAP 1996a) when it comes to research involving Aboriginal peoples today. decodinG canada’s Tri-CounCil PoliCy sTaTemenT Marlene Brant Castellano also chaired the technical advisory committee involved in developing chapter 9 of the TCPS on “Research Involving the First Nations, Inuit and Métis Peoples of Canada” (Canadian Institutes of Health Research et al. 2018, 109–37).

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Brant Castellano assisted us in decoding the somewhat colonial language of the TCPS and the intention of chapter 9 by reframing the sentiments expressed. She underscored how Indigenous traditions have much to contribute to our understanding of ethics, while recognizing that the language used to articulate ethical principles can vary substantially. For example, whereas the TCPS uses the phrase “respect for human dignity,” Indigenous expressions may include “spiritual responsibilities to maintain right relationships.” Brant Castellano (2008, 23) shares Anishinabek elder George Courchene’s description of “right relationships” between researchers and Aboriginal research participants: • Kindness implies respect for the dignity of the others involved, not dominating or pressing our own agenda at the others’ expense; • Honesty involves communicating our principles and intentions as the basis for relationship and ensuring free, informed consent for actions taken; • Sharing recognizes that the common good requires give and take by all, with respect for the different gifts that each party brings; and • Strength is courage to stand firm for our principles; in some cases, strength is resilience, as in the capacity to bend to circumstance while holding on to important values. Brant Castellano (ibid.) skilfully bridges the intercultural chasm by stating, “Together, these virtues balance one another to maintain respect for self and others. All parties to a relationship are responsible for maintaining this ethical balance. While words to describe relationships differ, it is possible to see the harmony between the ethics of ‘respect for human dignity’ endorsed by researchers and the ethics of ‘right relationships’ embodied in First Nation, Inuit and Métis traditional teachings.” ethical sPace Both the TCPS and the ISE promote the notion of “ethical space,” which was introduced to the research ethics realm by Cree philosopher and educator Willie Ermine (2000, 2007; Ermine, Sinclair, and Jeffery 2004). Ermine borrowed the concept of “ethical space” from Roger Poole (1972, 5) and reframed it within a research ethics context as a way to envision a space where different worldviews come together with different intentions: The idea of two spheres of knowledge, two cultures, each distinct from one another in multiple forms, needs to be envisioned since the distance also inspires an abstract, nebulous space of possibility. The in-between space, relative to cultures, is created by the recognition of the separate

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realities of histories, knowledge traditions, values, interests, and social, economic and political imperatives . . . The positioning of the two entities creates the urgent necessity for a neutral zone of dialogue. This neutral zone is the ethical space where a precarious and fragile window of opportunity exists for critical conversations about democracy, race, gender, class, nation, freedom, and community. (Ermine, Sinclair, and Jeffery 2004, 20) In his keynote presentation at the “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics,” Ermine (2015) challenges us to go beyond talking about the concept of ethical space as a noun and to start focusing on ethical space as a process: “One of the questions . . . is ‘What do we do with it?’ It’s not an it. What we’re trying to do is centre and focus this idea of ethics, as it lies within each and every one of us – within our spirit, within our inwardness. That’s where it needs to be powerful. That’s where it becomes powerful. We cannot use ethics; it’s not a noun. It’s in here somewhere [pointing to himself].” In her keynote presentation at the same conference, Brant Castellano (2015) built on Ermine’s (2015) contributions and tied them into the history and future of a relational ethics approach in Canada: Ethical space is not new or empty. It has been created in encounters between peoples coming from different directions and different experiences throughout history. Ethical space is populated with people of good mind coming together to make good relations . . . Making good relations was a theme repeated in early exchanges between First Nations and settlers. It was represented in the Two Row Wampum Belt, woven as a record of a treaty made 400 years ago between the Haudenosaunee – the Iroquois peoples – and Dutch colonists. The belt consists of two rows of purple wampum beads on a white background . . . The symbols go back 400 years. Three rows of white beads symbolizing peace, friendship, and respect lie between the two purple rows . . . Those three [rows of] beads symbolize the relationship of peoples in the Two Row Wampum, each following their own course but linked together by deeply embedded ethics . . . I’m struck by the contrast that the Haudenosaunee used three [rows of] beads to signify the nature of the relationship between diverse peoples, while [the Interagency Advisory Panel on Research Ethics through the creation of the TCPS ] required forty pages to guide relations among fairly narrow slices of our society. Brant Castellano (2015) offered her interpretation of the difference in approach. She suggested that the Haudenosaunee anticipated that the human values of peace, friendship, and respect – the meaning of those three rows of white

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beads – were embedded in the knowledge and experience of their people and could be called up to guide action in particular encounters. She proposed that the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP 1996b), the updating of the TCPS (Canadian Institutes of Health Research et al. 2018), and now the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015) could be “construed as projects to expand ethical space among people who come from different directions with different experiences to find common ground to make good relations” (Brant Castellano 2015). The intention of the “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics” (2015) was not to just talk about the concept of ethical space but also to understand better what this space is, what it means to be in this space, and in very practical terms what possibilities emerge from this space to really “do something” in the spirit of not “I” but “we” – as individuals both in our research and in our continued efforts to advance research ethics policy and practice in Canada. Brant Castellano (2015) points out that ethical space is not new but has recently been popularized, creating a new awareness and opportunity, and Ermine (2015) proposes ethical space as a call to action at the most fundamental level of our common humanity. The ethical dimension of our research is necessarily informed by codes of ethics and guidelines but ultimately involves embodying ethics in how we live and relate to one another at a spiritual level as humans and neighbours sharing this planet with all sentient beings. renewinG and riGhtinG relationshiPs in suPPort of indiGenous PeoPles’ land riGhts and resPonsibilities Ethnoecologists, ethnobotanists, and ethnobiologists have led the way for decades in the development of ethical guidance for working at the biocultural interface – in large part as a response to violations of the rights of Indigenous communities in their role as research participants or partners. In biocultural research involving Indigenous people’s beliefs, worldviews, and knowledge systems, where Indigenous law and natural law prevail, law and ethics are as intertwined as biological and cultural diversity. Thus any discussion of rights is inseparable from responsibilities and consideration of ethical dimensions. As the institutional landscape has evolved and softened over the past few years, the importance of shifting to relational ethics approaches that can lead to right relationships is increasingly recognized beyond ethnosciences (e.g., Haslebo and Haslebo 2012). However, the matter of how to get there in an institutional setting is still a work in progress, requiring skilful navigation of policies, regulations, and liabilities. Ethnoecologists and ethnobotanists are well situated to deepen these understandings of how to find common ground in order to make good relations and how to apply ethical principles as ongoing

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iterative processes that are continually informing and informed by our encounters of one another from different directions. The goal of this chapter has been to complement the rights-oriented focus of this volume with a summary of the significant historical and contemporary role of ethics for ethnoecologists and ethnobotanists in relation to Indigenous peoples’ land rights and responsibilities. Furthering this goal, we can also draw upon the integrative science perspective of “Two-Eyed Seeing,” a term coined by Mi’kmaq elder Albert Marshall in reference to “the gift of multiple perspective,” which he explains as follows: Two-Eyed Seeing refers to learning to see from one eye with the strengths of Indigenous knowledges and ways of knowing, and from the other eye with the strengths of Western knowledges and ways of knowing, and to using both these eyes together, for the benefit of all. Two-Eyed Seeing adamantly, respectfully, and passionately asks that we bring together our different ways of knowing to motivate people, Aboriginal and nonAboriginal alike, to use all our understandings so we can leave the world a better place and not compromise the opportunities for our youth (in the sense of Seven Generations) through our own inaction. Two-Eyed Seeing . . . is about life: what you do, what kind of responsibilities you have, how you should live while on Earth . . . i.e., a guiding principle that covers all aspects of our lives: social, economic, environmental, etc. The advantage of Two-Eyed Seeing is that you are always fine tuning your mind into different places at once, you are always looking for another perspective and better way of doing things. (In Bartlett et al. 2015, 295–6) Iwama and colleagues (2009, 8) remind us that intercultural relationships have been, and will always be, years in the making; they add that “[a]s we learn together, the journey offers the sacred gift of humility.” Perhaps renewing right relationships in support of Indigenous peoples’ land rights and responsibilities – like the ethnoecologist’s role – has to do with sharing this sacred gift.

references Asch, M., J. Borrows, and J. Tully, eds. 2018. Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Bannister, K., ed. 2017. “Proceedings of the Western Regional Gathering for the Indigenous Circle of Experts (ICE) Committee on Indigenous Conserved and Protected Areas.” Unpublished manuscript prepared on behalf of the Polis Foundation for the Circle of Experts, TinWis, Tla-o-qui-aht Territory, Tofino, British Columbia.

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Bannister, K., and M. Solomon. 2009. “Appropriation of Traditional Knowledge: Ethics in the Context of Ethnobiology (Part 1).” In The Ethics of Cultural Appropriation, ed. J. Young, and C. Brunk, 140–61. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Bartlett, C., M. Marshall, A. Marshall, and M. Iwama. 2015. “Integrative Science and TwoEyed Seeing: Enriching the Discussion Framework for Healthy Communities.” In Ecosystems, Society, and Health: Pathways through Diversity, Convergence, and Integration, ed. L.K. Hallström, N. Guehlstorf, and M.W. Parkes, 280–326. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Battiste, M., ed. 2016. Living Treaties: Narrating Mi’kmaw Treaty Relations. Sydney, NS: Cape Breton University Press. Bell, C. 2014. “Respect et responsabilité: Le droit, l’éthique et les collections autochtones.” In Voyage au coeur des collections des Premiers Peuples, ed. Marie-Paule Robitaille, 131–44. Sillery, QC: Septentrion. Borrows, J. 2002. Recovering Canada: The Resurgence of Indigenous Law. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2010. Canada’s Indigenous Constitution. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2019. Law’s Indigenous Ethics. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Borrows, J., and M. Coyle, eds. 2017. The Right Relationship: Reimagining the Implementation of Historical Treaties. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Brant Castellano, M. 2008. “Aboriginal Ethics Guide Ethical Research.” Visions Journal 5, no. 1: 22–3. – 2015. “Reflections on the Evolving Dialogue on Indigenous Research Ethics.” Keynote presentation at the “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics,” Vancouver, 19 February. https://indigenousresearchethics2015.wordpress. com/reporting/. Brant Castellano, M., and J. Reading. 2010. “Policy Writing as Dialogue: Drafting an Aboriginal Chapter for Canada’s Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans.” International Indigenous Policy Journal 1, no. 2: 1–18. Canadian Institutes of Health Research, Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council of Canada, and Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 2018. Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans. Version 2. Ottawa: Secretariat on Responsible Conduct of Research. http://pre.ethics.gc.ca/ eng/documents/tcps2-2018-en-interactive-final.pdf. Ermine, W. 2000. “A Critical Examination of the Ethics in Research Involving Indigenous Peoples.” MEd thesis, University of Saskatchewan. – 2007. “The Ethical Space of Engagement.” Indigenous Law Journal 6, no. 1: 193–203. – 2015. “Dancing Particles.” Keynote presentation at the “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics,” Vancouver, 19 February. https://indigenousresearchethics2015.wordpress.com/reporting/. Ermine, W., R. Sinclair, and B. Jeffery 2004. The Ethics of Research Involving Indigenous Peoples: Report of the Indigenous Peoples Health Research Centre to the Interagency Advisory Panel on Research Ethics. Saskatoon, SK: Indigenous Peoples Health Research Centre. http://iphrc.ca/pub/documents/ethics_review_iphrc.pdf. Hardison, P., and K. Bannister. 2011. “Ethics in Ethnobiology: History, International Law and Policy, and Contemporary Issues.” In Ethnobiology, ed. E.N. Anderson, D. Pearsall, E. Hunn, and N.J. Turner, 27–50. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Haslebo, G., and M.L. Haslebo. 2012. Practicing Relational Ethics in Organizations. Chagrin Falls, OH: Taos Institute Publications.

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ISE (International Society of Ethnobiology). 1988. Declaration of Belém.

http://www.ethnobiology.net/what-we-do/core-programs/global-coalition-2/ declaration-of-belem/. – 2006. ISE Code of Ethics (with 2008 additions). http://ethnobiology.net/code-of-ethics/. – 2019. “History of the Code of Ethics.” http://www.ethnobiology.net/what-we-do/ core-programs/ise-ethics-program/code-of-ethics/brief-history/. Iwama, M., M. Marshall, A. Marshall, and C. Bartlett, 2009. “Two-Eyed Seeing and the Language of Healing in Community-Based Research.” Canadian Journal of Native Education 32, no. 2: 3–23. Napoleon, V. 2012. “Thinking about Indigenous Legal Orders.” In Dialogues on Human Rights and Legal Pluralism, ed. R. Provost and C. Sheppard, 229–46. New York: Springer. Noble, B. 2008. “Owning as Belonging/Owning as Property: The Crisis of Power and Respect in First Nations Heritage Transactions with Canada.” In First Nations Cultural Heritage and Law: Case Studies, Voices, and Perspectives, ed. C. Bell and V. Napoleon, 465–88. Vancouver: UBC Press. Oguamanam, Chidi, ed. 2018. Genetic Resources, Justice and Reconciliation: Canada and Global Access and Benefit Sharing. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Poole, R. 1972. Towards Deep Subjectivity. London: Penguin. Posey, D.A. 1990. “Intellectual Property Rights: What Is the Position of Ethnobiology?” Journal of Ethnobiology 10, no. 1: 93–8. – 1995. “Indigenous Peoples and Traditional Resource Rights: A Basis for Equitable Relationships?” Reprinted in Indigenous Knowledge and Ethics: A Darrell Posey Reader, ed. K. Plenderleith, 172–94. New York: Routledge, 2004. – 2002. “Commodification of the Sacred through Intellectual Property Rights.” Journal of Ethnopharmacology 83, nos 1–2: 3–12. Posey, D.A., and G. Dutfield. 1996. Beyond Intellectual Property: Toward Traditional Resource Rights for Indigenous Peoples and Local Communities. Ottawa: International Development Research Centre. Raygorodetsky, G. 2014. “Chapter 1: Survivors.” In “Everything Is Connected.” National Geographic, 28 March. https://blog.nationalgeographic.org/2014/03/28/everything-isconnected-chapter-1-survivors-2/. RCAP (Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples). 1996a. “A Word from the Commissioners.” http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/eppp-archive/100/200/301/inac-ainc/ highlights_report_royal-e/wrd_e.html. – 1996b. Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples. 5 vols. Ottawa: Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada. https://www.bac-lac.gc.ca/eng/discover/aboriginalheritage/royal-commission-aboriginal-peoples/Pages/final-report.aspx. – 1996c. “The Principles of a Renewed Relationship.” In Report of the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, vol. 1, Looking Forward, Looking Back, 643–63. Ottawa: Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada. https://www.bac-lac.gc.ca/eng/discover/aboriginalheritage/royal-commission-aboriginal-peoples/Pages/final-report.aspx. Riley, M., ed. 2004. Indigenous Intellectual Property Rights: Legal Obstacles and Innovative Solutions. Lanham, MD: AltaMira. Saul, J.R. 2017. “People in Place: The Worldview We Need.” Keynote presentation at the symposium “Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future,” University of Victoria, 3 May. Solomon, M. 2004. “Intellectual Property Rights and Indigenous Peoples Rights and Responsibilities.” In Indigenous Intellectual Property Rights: Legal Obstacles and Innovative Solutions, ed. M. Riley, 221–50. Lanham, MD: AltaMira.

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Stephenson, D. 1999. “A Practical Primer on Intellectual Property Rights in a Contemporary Ethnoecological Context.” In Ethnoecology: Situated Knowledge/Located Lives, ed. V.D. Nazarea, 230–48. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Van Asdall, Willard. 1990. “Editor’s Note.” In D.A. Posey, “Intellectual Property Rights: What Is the Position of Ethnobiology?” Journal of Ethnobiology 10, no. 1: 93–8 at 98. “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics.” 2015. Vancouver, 18–20 February. https://indigenousresearchethics2015.wordpress.com/. Younging, G. 2018. Elements of Indigenous Style: A Guide for Writing by and about Indigenous Peoples. Edmonton: Brush Education Inc.

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16 Ethnoecology and Indigenous Legal Traditions in Environmental Governance Deborah Curran and Val Napoleon

introduction I would argue that space, time, and experience are all important to Hul’qumi’num Mustimuhw definitions of place. Furthermore, in my discussions with my Elders, I have observed that the teachings of snuw’uyulh are never discussed in the abstract, without relation to place, time, and experience. Snuw’uyulh is a Hul’qumi’num word translated roughly into English as “our way of life” or “our way of being on Mother Earth.” In essence, it provides the guiding framework for our legal tradition, encompassing all the animating norms, customs, traditions, and laws that produce or maintain that state . . . Accordingly, place has become an archive or storage for Hul’qumi’num laws and traditions. – Sarah Morales (2016, 7)

Within Canada and around the world, there is an exciting resurgence of Indigenous legal traditions (Merryman 1985, 1) that is becoming visible at many political and legal levels.1 The widespread response to and the active taking-up of the “Calls to Action” of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015) and the launch of the National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (2015–19) are but two indicators of the multijuridical imaginary being built by Indigenous peoples. From court decisions to law school curricula to direct political action, there are new conversations evident in public discourse where the actuality of Indigenous law is the starting place. In this chapter, we focus on the emerging field of ethnoecology to examine how the articulation, scholarship, and practice of Indigenous law, combined with Canadian Aboriginal rights jurisprudence, are productively shaping and informing state decision making and policies regarding land and water on the West Coast. In the context of both an absence of effective provincial leadership

throughout Canada on environmental governance and the resurgence of Indigenous law, Indigenous peoples are pragmatically and strategically acting on their legal obligations within their legal orders as a way to develop collaborative management with settlers in order to protect their historic lands and waters. Indigenous law is societal, deriving from Indigenous peoples being organized in societies and having to legitimately manage and order the full scope of messy, often conflicted, collective human life, including everything from lands and waters to family, governance, and economies. There is no pan-Indigenous law but rather societally distinct legal orders responding to, for the most part, universal human problems. As with other systems of law, Indigenous law operates and is expressed through legal institutions, responding to the challenges of each generation across time. What we demonstrate through our discussion here is that Indigenous law lives today in contemporary forms and practices, being applied to human problems, just as it was in the past. ethnoecoloGy as indiGenous leGal traditions A long time ago, when the Creator, XÁLS, walked the Earth, there were no islands in the W̱ SÁNEĆ territory. The islands that are there today were human beings (our ancestors). At this time, XÁLS walked among the W̱ SÁNEĆ People, showing them the proper way to live. In doing this, he took a bunch of the W̱ SÁNEĆ People and threw them out into the ocean. Each of the persons thrown into the ocean became the islands there today. Each of those islands were given a particular name that reflects the manner in which they landed, their characteristics or appearance, or the significance they have to the W̱ SÁNEĆ People. “James Island” was named ŁEL,TOS, meaning “Splashed on the Face.” ŁEL,TOS reflects the way the island landed in the ocean. The southeast face of ŁEL,TOS is worn by the wind and the tide. After throwing the W̱ SÁNEĆ People into the ocean, XÁLS turned to speak to the islands and said: “Look after your relatives, the W̱ SÁNEĆ People.” XÁLS then turned to the W̱ SÁNEĆ People and said: “You will also look after your ‘Relatives of the Deep.’” This is what XÁLS asked of us in return for the care our “Relatives of the Deep” provide for us. – Robert YELḰÁTŦE Clifford (2017, 52)

Evolving from the 1950s, there is a growing scholarship on ethnoecology from a range of academic perspectives (see Nazarea 1999; Ruíz-Mallén et al. 2012). Ethnoecology is the expression of the relationship and responsibility among lands, waters, plants, animals, fish, marine ecosystems, and humans, and it is those relationships that inform the foundation of Indigenous law. Colonial law stands in contrast to Indigenous law, which encompasses the existing and evolving laws of each Indigenous society. As stated above, Indigenous groups and communities in Canada continue to define and use their own laws (Borrows 2006; Napoleon 2010). The land- and water-based origins of many Indigenous laws establish relationships and rules for the harvesting, cultivation, and trade of ecosystem elements (Harris 2000). The origins of Indigenous law

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in ecosystem-based relationships also create the overarching governance processes through which resource-use entitlements, harvesting practices, and sharing within a community and with adjacent communities are mediated (Overstall 2005). Colonialism has disrupted these relationships and laws (N.J. Turner et al. 2013), not just by dissociating Indigenous peoples from their historic governance systems and laws but also by harming the land and plants on which those systems and laws are based. This disruption was clearly expressed in the court decision in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2007, para. 1288) when Justice David H. Vickers found the British Columbia forestry regime to have had devastating environmental impacts and to have infringed upon the Aboriginal rights of the Tsilhqot’in, as affirmed by the Supreme Court of Canada in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2014, paras 127, 153). Aboriginal rights, lodged in section 35 of the Constitution Act, 1982, affirm and acknowledge Aboriginal and treaty rights. Colonial courts have interpreted the scope of these rights to include the right to harvest resources for food, social, and ceremonial purposes and the right to carry out cultural practices – the heart of ethnoecology – in one’s historic territory (R. v. Sparrow 1990). Beyond this bare right to harvest for a moderate livelihood and to undertake activities that are “distinctive to the culture” of an Indigenous community (R. v. Van der Peet 1996), most of the court cases exploring Aboriginal rights define and redefine the elaborate framework of Crown consultation and accommodation (Haida Nation v. British Columbia (Minister of Forests) 2004, para. 32; Mikisew Cree First Nation v. Canada (Minister of Canadian Heritage) 2005). The Crown has a duty to consult with First Nations2 when the provincial or federal governments are making decisions about applications to use resources in a traditional territory. This duty to consult and accommodate is a right to a procedure for responding to planning or development applications. It is not a guarantee of a substantive outcome of a healthy environment, intact ethnoecological relationships, or the ability to exercise one’s Indigenous laws. Recently, however, First Nations and colonial courts are turning to government-to-government agreements that include Indigenous laws and Aboriginal rights3 as an expression of ethnobotanical relationships to challenge decisions made by the federal and provincial governments. This chapter explores four ways in which Indigenous law and Aboriginal rights are curbing Crown decision making and challenging environmental governance processes that implicate lands and waters. First, a series of court decisions about Pacific herring drew on declarations of Aboriginal rights and government-to-government agreements in order to overturn federal ministerial decisions to permit the commercial herring harvest in certain areas of the West Coast in 2014 and 2015. Second, Indigenous communities are using their own legal processes to assess and make decisions about applications for large infrastructure and industrial

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projects. Third, First Nations are expressing their Indigenous laws for their land and water and then translating those laws into management policies to which all governments and anyone operating within their historic territories must adhere. Finally, Indigenous groups and communities are exploring how to move from Crown management to collaborative management of land and water in partnership with the settler community within their traditional territories and in the absence of provincial leadership. aboriGinal riGhts and GovernMent-to-GovernMent aGreeMents curbinG crown decisions First Nations are challenging and curtailing colonial government decisions using Western science and expressions of Aboriginal rights as captured in government-to-government agreements. Several recent court decisions and new agreements preclude Crown environmental management decisions that are unsupported by clear science and that are not framed within agreed-upon management practices as expressions of social-ecological relationships in a specific territory. For many Northwest Coast First Nations, Pacific herring (Clupea pallasii) is an iconic species, heralding the springtime and an annual community activity of harvesting herring roe deposited on the fronds of giant kelp (Macrocystis pyrifera), a method that does not kill the herring (see figure 16.1). On the west coast of British Columbia, there was no commercial herring fishery in most areas for over ten years due to low stocks, which had implications for Indigenous fisheries as well. When the federal minister of fisheries and oceans permitted commercial herring roe fisheries – where the herring are killed for their roe – in 2014 and 2015, several Indigenous groups challenged those decisions on the grounds that there was insufficient science to support those fisheries and that the decisions were an infringement of Aboriginal rights. Of note was that the minister’s direction to permit a herring roe fishery in 2014 was contrary to the recommendation of federal scientists. In 2014 five Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations on the West Coast of Vancouver Island – the Ahousaht, Ehattesaht, Hesquiaht, Mowachaht/Muchalaht, and Tlao-qui-aht – brought an application for an injunction to prevent the commercial herring roe fishery in their historic foodscape (Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2014).4 The federal court granted the injunction and made two primary findings. First, the court ruled that by ignoring the conservation mandate of both Aboriginal law (R. v. Sparrow 1990, paras 77–9) and the federal fisheries scientists, the minister of fisheries and oceans was “fudging the numbers” in a way that would call the integrity of the fisheries management system into question (Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2014, para. 26). Second, the court ruled that because it had recently acknowledged the applicant

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16.1 | Barbara Wilson (Kii’iljuus) of Skidegate, Haida Gwaii, drying herring roe on giant kelp fronds, a treasured traditional food of many coastal First Nations.

First Nations’ commercial Aboriginal right to harvest almost all marine species, they would be harmed by losing the opportunity to negotiate the extent of those rights (ibid., para. 27). The court noted that once commercial interests in herring roe were re-established in the area, these First Nations’ ability to fully explore the meaning of their Aboriginal rights to fish and sell fish would be lost. The following year, both the Nuu-chah-nulth and Haida First Nations challenged in court further federal approval of commercial herring roe fisheries in their historic foodscape or territory (Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2015; Haida Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2015). Relying on the same conservation concerns, the court dismissed the Nuu-chah-nulth injunction application on the basis that the ongoing negotiations between the parties could accommodate the affected First Nations’ Aboriginal rights to all marine species such that irreparable harm would not incur to the Nuu-chah-nulth if a commercial herring harvest occurred (Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2015, paras 24, 25). In addition, the court accepted the current

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herring stock assessment, corroborated by expert evidence, as exceeding the cut-off point at which a commercial fishery is viable (ibid., paras 9, 24). In contrast, the Haida Nation’s application succeeded on the basis that the science did not support a commercial herring roe fishery for 2015, as the stocks were weaker than the previous year. In addition, the parties had not yet completed a marine area management plan, the development of which they had agreed to through government-to-government agreements (Haida Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) 2015, paras 10, 15). Building on the success of the terrestrial Gwaii Haanas Agreement of 1993, the parties agreed to the Gwaii Haanas Marine Agreement of 2010 to expand shared responsibilities for cooperative planning, operation, and management of the marine environment of Gwaii Haanas, Canada’s first national marine conservation area reserve. Acknowledging the extensive relationship between the parties, the court relied on the objectives of the Gwaii Haanas Interim Management Plan to find that the Haida Nation would suffer irreparable harm if a commercial herring roe fishery took place. The objectives of the plan name the Haida Nation as a full partner in the management of Gwaii Haanas and note that the relationship between the parties will fail if one party exercises jurisdiction unilaterally (ibid., para. 55). The management plan also notes that activities will take an ecosystem-based management approach that assumes a higher standard with a lower tolerance for risk (ibid., paras 15, 16, 55). A similar ecosystem-based and relational approach is occurring in the Great Bear Rainforest on the central coast of British Columbia. What are known as the Great Bear Rainforest Agreements are based on each First Nation’s own land-use plans, which incorporate ethnobotanical relationships, among other considerations. One expression of these social-ecological relationships in colonial law is a new form of protected area called conservancies, which focus on environmental protection but also respect Indigenous foodscapes and ethnobotanical systems (Park Act 1996 [BC ]; Protected Areas of British Columbia Act 2000 [BC ]; K.L. Turner and Bitonti 2011). As per section 5 (3.1) of the Park Act, the purpose of conservancies is to designate lands “for the protection and maintenance of their biological diversity and natural environments,” as well as “for the preservation and maintenance of social, ceremonial and cultural uses of first nations.” Under section 9 (10), commercial logging and mining are prohibited activities in conservancies. Acknowledged explicitly as the outcome of reconciliation agreements (Smith and Sterritt 2010, 144), conservancies retain the ability of First Nations to express their ethnobotanical relationships by protecting the ecological function of almost 25 per cent of the area and are collaboratively managed by First Nations and the provincial government through agreements addressing the exercise of Aboriginal rights, use for social, ceremonial, and cultural purposes, and enhanced access for ecotourism and other economic opportunities (Curran 2017) (see figure 16.2). In addition, an objective of operating areas that

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16.2 | Huchsduwachsdu Nuyem Jees (“source of the milky blue water”) / Kitlope Heritage Conservancy, co-managed by the Haisla First Nation.

rely on ecosystem-based management is to return 70 per cent of the landscape to old growth forest, explicitly preserving monumental cedar and other important ecological features that are at the core of ethnoecology in the region (Great Bear Rainforest Order 2016). These government-to-government agreements that underpin the court decisions and new provincial legislation are based on Indigenous peoples’ relationships with their territories. The ethnobotanical or social-ecological relationships are expressed in land-use plans, marine-use plans, and ecosystem-based objectives that establish standards for provincial and federal government decision making on the lands and seascapes. These instruments are beginning to curb Crown environmental governance in favour of the longstanding relationships between First Nations and their environments that have evolved over thousands of years.

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indiGenous leGal and ManaGeMent Processes in resPonse to colonial environMental Governance First Nations are also restoring degraded ecosystems and participating in colonial legal processes, such as environmental assessment, to support their Aboriginal rights and title. Activities include water management, fish habitat protection and restoration, and ongoing monitoring (Curran 2015). In the only desert-like climate in Canada, the Okanagan Nation Alliance has been working for over twenty years with both the provincial and federal governments to improve fish habitat and water flow in the Okanagan River, part of the Columbia River system, for salmon. The parties developed a tool for water flow monitoring and prediction to enable provincial staff to make real-time decisions about flows according to fish needs (Hyatt 2004; Hyatt, Bull, and Stockwell 2009). The Okanagan Nation Alliance has coupled this flow regulation with significant habitat restoration, yielding a significant increase in sockeye salmon returning to Osoyoos Lake (CBC News 2014; Hume 2014; see also chapter 2, this volume). Other First Nations are using their ethnobotanical relationships and Indigenous legal processes to counteract the colonial processes of large-scale natural resource extraction by undertaking Indigenous community assessments. The Tsleil-Waututh Nation (2015) of British Columbia’s Lower Mainland conducted its own environmental assessment of Kinder Morgan’s proposed expansion of the Trans Mountain Pipeline using its Stewardship Policy as the assessment framework. The Stewardship Policy is based on Tsleil-Waututh and Coast Salish legal principles, which include the “sacred obligation to protect, defend, and steward the water, land, air, and resources of our territory . . . [and] the responsibility to maintain and restore conditions in our territory that provide the environmental, cultural, spiritual, and economic foundation our nation requires to thrive” (ibid., 50). The Stewardship Policy requires the Tsleil-Waututh Nation to first “evaluate the potential negative effects of the proposed development on the natural and cultural resources base” and then, if those effects do not exceed “Tsleil-Waututh legal limits,” to assess the project’s benefits to the community (ibid., 50, 53). As part of the assessment process, the Tsleil-Waututh Nation documented through studies and depicted in maps their traditional relationships with the lands and waters affected by the pipeline proposal. They publicly revealed their site- and species-specific stewardship obligations in their territory, which are based on their Indigenous laws, expressed as ethnobotanical and ethnoecological relationships, and operationalized through their Marine Stewardship Program’s “[o]n-the-ground Tsleil-Waututh regulatory action, and habitat and species restoration” (Tsleil-Waututh Nation 2015, 40). ̓ The Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation also undertook a community assessment of the proposed Ajax Mine near Kamloops, British Columbia (see chapter

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8, this volume). Concluding that the nation does not give its free, prior, and informed consent to the project, the process included the nation exercising its own Indigenous environmental governance jurisdiction to strike an assessment panel composed of the elected chiefs and councillors as well as twenty̓ six elders, youth, and individuals appointed by their families (Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation 2017, 3). The decision document gives explicit recognition to the principle of “walking on two legs,” being the importance of relying on both Secwépemc and Western knowledge and support (ibid.). It also underscores the importance of ethnoecology for describing the ethics of stewardship embedded in social-ecological relationships and expressed in traditional laws as depicted in stories and oral histories: “Ethnobiologists and ethno-ecologists have found in numerous instances that relationships between geographic features on the land, animal and plant species as they are narrated in oral histories and oral traditions often point to what scientists explain within the secular language of geology, hydrogeology, ecology, etc.” (ibid., 7). These approaches use the foundation of ethnoecology to address current and potential ecological degradation, such as fish habitat loss, or to assess resource development and infrastructure projects based on Indigenous laws. First Nations are advancing recognition of their Indigenous laws by governments and the public outside of their communities as the basis for better collaborative management approaches, environmental restoration, and assessment of major project proposals. aPPlication of indiGenous leGal fraMeworks for land and water use Taking a proactive approach, First Nations are translating their Indigenous legal principles into environmental governance policies and management frameworks to provide both procedural and substantive direction for activities in their territories. For example, the Okanagan Nation Alliance (2014) has adopted the Syilx Nation Siwɬkʷ Declaration, a statement of the Syilx people’s Indigenous water law. Recognizing water as life and as their relative, the Syilx acknowledge water as the connector of relationships, health, and resiliency: “[W]e as Syilx People recognize siwɬkʷ [water] as a sacred entity and relative that connects all life . . . [We] have a duty and responsibility to ensure siwɬkʷ can maintain all of its relationships, known and unknown, by showing due respect and humility” (ibid., 1–2; see also chapter 2, this volume). As part of the ongoing recognition of the declaration, the Okanagan Nation Alliance has partnered with the Okanagan Basin Water Board (2016) and the provincial government to define environmental flow needs for fish and aquatic ecosystems in ten streams in the watershed. The description of environmental flow needs for fish, a delimitation of the ethnobotanical relationship between the Okanagan Nations and their

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environment based on Western science, accords with the “decades [that] the Syilx Peoples have been developing watershed-based processes and policies to ensure our water sustainability responsibly is addressed and informed by our traditional ecological knowledge in a meaningful way” (Grand Chief Stewart Phillip, in Okanagan Basin Water Board 2016). Similarly, the Yinka Dene ‘uza’hné (hereditary chiefs) of the Nadleh Whut’en and Stellat’en First Nations (2016a) in central British Columbia made visible their Indigenous water management regime for their territories in 2016. The ‘uza’hné, responsible for land and resource governance, note that the policy on surface water management and the standards for water quality are an “expression of our living governance and laws” (Dzih Bhen, in Carrier Sekani Tribal Council 2016; see also Nadleh Whut’en and Stellat’en First Nations 2016a, 2016b). The intent is for existing and proposed projects from entities outside the communities to meet the water quality and management processes and standards set out in the policies. First Nations are beginning to express their Indigenous laws and the ecological relationships embedded in these laws in forms that can interact with colonial governance and management processes. Ethnoecology is important for describing social-ecological interdependence, and it provides crucial evidence for explaining activities that demonstrate Aboriginal rights and title within colonial processes. conclusion In this short discussion, we illustrate how Indigenous law lives in the world today in historic and contemporary forms and practices. Throughout time and in every circumstance, Indigenous peoples have been absolutely pragmatic in upholding Indigenous law and fulfilling their legal obligations to the land, water, people, and nonhuman lifeforms. However, the reality is that we have a colonial history in which the newcomers have attempted to stamp out any vestiges of Indigenous law. The consequences of this history are well documented and include Indigenous legal orders that have gaps and sometimes distortions. Nonetheless, Indigenous peoples continue to take up whatever tools are available in whatever spaces are possible in order to protect their lands and waters and enact environmental governance processes. In recent times, with direct political action and political planning, these struggles have taken place in Canadian courtrooms and negotiating rooms. As we describe here, there have been notable successful outcomes regarding state policies and decision making. All of this relentless work taken up by Indigenous peoples and their allies may be comprehended as ethnoecology and legal pluralism in action. It is also the energy of this relentless work that is changing Canada into a multijuridical place, a process that we hope will continue.

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notes 1 We use the term “Indigenous legal traditions” when referring to Indigenous legal protocols and laws. Legal traditions are “deeply rooted, historically conditioned attitudes about the nature of law, about the role of law in the society and the polity, about the proper organization and operation of a legal system, and about the way law is or should be made, applied, studied, perfected, and taught” (Merryman and Pérez-Perdomo 2007, 2). Of course, it is usually preferable to use Indigenous peoples’ own language when referring to law and legal concepts. For example, the Gitxsan people’s word for law is ayook, which means “law, custom, or precedent.” 2 Our preferred term is “Indigenous peoples”; however, the term “First Nations” – as distinct from Métis and Inuit – has become the usual way of referring to groups formerly known as Indian Bands or individuals registered under the federal Indian Act. Under section 35 of the Canadian Constitution Act, 1982, Indians, Métis, and Inuit are all included in the term “aboriginal peoples.” 3 Aboriginal rights jurisprudence, inclusive of Aboriginal title, is Canadian constitutional case law regarding legal issues of Indigenous peoples. 4 The Federal Court of Appeal dismissed the appeal as moot in Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) v. Ahousaht First Nation (2014). references Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans), 2014 FC 197. Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans), 2015 FC 253. Borrows, J. 2006. Indigenous Legal Traditions in Canada. Ottawa: Law Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.690689/publication.html. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) v. Ahousaht First Nation, 2014 FCA 211. Carrier Sekani Tribal Council. 2016. “Yinke Dene ‘Uza’hne’ Guide to Surface Water Quality Standards.” News, 30 March. http://www.carriersekani.ca/news/yinke-dene-uzahneguide-to-surface-water-quality-standards. CBC News. 2014. “Massive Sockeye Salmon Run Forecast for Osoyoos Lake.” 4 July. http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/massive-sockeye-salmon-runforecast-for-osoyoos-lake-1.2696572. Clifford, R.Y. 2017. “Listening to Law.” Windsor Yearbook of Access to Justice 33, no. 1: 47–63. Curran, D. 2015. “Water Law as a Watershed Endeavour: Federal Inactivity as an Opportunity for Local Initiative.” Journal of Environmental Law and Practice 28, no. 1: 55–88. – 2017. “‘Legalizing’ the Great Bear Rainforest Agreements: Colonial Adaptations toward Reconciliation and Conservation.” McGill Law Journal 62, no. 3: 813–60. Great Bear Rainforest Order. 2016. Victoria: BC Ministry of Forests, Lands and Natural Resource Operations. https://www2.gov.bc.ca/assets/gov/farming-natural-resourcesand-industry/forestry/timber-pricing/coast-timber-pricing/maps-and-graphics/ great_bear_rainforest_order_-_jan_21_2016.pdf. Haida Nation v. British Columbia (Minister of Forests), [2004] 3 SCR 511. Haida Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans), 2015 FC 290. Harris, D.C. 2000. “Territoriality, Aboriginal Rights, and the Heiltsuk Spawn-on-Kelp Fishery.” University of British Columbia Law Review 34: 195–238. Hume, M. 2014. “Okanagan Sockeye Restoration Successful with Decade-Long Effort.” Globe and Mail, 21 September. https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/news/british-columbia/ okanagan-sockeye-restoration-successful-with-decade-long-effort/article20714952/.

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Hyatt, K. 2004. “An Overview of the Okanagan Watershed Fish-and-Water Management Tool (FWMT) Project.” Updated 23 July. http://www.obwb.ca/obwrid/docs/159_2004_ Overview_OK_Watershed_FWMT.pdf. Hyatt, K., C. Bull, and M. Stockwell. 2009. Okanagan Fish and Water Management Tool Project Assessments: Record of Management Strategy and Decisions for the 2005–2006 Fish-andWater Year. Ottawa: Fisheries and Oceans Canada. Merryman, J.H. 1985. The Civil Law Tradition: An Introduction to the Legal Systems of Western Europe and Latin America. 2nd ed. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Merryman, J.H., and R. Pérez-Perdomo. 2007. The Civil Law Tradition: An Introduction to the Legal Systems of Europe and Latin America. 3rd ed. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Mikisew Cree First Nation v. Canada (Minister of Canadian Heritage), [2005] 3 SCR 388. Morales, S. 2016. “Stl’ul nup: Legal Landscapes of the Hul’qumi’num Mustimuhw.” Windsor Yearbook of Access to Justice 33, no. 1: 103–24. Nadleh Whut’en and Stellat’en First Nations. 2016a. Yinka Dene ‘Uza’hné Guide to Surface Water Quality Standards. Version 4.1. http://www.carriersekani.ca/images/docs/ Yinka%20Dene%20’Uzah’ne%20Guide%20to%20Surface%20Water%20Quality%20 Standards%20(March%2018%202016)%20(00303157xC6E53).pdf. – 2016b. Yinka Dene ‘Uza’hné Surface Water Management Policy. Version 4.1. http://www.carriersekani.ca/images/docs/Yinka%20Dene%20’Uzah’ne%20Surface %20Water%20Management%20Policy%20(March%2018%202016)%20 (00303183xC6E53).pdf. Napoleon, V. 2010. “Living Together: Gitksan Legal Reasoning as a Foundation for Consent.” In Between Consenting Peoples: Political Community and the Meaning of Consent, ed. J. Webber and C.M. Macleod, 45–76. Vancouver: UBC Press. National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls. 2015–19. http://www.mmiwg-ffada.ca/en. Nazarea, V.D., ed. 1999. Ethnoecology: Situated Knowledge/Located Lives. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Okanagan Basin Water Board. 2016. “Federal Funds Flow to Okanagan Helping Ensure Water-Sustainability.” News release, 12 February. http://www.obwb.ca/newsite/ wp-content/uploads/2016-02-12_news_release_federal_funds_flow_to_okanagan_to_ ensure_water_sustainability.pdf. Okanagan Nation Alliance. 2014. Syilx Nation Siwɬkʷ Declaration. https://www.syilx.org/ wp/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Okanagan-Nation-Water-Declaration_Final_CEC_ Adopted_July_31_2014.pdf. Overstall, R. 2005. “Encountering the Spirit in the Land: ‘Property’ in a Kinship-Based Legal Order.” In Despotic Dominion: Property Rights in British Settler Societies, ed. J. McLaren, A.R. Buck, and N.E. Wright, 22–49. Vancouver: UBC Press. Park Act. 1996. Revised Statutes of British Columbia, Chapter 344. http://www.bclaws.ca/ civix/document/id/complete/statreg/96344_01. Protected Areas of British Columbia Act. 2000. Statutes of British Columbia, Chapter 17. http://www.bclaws.ca/EPLibraries/bclaws_new/document/ID/freeside/00017_03. R. v. Sparrow, [1990] 1 SCR 1075. R. v. Van der Peet, [1996] 2 SCR 507. Ruíz-Mallén, I., P. Domínguez, L. Calvet-Mir, M. Orta-Martínez, and V. Reyes-García. 2012. “Applied Research in Ethnoecology: Fieldwork Experiences.” Antropólogos Iberoamericanos En Red 7, no. 1: 9–30.

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Smith, M., and A. Sterritt. 2010. “Towards a Shared Vision: Lessons Learned from Collaboration between First Nations and Environmental Organizations to Protect the Great Bear Rainforest and Coastal First Nations Communities.” In Alliances: Re/Envisioning Indigenous-Non-Indigenous Relationships, ed. L. Davis, 131–48. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. ̓ Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation. 2017. Honouring Our Sacred Connection to Pípsell: Stk’emlúpsemc te Secwépemc Says Yes to Healthy People and Environment. https://miningwatch.ca/sites/default/files/2017-03-ssnajaxdecisionsummary_0.pdf. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2007 BCSC 1700. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, [2014] 2 SCR 257. Tsleil-Waututh Nation. 2015. Assessment of the Trans Mountain Pipeline and Tanker Expansion Proposal. North Vancouver: Lands and Resources Department, Tsleil-Waututh Nation. Turner, K.L., and C. Bitonti. 2011. “Conservancies in British Columbia, Canada: Bringing Together Protected Areas and First Nations’ Interests.”  International Indigenous Policy Journal 2, no. 2, art. 3. https://ojs.lib.uwo.ca/index.php/iipj/article/view/7347. Turner, N.J., F. Berkes, J. Stephenson, and J. Dick. 2013. “Blundering Intruders: Extraneous Impacts on Two Indigenous Food Systems.” Human Ecology 41, no. 4: 563–74.

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17 Indigenous Environmental Stewardship: Do Mechanisms of Biodiversity Conservation Align with or Undermine It? Monica E. Mulrennan and Véronique Bussières introduction It is now widely acknowledged that conservation of the world’s biodiversity depends on the protection of global cultural diversity and vice versa (Colchester 2004; Stevens 2014). One of the earliest international-level recognitions of this link was made in 1987 in the Brundtland Report, also known as Our Common Future, published by the United Nations World Commission on Environment and Development (United Nations 1987). Here, it was acknowledged, with respect to “traditional peoples . . . that the larger society . . . could learn a great deal from their traditional skills in sustainably managing very complex ecological systems” (ibid., 115). The following year, the International Society of Ethnobiology (1988) became the first international scientific organization to affirm its support, through the Declaration of Belém, for the development of mechanisms to stem the loss of biological and cultural diversity (Brosius and Hitchner 2010; see also chapter 15, this volume). Several decades of ethnobotanical and ethnoecological research had confirmed the depth and richness of Indigenous peoples’ knowledge of plants and wildlife, the low impact of many Indigenous uses of the environment, and the contribution of Indigenous practices to the maintenance and enhancement of biodiversity (Anderson 2005; Deur and Turner 2005; Maffi 2007). The resulting perspective gave rise to “a bio-cultural axiom” (Toledo 2000, 451), or what geographer Bernard Nietschmann (1992, 2) referred to as the “concept of symbiotic conservation,” which countered longstanding discourses of “pristine” nature (R. Nash 1967, 101). The recognition that “biological and cultural diversity are mutually dependent and geographically coterminous” (Nietschmann 1992, 2) was confirmed in

the late 1990s by an ambitious mapping initiative undertaken by the World Wildlife Fund in cooperation with Terralingua. The project illustrated the convergence of areas of biological richness and linguistic diversity, underscoring the connection between Indigenous territories and regions of significant biodiversity (Harmon 1996). Nietschmann (1992, 3) called this “the rule of indigenous environments – where there are indigenous peoples with a homeland, there are still biologically rich environments.” The connection gained support, reflected in the launch in 1996 of a new field centred on the concept of biocultural diversity, defined as “the diversity of life in all of its manifestations – biological, cultural, and linguistic – which are interrelated (and likely co-evolved) within a complex socio-ecological adaptive system” (Maffi 2010, 5). The concept found most traction at the international policy level, where Indigenous peoples were being inserted into “a master narrative of biological crisis” (Escobar 1998, 56) and venerated for nurturing 80 per cent of the planet’s biodiversity (e.g., Sobrevila 2008).1 In this chapter, we trace the growth in recognition of the link between biological and cultural diversity over the past thirty years – from the highly significant but narrow legal and technical recognition given to the knowledge of traditional peoples in the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD ) (United Nations 1992b) to more recent, far-reaching initiatives that support more integrated recognition of Indigenous rights, governance arrangements, and legal possibilities, such as those addressing Indigenous conserved areas and the rights of Nature as a legal entity. We are interested in how discourses of conservation have evolved over this period to constrain, accommodate, and/or support Indigenous peoples’ rights and interests with regard to the protection of their lands and waters, as well as the traditions, knowledge, and practices that support Indigenous environmental stewardship. Following Reimerson (2013, 2015), we use the concept of “space for Indigenous agency” to frame our analysis of the implications of conservation mechanisms for Indigenous peoples. Our findings confirm the dominance of biodiversity conservation as a discourse that carries a legacy of colonial constructs and relationships. However, an increasing convergence of this discourse with discourses of Indigenous rights appears to be shaping a new context for the articulation of alternative visions and approaches that may align more closely with Indigenous life projects and offer more space for their political agency. MechanisMs of biodiversity conservation in relation to indiGenous PeoPles Below, we present a review of four mechanisms designed primarily for biodiversity conservation: international legal and policy instruments; protected areas; payment for ecosystem services; and recent developments in rights for Nature. These mechanisms were selected for various reasons. First, international Indigenous Environmental Stewardship | 283

legal and policy instruments provide the overarching framework for biodiversity protection mechanisms. Second, protected areas, despite a dark history of dispossession and marginalization of Indigenous peoples, remain the primary mechanism of biodiversity conservation, with shifting paradigms over the past twenty years opening up exciting opportunities for the recognition and support of Indigenous governance, legal traditions, knowledge systems, and customary and cultural practices. Third, payment for ecosystem services is a novel but controversial approach intended to incentivize and reward Indigenous peoples for ecological protection. Finally, the emergence of rights for Nature holds some potential as a more holistic and flexible mechanism to address the protection of Indigenous territories in ways that align with Indigenous worldviews. Following a brief description of each mechanism, we analyze the extent to which it has served to create space for Indigenous agency, specifically related to Indigenous stewardship of traditional lands and waters. We draw on international experiences and precedence in these areas, with primary attention on the Canadian context. International Legal and Policy Instruments

The starting point for our analysis is the 1992 Earth Summit, or United Nations Conference on Environment and Development, held in Rio de Janeiro.2 This summit not only represented “a new contract with our environment” (Battiste and Henderson 2000, 197) but also made it clear that this contract extended to “Indigenous people and their communities and other local communities [who] have a vital role in environmental management and development because of their knowledge and traditional practices” (United Nations 1992c, principle 22). The most overt acknowledgment of the connection between Indigenous peoples and the conservation of biodiversity was provided by the Convention on Biological Diversity (United Nations 1992b), an international treaty opened for signature during the United Nations World Commission on Environment and Development. Its preamble evoked two distinct rights of “indigenous and local communities”: those pertaining to the protection of customary use of biological resources addressed by article 10(c) and those related to the protection of Indigenous peoples’ knowledge, innovations, and practices, as well as the equitable sharing of associated benefits, addressed in article 8(j). The inclusion of article 8(j) was considered a major milestone in advancing recognition, respect, and protection with regard to Indigenous knowledge (Battiste and Henderson 2000). It was the first international environmental agreement to do so, and its provisions are legally binding. Beyond this milestone, factors such as CBD endorsement of ecosystem-based approaches, the precautionary principle, and participatory multi-stakeholder engagement created a space for local and Indigenous knowledge that supported more explicit links between Indigenous

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stewardship and a revised paradigm of environmental management (Mulrennan 2013; Turner, Ignace, and Ignace 2000). Notwithstanding the significance of the CBD , it has also been the target of much criticism. According to Reimerson (2013), stereotypes of Indigenous peoples embedded in CBD discourse reinforce colonial notions and power relations, while imposing constraints on the political agency of Indigenous peoples. For example, the use of the term “Indigenous communities” in preference to “Indigenous peoples” limits recognition of Indigenous identity and the right to self-determination (ibid). The inclusion of “local” alongside “Indigenous” communities further undermines their status by implying that the two are broadly equivalent. Similarly, a focus on Indigenous communities that embody “traditional lifestyles” not only limits their role in the context of article 8(j) but also fails to recognize that contemporary reality for most Indigenous peoples entails a reliance on a hybrid economy comprised of traditional, free-market, and state components (Altman 2005). Attention to Indigenous communities based solely on their contribution to Nature conservation and sustainable use is particularly problematic in the context of the CBD ’s endorsement of state sovereignty over biodiversity (Reimerson 2015), as reflected in the qualifying phrase “[s]ubject to national legislation” (United Nations 1992b, article 8(j)). The latter is regarded as an affront to Indigenous peoples’ struggles since it excludes considerations of self-determination or collective rights and responsibilities (Koutouki 2011). Criticism has also been directed at the soft language of the provisions – such as article 8(j)’s stipulation that “[e]ach Contracting Party shall, as far as possible and as appropriate . . . [s]ubject to its national legislation . . . promote . . . and encourage” – as well as directed at delays in their implementation; a process to implement article 8(j) took almost eighteen years to establish, resulting in the Nagoya Protocol (SCBD  2011b). Morgera and Tsioumani (2010), among others, share the view that many limitations of the CBD have been addressed in subsequent decisions by the Conference of the Parties. For example, although the provisions of the CBD avoid any reference to the term “rights” or cross-references to human rights issues (Birnie, Boyle, and Redgwell 2009), a rights-based approach to biodiversity policymaking has gradually permeated the Conference of the Parties’ decision making (Greiber et al. 2009; Morgera and Tsioumani 2010). Cittadino (2014, 2) suggests that the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP ) (United Nations 2007b)3 has played a pivotal role in this respect, serving as “a powerful instrument to clarify the scope of those provisions of the CBD concerning the sharing of the benefits that derive from the exploitation of the traditional knowledge of indigenous peoples.” Although UNDRIP is not legally binding, it is regarded as “a benchmark instrument” for the protection of Indigenous peoples that includes detailed provisions for the fulfilment of state

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obligations (Cittadino 2014, 4). These provisions include a requirement that states establish a process that recognizes “indigenous peoples’ laws, traditions, customs and land tenure systems” (article 27) and a requirement that, for “any project affecting their lands or territories and other resources” (article 32.2), states must implement “free, prior and informed consent” (FPIC ) (Gilbert and Doyle 2011, 47) as “a central procedural mechanism” (Cittadino 2014, 14) for the exercise of the Indigenous right of self-determination. Unfortunately, implementation of UNDRIP has been slow to date, with the Conference of the Parties resisting full endorsement of the spirit and intent of the declaration, notably with respect to its qualified position on FPIC (Conservation International 2016; Morgera and Tsioumani 2010). Uptake at the state level has also been lacklustre; for example, Canada was one of four states that voted against UNDRIP in 2007. It finally announced its support in 2016, but clarity is lacking on whether FPIC will be a game changer by giving Indigenous peoples a veto over development or whether it will do little more than meet existing expectations with respect to consultation and accommodation (Rae et al. 2017). This impasse and the resulting uncertainty around FPIC are not insignificant; indeed, Cittadino (2014, 14) suggests that FPIC may be “the missing link” capable of securing Indigenous peoples’ rights to lands, natural resources, and traditional knowledge with the requirement of benefit sharing as foreseen in article 8(j) of the CBD . The Nagoya Protocol (SCBD 2011b),4 as the first international environmental agreement negotiated since UNDRIP , illustrates how “indigenous peoples and local communities have started transforming their non-binding rights in the UNDRIP into binding rights in treaty law relying on nothing more than the moral force of the Declaration” (Bavikatte and Robinson 2011, 49). Thanks in large measure to the efforts and agency of the International Indigenous Forum on Biodiversity (Teran 2016), the rights gained in the Nagoya Protocol “are undeniably a giant leap from the tame provisions of Art[icle]s 8(j) and 10(c) of the CBD” (Bavikatte and Robinson 2011, 48). Although the Nagoya Protocol rejected calls for the term “Indigenous peoples” to be used instead of “indigenous and local communities,” the problematic phrase “[s]ubject to its national legislation” was replaced with “[i]n accordance with domestic law” (articles 6, 7, 12). At a broader level, the Nagoya Protocol seems to reflect the emergence of a distinctive rights-based discourse – increasingly referred to as “biocultural rights” – centred on group or community rights that have explicit links to conservation and the sustainable use of biological diversity (Bavikatte and Jonas 2009). The struggle for biocultural rights began with the CBD . According to Bavikatte and Robinson (2011, 50), articles 8(j) and 10(c) established the foundation for a discourse of biocultural rights for Indigenous and local communities that is “integrally linked to the rights to stewardship of their lands and concomitant

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traditional knowledge through a complex system of customary use rights and fiduciary duties.” This recognition is underpinned by two primary principles: that conservation and the sustainable use of biodiversity depend on communities whose “way of life” is integrally intertwined with these resources; and that their “way of life” is dependent on the security of land tenure, use rights, and rights to traditional culture, practices, and knowledge (ibid.).5 In the years since the CBD , these principles have informed a range of other legal instruments, including the Addis Ababa Principles (SCBD 2004a), the Akwé: Kon Guidelines (SCBD 2004b), and the Tkarihwaié:ri Code of Ethical Conduct (SCBD 2011d), as well as the Nagoya Protocol. Despite optimism for the potential of “a new paradigm” of biocultural rights (Chen and Gilmore 2015), there are concerns about how best to affirm these rights to stewardship. One mechanism attracting considerable attention is the biocultural community protocol (BCP ) (Teran 2016). BCP s, recognized under article 12.1 of the Nagoya Protocol, are legal documents that articulate community laws, values, concerns, and priorities related to the stewardship of their resource and knowledge commons (Bavikatte 2014; Teran 2016). Their significance, according to Bavikatte (2014) “lies in their ability to act as the glue that holds together the total mosaic of a community life that is fragmented under different laws and policies, with the understanding that the conservation of Nature is a result of a holistic way of life.” Not surprisingly, BCP s are being embraced and applied in a range of contexts – such as Peru’s communally managed Potato Park (Argumeno and Potato Park Communities 2011) and payment for ecosystem services (Swiderska et al. 2012) – to clarify rules for access by outsiders to biological resources and traditional knowledge, as well as rules for equitable benefit sharing by outsiders. In Canada, Indigenous community mapping initiatives are serving a comparable role as a transformative tool that supports knowledge production, land-use planning, and community empowerment (Thom 2014; Tobias 2000). Like BCP s, these initiatives represent innovative mechanisms in support of a discourse of biocultural rights that transforms the basis of property rights from narrow claims of ownership to broader rights related to local and Indigenous stewardship (Bavikatte 2014; Bavikatte and Robinson 2011). Protected Areas/icca s

Protected areas are internationally recognized as the cornerstone of biodiversity conservation efforts, accounting for almost 15 per cent of the earth’s land surface area and more than 7 per cent of territorial marine areas (UNEP -WCMC , IUCN, and NGS 2018). Many of these protected areas – as much as half of the land protected globally over the past century – are located on traditional territories either occupied or used regularly by Indigenous peoples (Dowie 2011; Kothari

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et al. 2012). The early history of protected areas has been described as “fortressconservation” (Brockington 2002), associated with exclusionary, top-down management approaches, which have often resulted in dispossession, disempowerment, and marginalization (Brockington 2002; Fortin and Gagnon 1999), particularly of Indigenous peoples (Borrini-Feyerabend et al. 2002; Stevens 1997). Although coercive conservation remains the norm for many Indigenous groups (Blomley et al. 2013; West 2006), an early focus on wilderness preservation and people-free parks (Cronon 1996; J.C. Nash 2001) has given way, despite vigorous opposition (Redford, Robinson, and Adams 2006; Terborgh 1999), to increasing recognition that “conservation cannot be undertaken without the involvement of those people closest to the resources” (Brown and Mitchell 2000, 70). The Durban Accord, an outcome of the Fifth World Parks Congress, held in Durban, South Africa, in 2003, was pivotal in opening up spaces for Indigenous peoples by recognizing their successes in conserving biodiversity, as well as “their efforts to make protected areas places of natural, cultural and spiritual convergence” (IUCN 2003, 2). It called for the full participation of Indigenous peoples and local communities in the establishment and management of protected areas and for mechanisms to ensure they share in the benefits arising from these areas (Brosius 2004). In the years that followed, the term “Indigenous peoples’ and community conserved territories and areas” (ICCA s), otherwise known as “territories of life,” has been used to describe “[n]atural and modified ecosystems, including significant biodiversity, ecological services and cultural values, voluntarily conserved by indigenous peoples and local and mobile communities through customary laws or other effective means” (IUCN 2008, 81, table 19). These ICCA s have been recognized in a wide range of decisions of the Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity and policies and programs of the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN ), including the adoption of governance by Indigenous peoples and local communities as one of four governance types for protected areas formally recognized by the IUCN (Corrigan and Granziera 2010; IUCN 2013). Since the mid-2000s, ICCA s have expanded rapidly to cover an area comparable in size to that of conventional, government-declared protected areas such as national parks (Borrini-Feyerabend and Lassen 2008; ICCA Consortium 2019; Kothari et al. 2012). This area includes sites conserved under customary rules for thousands of years (Oviedo and Jeanrenaud 2007) as well as sites conserved under recent initiatives that are intended to protect local environments and traditional practices or that make use of policies of payment for ecosystem services (Kothari et al. 2012). As a mechanism, ICCA s tend to be highly flexible and adaptive, with the potential to enhance Indigenous agency through improved access to livelihood resources, greater security of communal tenure regimes,

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recognition of local institutions and practices of environmental stewardship, restoration of degraded ecosystems and resources, community empowerment and capacity building, and cultural identity and cohesiveness (IUCN 2013; Robson and Berkes 2010). Just over a decade ago, ICCA s were described as “the least understood and recognized governance type for protected areas” (Borrini-Feyerabend and Lassen 2008, 5). Although a “[l]ack of understanding, appreciation and appropriate recognition and respect for ICCA s” continues to be a problem, especially in contexts where ICCA s are overlapped by protected areas (Stevens et al. 2016, 2), there are indications that this situation could soon change. As the world’s biodiversity continues to decline (Butchart et al. 2010), there are mounting pressures to increase and extend international-level commitments – presently involving a target of 17 per cent of the global land surface and 10 per cent of the seas to be set aside as protected areas by 2020 (IUCN 2019; SCBD 2011c). Projections suggest that protected areas will grow more over the next decade than they have in the previous two, reaching 15–29 per cent of global land by 2030 (McDonald and Boucher 2011, 383). Pressure on signatory states to meet their international obligations is expected to result in a greater openness to the incorporation of ICCA s into national protected area systems (Robson and Berkes 2010). If linked to the vision of protected areas articulated by the Durban Accord, this outcome could open up further spaces for the recognition of Indigenous peoples’ contributions. However, there are concerns that government-led ICCA recognition schemes will determine eligibility on the basis of size, ecosystem type, and/or level of human disturbance rather than the mix of biocultural characteristics that define ICCA s. ICCA s that are more directly tied to biodiversity conservation objectives, such as those with higher wilderness values, would likely be privileged, and the range of benefits and contributions to be gained from ICCA s would be greatly constrained (Robson and Berkes 2010). There are also concerns that increasing government interest in ICCA s could undermine Indigenous agency by eroding community control, with communityled conservation increasingly replaced by co-management arrangements. Past experiences of dispossession and marginalization linked to protected areas have left some Indigenous groups reluctant to embrace new legislation supporting ICCAs (Robson and Berkes 2010). In the case of Australian Indigenous protected areas, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples declare and manage an area and decide the level of government involvement (Smyth 2006). Elsewhere, options for governance arrangements depend on community capacity, security of tenure, and the extent to which traditional stewardship institutions are available to support ICCA s (Borrini-Feyerabend, Kothari, and Oviedo 2004; IUCN 2013). The adoption by ICCA advocates of a biocultural rights discourse focused on the promotion of “appropriate” forms of recognition is a strategic response

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to these concerns and to growing threats – such as mining and fossil fuel extraction – to the integrity of these “territories of life” and those who protect and defend them (ICCA Consortium 2018). Canada has been slow to embrace the possibilities and potential of ICCA s. However, the recommendations of the Indigenous Circle of Experts (ICE ), a working group of Indigenous experts and government officials mandated to contribute to the Pathway to Canada Target 1 initiative (ICE 2017),6 “marks a clear turning point” (ICE 2018, iii), or at least an opportunity to define a new path forward. At the centre of the ICE vision is a system of Indigenous protected and conserved areas (IPCA s) “where Indigenous governments have the primary role in protecting and conserving ecosystems through Indigenous laws, governance and knowledge systems” (ibid., 5). Significantly, ICE recognizes the importance of these areas beyond narrow conservation goals, with IPCA s promising to offer spaces for cultural regeneration through healing, learning, and teaching, to serve as restoration areas for degraded lands and waters, and to provide prospects for Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples to achieve reconciliation by working together in support of a shared responsibility to take care of the land and water (ibid.). Few legal mechanisms presently exist in Canada to formally recognize and establish IPCA s, and most existing models of protected areas would likely prohibit or be in direct conflict with them (ICE 2018). Nonetheless, the Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation on the west coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia, has declared tribal parks in its territory, the earliest of these being Meares Island Tribal Park, declared in 1984. A more recent example is the Dasiqox Tribal Park created by the Tsilhqot’in First Nation, British Columbia, following confirmation of its Aboriginal title by the Supreme Court of Canada in June 2014 (Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia 2014). These tribal parks present an alternative vision for the management and governance of these lands, including environmental protection, opportunities for the creation of sustainable livelihoods, and the nurturing of these areas as places where Indigenous language and culture can thrive. None of these initiatives has received formal state-level acknowledgment; however, the ICE recommendations propose several options for the creation of IPCA s, including self-declaration (e.g., tribal parks), a range of governance and partnership models (e.g., between Indigenous governments and the Government of Canada), and new IPCA legislation (ICE 2018). Beyond British Columbia – one of the few jurisdictions in Canada where in most cases treaties were not signed – Indigenous governments are often limited to working with pre-existing protected area models that are designated by the state and subject to the constraints of comprehensive land claims agreements. The failure of the Government of Canada to fully implement the terms of modern land claims agreements (Auditor General of Canada 2011) has been a significant impediment to broader joint initiatives involving Indigenous

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people. In addition, the reluctance of government to relinquish control7 – reflected in narrow provisions for protected areas centred on co-management with the state – has been an obstacle to Indigenous agency, the fulfilment of self-determination, and conservation goals. The recommendations of ICE (2018, 45–5) call for “modernizing” these out-dated arrangements and relationships by affording Indigenous governments opportunities to have IPCA s identified and recognized within overlapping protected areas. The success of some groups in negotiating more favourable terms under current constraints – such as the Haida in relation to Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve (Dearden and Bennett 2016, 377–80) and the Dene in relation to the forthcoming Thaidene Nëné National Park Reserve and Territorial Protected Area in the Northwest Territories (ICE 2018, 84) – seems to be directly proportional to their ability to demonstrate sufficient power that the state will not act without their consent. Although the state insists in principle on ultimate sovereign authority in co-management schemes defined by treaties and statutes, provincial and federal governments have learned that it is both politically and economically less costly to proceed on the basis of Indigenous consent. Unfortunately, until Canada gives legal weight to the principle of FPIC , concessions on consent will be reserved for more powerful Indigenous groups. Under conditions of shared power, more equal forms of co-management become possible, including the potential for true epistemological dialogue between scientific and Indigenous knowledges (Goldman, Nadasdy, and Turner 2011; Nadasdy 1999). Despite recent attention to the possibilities and potential of IPCA s, the absence of official support for ICCA s in Canada has pushed some Indigenous groups to make strategic use of state-designated protected areas, even in contexts of comprehensive land claims agreements. One such group is the James Bay Cree Nation of Wemindji, which in partnership with academic researchers, set out to establish a Cree designated (ICCA -type) protected area that would provide integrated protection for a significant part of its land and sea territory (Mulrennan, Mark, and Scott 2012). However, the Cree faced significant challenges, requiring considerable compromise and creativity in response. Jurisdictional separation of terrestrial and marine protected areas forced them to pursue two separate initiatives with two different levels of government, and the threat of mining in an area of great biocultural significance left them with no choice but to opt for a provincially designated Biodiversity Reserve that offered legal protection against large-scale resource extraction (Mulrennan, Scott, and Scott 2019). Other Indigenous groups in Canada have sought spaces for greater agency through their involvement in internationally recognized conservation areas. These groups include the Tsá Túé International Biosphere Reserve (announced July 2016) in the Northwest Territories and the Pimachiowin Aki World Heritage Site (announced July 2018) in Manitoba and Ontario. The World Heritage Convention, adopted in 1972, promotes the identification and protection of cultural

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and natural heritage sites considered “of outstanding universal value” (United Nations 1972, 1). Despite limitations related to its bureaucratic organization and practices, Indigenous groups have successfully made use of the convention “as a means to gain further self-governance and [have] increased their influence and control over the management of their traditional areas” (Green and Turtinen 2016, 198). Significantly, not only have these groups “mastered the bureaucratic framework,” but they have also been “able to incorporate and use its rhetoric and support for indigenous issues” (ibid., 197), particularly its embrace of the concept of cultural landscapes as an integrated mechanism for protection of their lands, culture, and heritage. In conclusion, emergent developments in protected areas point to potentially significant transformations in Canada and elsewhere that are creating and enlarging spaces for Indigenous agency in biodiversity conservation and a reconfiguration of Aboriginal-state relations. Payment for Ecosystem Services

Ecosystem services refer to the benefits people derive from ecosystems (Butler et al. 2003; Costanza et al. 2014). Drawing on economic theory, these benefits have recently been adopted as a decision-making tool in programs that provide payments for protection of ecosystem services and more generally as a way to think about and assess human-Nature relationships (Costanza et al. 2014; Díaz et al. 2015; Lele et al. 2013). As a result, the ecosystem services framework is recognized as both a valuation and communication tool (Costanza et al. 2014; de Groot et al. 2012), and despite harsh criticism (e.g., see Kosoy and Corbera 2010; Lele et al. 2013; Raymond et al. 2013), it is now used worldwide (Natural Capital Project 2017; TEEB 2010, 2019; Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 2005). The Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2005) recognizes four categories of ecosystem services: provisioning, regulating, cultural, and supporting services (Butler et al. 2003). Particular attention is given to the link between ecosystem services and human well-being, the impacts of human activities on ecosystem services, and contextual factors that affect access to ecosystem services (ibid.). A primary way this framework has been operationalized is through the establishment of payment for ecosystem services, defined by Tacconi (2012, 29) as “transparent system(s) for the additional provision of environmental services through conditional payments to voluntary providers.” In many cases, these “voluntary providers” are Indigenous peoples. Examples include the Caring for Country prescribed-burning projects in Northern Australia discussed below, as well as REDD + initiatives where communities protect forests and partake in the complex global carbon trade (Larson et al. 2013). These undertakings have led to some success stories, some mitigated successes, and some cases of blatant abuse (ibid.). In such schemes, where the local is connected to the global

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and to other remote locales, cultural services can be negatively affected by the protection of biophysical services, leading to inequitable sharing of costs and benefits between local communities and global buyers (Robinson, James, and Whitehead 2016). Overall, the discourse of ecosystem services, inherited from economics and ecology, provides limited space for alternative Indigenous views of humanNature relations. Fundamentally, the framework is based on a unidirectional production metaphor that aligns poorly with reciprocal relationships of responsibility integral to Indigenous stewardship (Raymond et al. 2013). Furthermore, many of the services identified by Indigenous peoples are categorized under “cultural services,” a category regarded as relatively low within the hierarchy of overall services (Hirons, Comberti, and Dunford 2016). Levine and colleagues (2017), in a study of the west coast of Vancouver Island, highlight a significant difference between ecosystem services prioritized by Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples. The former tend to favour services that are less tangible and thus more vulnerable to decisions made in support of the more tangible services favoured by decision makers (Chan, Satterfield, and Goldstein 2012; Levine et al. 2017). Wieland and colleagues (2016) remind us that access to the positive impacts of ecosystem services is not evenly distributed between or even within communities. In British Columbia several First Nations involved in a planning project used ecosystem services as a strategic mechanism to advance their aspirations and interests (McKenzie et al. 2014). The resulting “credibility of model outputs enabled strategic use, allowing First Nations to be taken seriously by – and have meaningful conversations with – provincial government” (ibid., 333). In turn, a discourse of ecosystem services has allowed some Indigenous communities to insert themselves into a space that would otherwise have been closed to them. According to Jackson and Palmer (2015), neo-Marxist critiques of ecosystem services tend to overlook the creative ways that some Indigenous peoples have used the framework to support, preserve, or adapt their land-sea management practices and acquire socio-economic benefits. Such endeavours have prompted efforts to make the framework more compatible with Indigenous worldviews, opening spaces for Indigenous peoples to reap some benefits from it, with varying degrees of success. Examples include the many Caring for Country prescribed-burning programs that have been implemented in Northern Australia (Robinson, James, and Whitehead 2016; Sangha et al. 2017).8 These programs provide strategic spaces for Indigenous stewardship through legal support for burning (which had been prohibited for years), while also being anchored in Aboriginal concepts of “caring for country” and the associated recovery of fire-burning regimes using Aboriginal knowledge and customary practices. A “two-toolbox” approach is commonly used, combining traditional and scientific knowledge (Warddeken Land Management Ltd 2016). Participants

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in these programs have underscored “that their principal aim was improving the well-being of local Indigenous people,” beyond and above reduction of green house gas emissions and reduced wildfires (Robinson, James, and Whitehead 2016, 24). In addition to providing revenue, these projects contribute to getting people back on the land, restoring connections that have been disrupted by colonialism (Yibarbuk and Altman 2016). Other experiences reveal instances of innovation and agency as Indigenous peoples adapt and add to the framework in an effort to overcome its weaknesses and avail themselves of its benefits. The Anicinapek community of Kitcisakik, Quebec, has partnered with academics and industry to develop a forestry model that better addresses its aspirations (Saint-Arnaud, Sauvé, and Kneeshaw 2005; Uprety, Asselin, and Bergeron 2013). The approach taken combines the concept of ecosystem services with that of cultural keystone species in order to develop a restoration plan for the eastern white pine (Pinus strobus) (Uprety, Asselin, and Bergeron 2017). The community also categorized services based on the knowledge and preferences of its members rather than using categories developed by the Millennium Ecosystem Assessment (2005). Its experience demonstrates how the strategic and creative application of this mechanism by an Indigenous community working in collaboration with industry and academics can support Indigenous stewardship and create a new space in a framework that would otherwise be constraining and compromising for Indigenous peoples. A further initiative in support of the application of ecosystem services to Indigenous contexts is the recently issued Ecosystem Services Toolkit aimed at analysts and managers working for government agencies in Canada (Value of Nature to Canadians Study Taskforce 2017). Although the instrument avoids an explicit critique of the ecosystem services framework in relation to Indigenous peoples, it provides useful guidance for potential users on the specificities of working collaboratively with Indigenous peoples. In doing so, initiatives like this toolkit assist in opening up further space for strategic Indigenous participation in ecosystem services assessment. Rights of Nature

The idea of giving legal rights and status to Nature is not new (Stone 1972). The concept has evolved in recent decades and taken shape at different scales – ecosystem, state, national, and international – and through different instruments. Along with these developments, a wealth of literature has emerged to address some of its complex legal, philosophical, and environmental dimensions (e.g., see Burdon 2011; Eckersley 1995; R. Nash 1989; Starik 1995). The utility of the concept for Indigenous peoples is worthy of attention for several reasons. First, the concept of the rights of Nature has emerged and been

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promoted through a convergence of globalizing discourses of human rights, Indigenous rights, and environmental rights. Second, the Indigenous Andean concept of Pachamama (Mother Earth) has been fundamental in shaping emergent international discourses of the rights of Nature (Deleuil 2017; Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues 2010). Third, despite the potential relevance of the concept, Indigenous peoples have been marginalized and even excluded from some key related initiatives (Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues 2010). The absence of an Indigenous representative or any explicit reference to Indigenous peoples in an initiative launched in 2017 to promote the Global Pact for the Environment (IUCN 2018b) as a potentially new instrument of international law suggests they are being sidelined by other interests. A chronological overview of key decisions and events (see table 17.1) indicates a sustained movement over the past few decades in support of bestowing legal rights upon natural features and Mother Nature as a whole. The overview helps to locate where spaces have been created for, and often by, Indigenous peoples to identify compatibilities between Indigenous approaches to environmental stewardship and the evolving discourse of rights for Nature. In Canada, although environmental lawyer David Boyd (2012) has been a vocal advocate of the movement, limited progress has been made incorporating the concept into Canadian law. Future developments on this front could be catalyzed by local initiatives such as one put forward by a group of legal experts working toward achieving legal status for the Saint Lawrence River in Quebec (Vega Cardenas, Parra, and Turp 2018) and an initiative led by the Innu Nation of Ekuanitshit involving nongovernmental organizations and other regional partners that would provide the Magpie River in Côte-Nord, Quebec, with legal status (Mollen-Picard and Boudreault 2019). Both initiatives draw on international experiences and lessons to develop models appropriate to the local legal context (ibid.). Elsewhere, the implementation of rights for Nature is producing different outcomes, depending on the context. For example, in 2008 Ecuador gave constitutional protection to Pachamama, or respect for Mother Earth, along with constitutional recognition of the Indigenous concept of sumak kawsay, or “buen vivir” – which evokes the notion of “the good life” or living in harmony with other people and Nature. According to Kauffman and Martin (2018, 48), the Ecuadorian Constitution uses an “expansive” definition of Mother Nature on purpose; this flexible and holistic approach provides the necessary latitude for this legal tool to accommodate Indigenous worldviews and responsibilities toward Mother Earth. Bolivia similarly recognized the rights of Pachamama in its Constitution a couple of years later and in 2012 adopted the Framework Act for the Rights of Mother Earth and Holistic Development to Live Well. In both cases, every citizen can act to defend Mother Earth (Deleuil 2017). However, in contrast to Ecuador, where Nature has fundamental and inalienable rights as a

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valuable entity in and of itself, Bolivia regards Pachamama as a powerless object that requires the protection of the state (Deleuil 2017). This view results in vulnerability to state action (or inaction), as exemplified by a recent decision of Evo Morales’s government to build a highway through a national park inhabited by Indigenous peoples. The latter occurred despite local protests, undermining both the rights of Pachamama and the contribution of protected areas (Collyns 2017). Moreover, no significant court cases have made use of the rights of Nature to stop environmental degradation in Bolivia (Deleuil 2017). Meanwhile, several cases have been fought and won in Ecuador, and judges have increasingly included the rights of Nature in their decisions even when they were not invoked by either claimants or defendants, thus creating jurisprudence that gives precedence to these rights over economic interests (Kauffman and Martin 2017). Recent developments in New Zealand underscore the rapidly evolving possibilities of this legal mechanism for Indigenous peoples. In 2014, after the Tūhoe Indigenous people had fought for decades to regain authority over Te Urewera National Park, the Crown presented them with the option of giving the park legal personality, such that “no one owned the park but . . . it owned itself,” thereby making the land inalienable (Magallanes 2015, para. 32). A board comprised of both Tūhoe and government representatives has since been created to provide governance for Te Urewera National Park under the Te Urewera Act of 2014 (cited in ibid.). In a parallel case involving Whanganui Māori efforts to regain authority over the Whanganui River, the river was granted legal status under supporting legislation adopted in March 2017 arising from the Whanganui River Settlement Agreements of 2012 and 2014. An official guardian, involving two persons, one appointed by the Crown and the other by the Māori, was established to oversee the river (ibid.). Limitations of the current legal status of the river are reflected in ownership being limited to its riverbed rather than including the river in its entirety (ibid.). Nevertheless, this is a novel example of a dominant legal framework being used to re-establish customary cosmology. In both of these New Zealand cases, legal frameworks recognize the inalienable relationship between Indigenous peoples, their territories, and their customary stewardship regimes. Indeed, in both cases, Nature is recognized as an “ancestor,” or as “kin,” rather than as a resource or property (ibid.; see also chapter 12, this volume). New Zealand has created a precedent that sets the bar high in terms of the application of rights of Nature to the recognition and protection of Indigenous cosmologies and stewardship. Two more recent cases from India have not achieved the same degree of recognition. In the case of the Ganga River, new legislation has not changed who is in charge of the river. Given existing power dynamics and the poor track record of managers in the area, the likelihood of protecting the river from pollution is slim (Kothari and Bajpai 2017) (see table 17.1). In contrast, the presence of multiple actors on governance bodies created

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Table 17.1 | A chronology of landmark events for rights of Nature

date

event

details and siGnificance

1972

Publication of “Should Trees Have Standing? – Toward Legal Rights for Natural Objects”

Stone’s (1972) essay, now cited over 1,600 times, laid the ground for subsequent movement toward giving rights to natural entities.

1982

World Charter for Nature adopted by the UN General Assembly

Landmark recognition that Nature must be protected from the adverse impacts of development and that every lifeform is worthy of respect, regardless of its value to humans (Wood 1985).

2008

Ecuador: rights of Pachamama (Mother Nature) protected in the Constitution

First state to recognize Nature as a legal entity, encouraging harmonious human-Nature coexistence (Deleuil 2017; Espinosa 2015). Resulted from decades of environmental destruction and a convergence between Indigenous and environmental rights discourses (Espinosa 2015).

2010

Study on the need to recognize and respect the rights of Mother Earth presented by the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues

Reinforces the idea that Indigenous peoples’ rights, worldviews, and intricate relationships with the earth bestow upon them a fundamental right to be involved in the development of international law with respect to the rights of Nature and the idea that they have invaluable expertise to share.

2010

Creation of the Global Alliance for the Rights of Nature

Formed by a group of Indigenous and non-Indigenous earth lawyers and advocates at the World People’s Congress on Climate Change and the Rights of Mother Earth in Bolivia (Maloney 2016). The Council of Canadians, a social justice NGO, is a founding organization, and the Native Women’s Association of Canada is now a member.

2010– 12

Bolivia: rights of Pachamama (Mother Nature) protected in Constitution; adoption of Framework Act for the Rights of Mother Earth and Holistic Development to Live Well

Symbolic protection. Unlike Ecuador, Bolivia regards Pachamama as a powerless object to be protected by the state (Deleuil 2017).

2014

International Rights of Nature Tribunal created in Ecuador at a summit of the Global Alliance for the Rights of Nature

Draws from Universal Declaration of Rights of Mother Earth (GARN 2010), existing legal frameworks, and Indigenous law (i.e., customary laws of Indigenous peoples) (Maloney 2016). Although the tribunal cannot make legally binding decisions, “it empowers environmental lawyers and activists with new concepts, a new vocabulary, and a transformative vision for how the legal system should work to protect life on Earth” (ibid., 142). /continued

Table 17.1 | continued

date

event

details and siGnificance

2014

New Zealand: Te Urewera National Park is given legal status as a personality

A strategy for the Crown to give back authority to the Tūhoe Indigenous people over part of their traditional territory.

2016

Colombia: Supreme Court recognizes the Atrato River as a legal entity

Colombia’s Constitutional Court rules that the Atrato River possesses legal rights to “protection, conservation, maintenance, and restoration” (GARN 2017).

2017

Whanganui River Settlement Agreement (2012, 2014) and supporting legislation adopted March 2017

Entitles the river with status as a legal entity. Represents a landmark recognition of the relationship between the Maori people and this natural feature.

2017

India: Ganga and Yamuna Rivers granted legal person/entity rights by the Uttarakhand High Court

Confirms these rivers’ intrinsic right not to be polluted, regarding them as living entities to be protected through parens patriae jurisdiction. Statelevel (subnational) law problematic, as their spatial scale spans several states (Kothari and Bajpai 2017)

2017

Global Pact for the Environment (IUCN 2018b) presented to the IUCN (July), and the UN General Assembly (September)

Spearheaded by the Club des Juristes, a legal thinktank in France, with no Indigenous representatives. Document mentions the obligation of parties with regard to Indigenous peoples’ rights and knowledge but only alongside the rights of local communities, migrants, children, and other vulnerable populations, using representations of Indigenous peoples common in hegemonic discourses of international law

2018

Colombia: Supreme Court recognizes the Colombian Amazon as a legal entity

Outcome of a lawsuit filed by a group of twenty-five young people against the government. Building on the 2016 decision regarding the Atrato River, the Supreme Court now recognizes the entire Colombian Amazon ecosytem “as an entity, subject of rights, and beneficiary of the protection, conservation, maintenance and restoration” that national and local governments are obligated to provide under Colombia’s Constitution (in IUCN 2018a)

in New Zealand makes them relatively robust, proficient in tackling complex issues, and more likely to resist pressure to compromise (ibid.). Based on limited application, therefore, there are promising signals of the potential for the rights of Nature to support the agency of Indigenous peoples, particularly the fulfilment of their responsibilities of stewardship. However, it seems unlikely that this mechanism will be available at a scale that will benefit more than a few communities in very particular circumstances.

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discussion We set out to explore the extent to which mechanisms for the conservation of biological diversity have supported Indigenous stewardship and created space for Indigenous agency in conservation. Our analysis highlights some significant areas of alignment and convergence in recent decades as the link between biological and cultural diversity has been recognized and accepted. These advances are all the more significant given the often fundamental differences between Indigenous stewardship and biodiversity conservation in terms of imperatives, underlying values, and practice. The concept of Indigenous stewardship attempts to capture the relationship of respect, responsibility, and care that Indigenous peoples have with their traditional territories (Brown and Mitchell 1998; Chapin et al. 2015; Lertzman 2009). It depends on local knowledge – which can be enhanced by new research or knowledge generation – and on customary institutions in order to oversee the land, sea, plants, animals, and other occupants of the area (Brown and Mitchell 1998; Chapin et al. 2015). Among the Nuu-chah-nulth people on the west coast of Vancouver Island, this worldview is called hishuk ish tsawalk (“everything is one” or “everything is connected”) (see chapter 3, this volume). On the Pacific Northwest Coast, the Tlingit concept of ay wunei (Langdon 2016), similar to the Cree (Eeyou Istchee) term Asnuuchaayituumukw Istchee, evokes the principle of respect and how it should inform respectful behaviour toward land and sea territories as well as toward all human and nonhuman entities. Biodiversity conservation, in contrast, “anchors a discourse that articulates a new relation between nature and society in global contexts of science, cultures and economies” (Escobar 1998, 55). This discourse has been, and is increasingly, articulated as “a master narrative of biological crisis” (ibid., 56) that tends to understate the complexity and interconnection of Nature-society relations (see also Di Marco et al. 2016). Efforts to address this tendency include recognition of the value of biocultural diversity as an approach to biodiversity conservation as well as greater consideration of human rights, equity, and well-being (Kareiva and Marvier 2012). A shift away from the biocentric focus of traditional conservation – with its emphasis on the intrinsic value of Nature and priorities of species diversity and extinction (Hunter, Redford, and Lindenmayer 2014) – and toward biocultural considerations has opened up spaces previously unavailable for Indigenous peoples’ agency and the consideration of their rights, interests, and responsibilities to their territories. Our exploration of four particular mechanisms of biodiversity conservation reveals some contours of the discourse that has accompanied this shift in focus. The first of these mechanisms – international legal and policy instruments – serves as the overarching context for other mechanisms of biodiversity protection, including protected areas and ecosystem services. It extends back over

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three decades to some of the earliest international-level acknowledgments of the contribution of Indigenous peoples to biodiversity protection. Over time, generalized statements of recognition have gradually been shored up as globalizing discourses of environmental protection and human rights have converged to reinforce one another. Although resolutions such as the Durban Accord (IUCN 2003) and outcomes from the Programme of Work on Protected Areas (SCBD 2004c) may seem disconnected and removed from the daily struggles of Indigenous earth defenders, they have contributed to a “new paradigm” linking conservation, culture, and rights (Stevens 2014)9 that is beginning to translate into significant change and action on the ground. The second mechanism – protected areas – represents perhaps the most successful example of how international legal and policy instruments can bring about change and action at other scales. In this respect, recognition of Indigenous governance by the International Union for Conservation of Nature and by the Secretariat of the Convention on Biological Diversity has become a gamechanger in redefining the roles and responsibilities of Indigenous peoples in the context of Indigenous conserved areas as well as protected areas under shared governance. However, there is little room for complacency; the formal, legally binding recognition of ICCA s (or the creation of IPCA s in the case of Canada) is urgently needed in many areas, including their declaration as “no go” areas for destructive industries and as safe havens for their defenders (ICCA Consortium 2018). In areas where they overlap with other protected areas, appropriate recognition, respect, and support are needed (Stevens 2015). Finally, as new models and possibilities emerge for ICCA s, opportunities for renegotiating the terms and reimagining relationships within existing (usually state-designated) parks and protected areas will also need to be identified and supported. The third mechanism – payment for ecosystem services – is associated with interesting experiments and experiences, but outcomes vary from context to context. Although the concept of ecosystem services does not align with principles that guide Indigenous stewardship, the successful appropriation of this mechanism by Indigenous groups, for purposes linked to their commitment to sustaining their territories and ways of life, is testimony to Indigenous agency. The fourth mechanism – recognition of rights for Nature – is in its early stages and will likely be limited by operationalization frameworks. However, it is worthy of attention because of its compatibility with Indigenous worldviews. It is also likely to gain some traction in the context of the Anthropocene as the value of models that reunite rather than dichotomize Nature-society relations is recognized. The extent to which these mechanisms of biodiversity conservation have created or supported space for Indigenous agency seems to depend on several factors. First, the growing presence and effectiveness of Indigenous peoples at the international level has resulted in positive feedback, such that they are now

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major players in negotiating the terms of their engagement.10 Since rights are never given, only won, the gains made have often involved the dedicated efforts of Indigenous peoples themselves. Indigenous peoples have been active agents, with the circulation of counter-narratives and alternative discourses within international networks, particularly those produced by Indigenous peoples and their supporters, being essential to the reframing of biodiversity protection as a rights-based biocultural concern. According to Bavikatte and Robinson (2011, 48), “[t]he rights of communities we see in the Nagoya Protocol today cannot be attributed to manna from heaven or the munificence of Parties but are a result of hard-fought battles by the IIFB [International Indigenous Forum on Biodiversity] over every comma and word.” Second, the ability of Indigenous peoples to access and avail themselves of different mechanisms is tied to capacity issues. Indigenous stewardship can result in biodiversity conservation, environmental protection, and sustainability outcomes; however, the capacity of an Indigenous group to exercise its stewardship is contingent on the security of its tenure rights and the extent of its decision-making authority (Ruiz-Mallén and Corbera 2013; Sterling et al. 2017). The latter includes respect for customary institutions that rely on cultural values and support the transmission of Indigenous knowledge. As discussed earlier, tools such as biocultural community protocols and Indigenous mapping initiatives contribute to capacity building by means of documentation of local knowledge, maintenance of community decision-making structures, and reinforcement of community networks through trust building and social bonds (Ruiz-Mallén and Corbera 2013). Capacity can also be enhanced by partnerships, such as with academics and civil society organizations, under the guidance of formal or informal protocols that assist in countering the perpetuation of power imbalances (Dove 2006). Learning from the positive and negative experiences of others through networks and alliances is also potentially powerful. This process can include the development of strategies of protest, resistance, and accommodation, as well as ensuring community and regional support for their engagement, which in turn depends on strong leadership. Third, the presence of political will is critical for success. This is true at all levels, but the implementation of international commitments is dependent on the willingness of states to fulfil their obligations, which usually requires pressure from within, especially from Indigenous peoples and their supporters. Appropriate responses can include the development of national law, administrative regulations and rules, binding memoranda of understanding, and other provisions, such as protected area planning (Stevens 2015). Informal measures can also be valuable and sometimes more appropriate, such as providing support for the increased institutional capacity of all parties as well as strengthening communication, particularly in cross-cultural contexts (ibid.). Unfortunately, the implementation of international commitments, particularly those

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in support of Indigenous peoples, has been “very patchy” (IUCN 2011). In this context, FPIC becomes a powerful tool with the potential to transform the relationship between Indigenous peoples and the state. Finally, success or failure can be a simple matter of timing. The more closely aligned community goals and initiatives are with those at the regional and national levels, which in turn should resonate with discourses circulating within international forums, the greater the chance of success. Transformative change is rarely slow and incremental. Instead, momentum rises and falls, sometimes crossing thresholds or tipping points that can bring everything to a crashing halt or a major transformational change. conclusion Although high-level commitments to reshaping Indigenous-state relations are often slow and protracted, we need to be alert to Indigenous agency, particularly creative on-the-ground community responses that are allowing some Indigenous groups to move forward, to hang on to what they have got, or to get back to where they were by negotiating spaces for the realization of Indigenous “life projects” (Blaser, Feit, and McRae 2004). This concept captures the agency of Indigenous peoples and reminds us that Indigenous peoples do not just resist development and do not just react to the United Nations and other international bodies, the state, or the market but are actively engaged in sustaining life projects that are embedded in local histories, grounded in distinct Indigenous ontologies and epistemologies, and responsive to the current goals, needs, opportunities, and power dynamics of their communities.

notes 1 The original source and accuracy of this statistic is unknown. Yet it is widely used, often supported by secondary sources, most commonly Sobrevila (2008, xii). 2 The Earth Summit resulted in several documents, including Agenda 21 (United Nations 1992a), the Convention on Biological Diversity (United Nations 1992b), and the Rio Declaration on Environment and Development (United Nations 1992c). 3 Through UNDRIP, Indigenous peoples have been granted the right to “full and effective participation in all matters that concern them, and their right to remain distinct and to pursue their own visions of economic and social development” (United Nations 2007a). 4 The Nagoya Protocol was designed to stop biopiracy and to develop business relationships based on mutual respect and understanding. 5 These principles have been articulated by Indigenous peoples in international forums for decades, as reflected in the Kari-Oca Declaration and Indigenous People’s Earth Charter (World Conference of Indigenous Peoples on Territory, Environment and Development 1992). 6 The Indigenous Circle of Experts was established in 2017 to explore how Indigenous protected and conserved areas could be implemented in Canada and to provide advice in

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7

8 9

10

support of Canada Target 1 (Canada 2015), which is based on Aichi Target 11 (SCBD 2011a), an international commitment to conserve by 2020 at least 17 per cent of terrestrial areas and inland water and 10 per cent of coastal and marine areas through networks of protected areas and other effective area-based conservation measures. Steven Nitah, based on his experience negotiating the creation of the Thaidene Nëné National Park Reserve and Territorial Protected Area in the Northwest Territories, refers to this unwillingness to give up power as the challenge of “fettering the minister’s authority” (Standing Committee on Environment and Sustainable Development 2016). By 2015, ten such initiatives were in place (Sangha et al. 2017). Although the term “Indigenous stewardship” has not yet been adopted in international policy, the emerging discourse includes reference to the customary use of resources, knowledge, and culture. Interestingly, article 25 of UNDRIP captures the concept of stewardship: “Indigenous peoples have the right to maintain and strengthen their distinctive spiritual relationship with their traditionally owned or otherwise occupied and used lands, territories, waters and coastal seas and other resources and to uphold their responsibilities to future generations in this regard” (United Nations 2007b). Nonetheless, the absence of an Indigenous representative from the initiative launched in 2017 to promote the Global Pact for the Environment (IUCN 2018b) indicates that the presence of Indigenous peoples at the international level cannot yet be assumed as a given.

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18 Tsilhqot’in Nation Aboriginal Title: Ethnoecological and Ethnobotanical Evidence and the Roles and Obligations of the Expert Witness David M. Robbins and Michael Bendle introduction On 26 June 2014 the chief justice of the Supreme Court of Canada signed a declaration affirming the Tsilhqot’in Nation’s Aboriginal title to approximately 2,000 square kilometres of land in central British Columbia. This declaration, the first of its kind in Canada, was the culmination of a long legal struggle by the Tsilhqot’in Nation to have its Aboriginal title recognized. Ethnoecological and ethnobotanical evidence, provided both by Tsilhqot’in elders and by expert witnesses, played a pivotal role in helping the Tsilhqot’in Nation to establish at trial the fact that it exclusively occupied that land, the legal threshold in Canada for a court to make a declaration of Aboriginal title at law. As a result, on appeal to the Supreme Court of Canada, that court was able to readily say, “For centuries, the people of the Tsilhqot’in Nation – a grouping of six bands sharing common culture and history – . . . lived in villages, managed lands for the foraging of roots and herbs, hunted and trapped” (see figure 18.1).1 Meticulous gathering of evidence related to Tsilhqot’in plant knowledge, use, and management enabled the Tsilhqot’in Nation to present the trial judge with a consistent, reliable, and meaningful factual record from which that judge could draw the conclusion that the Tsilhqot’in people had Aboriginal title to the declared lands. This chapter discusses the significant contribution of ethnoecological and ethnobotanical expert opinion in helping the trial judge to interpret and draw conclusions from the various evidence at trial. The acceptance of, and reliance on, such expert opinion evidence allowed the trial judge to make several key findings of fact in support of the Tsilhqot’in Nation’s title

18.1 | Area subject to the Supreme Court of Canada’s declaration of proven Aboriginal title in the Tsilhqot’in case.

claim. Significantly, underpinning these findings was the trial judge’s acceptance of the credibility and reliability of expert witnesses. This chapter also discusses the role of an expert witness and some of the obligations that inform this role, which enable judicial decision makers to have confidence in the evidence being heard.

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the trial decision (2007 bcsc 1700) Going into the trial, which commenced in 2002, the legal threshold for proof of Aboriginal title had already been articulated at law. In 1997 the Supreme Court of Canada set out the legal test for establishing Aboriginal title in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia.2 The court set out that to prove Aboriginal title, an Aboriginal people (e.g., the Tsilhqot’in) had to show exclusive occupation of the land in question at the time of British Crown sovereignty; if an Indigenous people intends to rely on present occupation to indicate occupation at the time of Crown sovereignty, this occupation must be continuous.3 The date of conclusive Crown sovereignty for British Columbia is generally set as 1846, the year of the British-American Boundary Treaty applicable to western North America. The legal test for title requires proof not just of sufficient occupation at 1846 but also of exclusive occupation. Sufficient occupation of land “may be established in a variety of ways, ranging from the construction of dwellings through cultivation and enclosure of fields to regular use of definite tracts of land for hunting, fishing or otherwise exploiting its resources.”4 Exclusive occupation may be demonstrated by the ability to exclude others, including the intention and capacity to retain exclusive control of the lands.5 The Honourable Mr Justice David H. Vickers was the presiding judge at trial in the Tsilhqot’in case. Over the course of the trial, he heard 339 days of testimony and argument. Justice Vickers was careful in his scrutiny of the evidence before him, including expert and oral Aboriginal evidence. At the trial’s conclusion, Justice Vickers did not make a declaration of Aboriginal title due to how the case was pleaded; however, he did find that the Tsilhqot’in Nation had proven Aboriginal title to approximately 2,000 square kilometres of the roughly 4,400 square kilometres of area claimed.6 In his reasons, Justice Vickers provided a detailed basis for this conclusion, identifying the facts that allowed him to find that the Tsilhqot’in had exclusively occupied those lands as of 1846. In subsequent appeals, Justice Vickers’s method of fact finding, and the factual inferences that he drew, were not disputed. There was, however, judicial controversy over how Justice Vickers applied the legal requirement for sufficient occupation and over the legal conclusions with respect to Aboriginal title that this framing entailed. A question of central importance in the Tsilhqot’in trial was how to conceive of basic occupation versus occupation sufficient to ground Aboriginal title. This issue translated more specifically into the question of whether the geographic extent of Aboriginal title was limited to specific sites of intensive use, such as berry patches, hunting blinds, and fishing stations, or whether it could cover larger territory regularly used and/or managed, such as cultivated land and hunting, trapping, fishing, and plant-gathering grounds. This former conception of Aboriginal title, the so-called “postage stamp” interpretation, was

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advanced by, British Columbia and Canada, the Crown defendants. Justice Vickers rejected the “postage stamp” theory of Aboriginal title and adopted a more expansive view whereby Aboriginal title is proven by showing “regular use or occupancy of definite tracts of land.”7 He elaborated that “a tract of land is intended to describe land over which Indigenous people roamed on a regular basis; land that ultimately defined and sustained them as a people.”8 Regular use is distinguished from occasional entry and use.9 basic occuPation Practically, this meant that the first step in proving sufficient occupation was to establish Tsilhqot’in basic occupation of the claimed lands prior to and at 1846. Based on elders’ oral testimony and expert evidence regarding Tsilhqot’in resource names, place names, legends, and trails, all of which related to plant knowledge, harvesting, and management, the Tsilhqot’in were able to establish that “Tsilhqot’in people occupied the Claim Area at the time of sovereignty assertion [i.e., 1846] and before.”10 With respect to plant resource names, particularly the time depth of ecological knowledge regarding these names, the evidence of Dr Nancy Turner was significant. Turner was qualified in court as an expert in ethnoecology and ethnobotany entitled to express opinions on a range of subjects related to her expertise, including timelines for the acquisition of ecological knowledge.11 In this regard, Justice Vickers stated, [676] Dr. Turner expressed the opinion that when people first move to an area they are unfamiliar with the local resources. It takes time and observation at a particular location to gather practical knowledge about how to harvest the resources and how to conserve and maintain the resource for future use. Dr. Turner testified that it takes: “a lot of time, generations of teaching and observation, to build up a really complex system of knowledge that leads to sustainable use of people’s environment.” Tsilhqot’in people have names and uses for numerous plants found in the Claim Area. They have managed and harvested those plants for generations. In Dr. Turner’s opinion, it would not have been possible for Tsilhqot’in people to have acquired this knowledge and developed this connection to the plant resources in their territory within the last 150 years. Based on the names of plants and the knowledge of their uses, she concluded Tsilhqot’in people had been resident in the Claim Area for at least 250 to 300 years. [677] Dr. Turner was cross-examined extensively in this area. I have no difficulty in accepting the opinions she expressed. I conclude that Tsilhqot’in people have been present in the Claim area for over 250 years

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based on the length of time required to develop the names and knowledge of the Claim Area plants used for food and medicine.12 Another important consideration in Justice Vickers’s finding on the time depth of Tsilhqot’in basic occupation of the claim area was the abundance of Tsilhqot’in place names. Archaeologist Morley Eldridge gave an expert opinion that place names tend to be relatively stable over time; in short, there is some longevity in place names.13 Justice Vickers noted that in the central region of British Columbia where the claim area is located, there is an abundance of place names that were anglicized upon the arrival of European traders and settlers, an example being Tsilhqox (Chilko River), and that Tsilhqot’in place names in the claim area “include prominent mountain peaks, prime resource areas, archaeological sites, sites that related to specific oral traditions and sites that are otherwise significant for Tsilhqot’in people.”14 Drawing on the considerable evidence with respect to Tsilhqot’in place names, Justice Vickers concluded that “these place names indicate Tsilhqot’in people have been in the area for a lengthy period of time.”15 Of note, many of those place names identified plant-harvesting grounds or referenced oral traditions such as legends in which plant harvesting was imbedded. For example, the Tshilqot’in creation story of Lhin Desch’osh explained the origins of sunt’iny (mountain potatoes, or spring beauty; Claytonia lanceolata) in the Dzelh Ch’ed (Snow Mountains) above Tsi Tese’Ɂan (Tchaikazan Valley), Yuhitah (Yohetta Valley), and Tl’echid Gunaz (Long Valley) in the southern part of the claim area where the Tsilhqot’in harvested this and other plant foods.16 Regarding such Tsilhqot’in oral traditions, Justice Vickers also concluded that “the references to lakes, rivers and other landmarks formed a part of these legends for Tsilhqot’in people at the time of sovereignty assertion [i.e., 1846].”17 Indeed, Tsilhqot’in legends, place names, and resource names related to plants often intersected to support the Tsilhqot’in people’s basic occupation of the claim area. A good example of this occurrence is what the trial judge called “the important Tsilhqot’in legend . . . of Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud.” As told by elders, Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud were an ancestral Tsilhqot’in husband and wife with children living traditionally as a family within the relevant lands. However, when they decided to separate, with each of them taking children, ɁEniyud left Ts’ilɁos in the mountains around XenediɁan, known for the presence of sunt’iny and Ɂesghunsh (yellow avalanche lily, or bear tooth; Erythronium grandiflorum), another root vegetable (see figures 18.2 and 18.3). Travelling north and then west, she transformed the landscape by sculpting its geography and seeding root vegetables, including sunt’iny, at the harvesting areas of ɁEsqi Dzul TeseɁan, ɁEsgany ɁAnx, Gughay Ch’ech’ed, and Tl’eqwezbens above Xeni (Nemiah Valley), en route to her maiden family’s area at Naghatalhchoz Biny (Big Eagle Lake). Upon seeding the adjacent Tsimol Ch’ed (Potato Mountain), ɁEniyud transmogrified into ɁEniyud Dzelh (Niut Mountain), and Ts’ilɁos and the children who

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18.2 | Mountain potato, or spring beauty (sunt’iny, Claytonia lanceolata). Its corms are a staple traditional food of the Tsilhqot’in, and it is the plant after which the Potato Mountains are named.

remained with him transmogrified into Ts’ilɁos Dzelh (Mount Tatlow) and its peaks.18 Accordingly, Justice Vickers held, [667] Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud as well as Guli, explain the origins of key mountains, valleys and geographic landmarks in the transitional mountainplateau zone on the perimeter of the Dzelh Ch’ed (Snow Mountains) at the plateau. Their legend also explains the dispersal of sunt’iny as an important food source. [669] Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud explain the Dechen Ts’edilhtan (the law) against separation. Consequences include ba ts’egudah (bad luck; negatively affecting one’s future). In the case of Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud, they

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18.3 | Yellow avalanche lily, or bear tooth (Ɂesghunsh, Erythronium grandiflorum), a traditional root vegetable whose edible bulbs are commonly prepared by pit cooking.

were transmogrified into mountains. Even now, it is considered improper behaviour to point at either peak. To do so would bring ba ts’egudah, often in the form of foul weather. Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud are persons to be respected. Tsilhqot’in people are taught that they are charged with the responsibility of respecting all of the land, no less than these two mountain peaks.19 In determining Tsilhqot’in basic occupation of the lands at issue, Justice Vickers further placed emphasis on the fact that, including in relation to plant harvesting, “[t]here was and is an extensive network of Tsilhqot’in trails in the Claim Area.” Relying on expert evidence as well as that of Tsilhqot’in elders, Justice Vickers stated,

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[679] . . . I conclude that prior to [European] contact and at the time of sovereignty assertion [i.e., 1846] there was an extensive network of trails forged and used by Tsilhqot’in people within and adjacent to the Claim Area. [680] One obvious use of this trail network is to assist with hunting, fishing, trapping and resource gathering . . .20 In sum, reliable ethnoecological and ethnobotanical evidence regarding Tsilhqot’in resource names, place names, legends, and trails was key to the Tsilhqot’in establishing basic occupation of the entire claim area of some 4,400 square kilometres of land at the time of the British Crown’s conclusive assertion of sovereignty in 1846. sufficient occuPation Having determined as fact that the Tsilqhot’in had basic occupation of the relevant lands as of Crown sovereignty, the issue raised was whether the occupation was sufficient to ground Tsilhqot’in Aboriginal title at law. In the words of Justice Vickers, [682] It is the nature and extent of this occupation that presents the next challenge. As was reiterated [by the Supreme Court of Canada] in para. 73 of Marshall; Bernard: . . . the line between sufficient and insufficient occupancy for title is between irregular use of undefined lands on the one hand and regular use of defined lands on the other. “Settlements constitute regular use of defined lands, but they are only one instance of it” (para. 141).21 In the terminology of Delgamuukw, the factual question arising regarding Tsilhqot’in plant harvesting on the occupied lands was whether it amounted to Tsilhqot’in cultivation or regular use of that land. Regarding cultivation, the trial judge began to consider the question from non-Aboriginal and Aboriginal perspectives, in part based on the evidence of Dr Turner: [683] There do not appear to be village sites that were occupied year round by Tsilhqot’in people. At the time of sovereignty assertion, Tsilhqot’in people had no cultivated fields or other lands showing visible

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signs of an investment of labour. The fields they relied upon were not cultivated in the usual sense. However in Dr. Turner’s opinion the mountain slopes that provided berries and root plants showed evidence of many generations of plant harvesting and management. These slopes have sustained Tsilhqot’in people since before the arrival of Europeans. Historical village sites were more in the nature of a collection or grouping of niyah qungh [permanent above-ground housing] or lhiz qwen yex [permanent pit-housing] in which they resided during the cold winter months.22 Justice Vickers then proceeded to assess the claim area of roughly 4,400 square kilometres in terms of sites of Tsilhqot’in constructed dwellings, cultivated fields, and land regularly used for the exploitation of resources (e.g., plants) at the time of Crown sovereignty in 1846 and continuing thereafter. Starting with an assessment of the Tsilhqox (Chilko River) corridor, the trial judge commented, [707] The Tsilhqox corridor provides the best evidence of residential sites that might qualify as village sites especially during the fall and winter months. Even in these areas, there were no “cultivated fields” as those words are generally understood. The Tsilhqot’in people were not agrarian people. They used what nature had to offer on the mountain slopes and valleys: berry picking, harvesting medicinal plants, mountain potato and other root vegetables. They used and managed these resources and in that sense these areas were their “cultivated fields.”23 Justice Vickers attached particular significance to the Tsilhqot’in occupation of Tsimol Ch’ed (Potato Mountain): [884] Tsilhqot’in people gathered roots on Ts’imol Ch’ed and hunted the area through the summer months. This practice continued from historical times up to the mid-twentieth century when it began to decline, largely due to the growth of ranching in the area. [885] The area was used by Xeni Gwet’in and Naghatalhchoz Gwet’in and also by other Tsilhqot’in communities in the summer, generally mid to late June to July, when sunt’iny could be identified and harvested. Into the twentieth century, considerable numbers of Tsilhqot’in people have camped all over the mountain at sites such as K’anlh Gunlin, ɁEdaz Biny and ɁElagi Seqan. No single site on the mountain appears to have been used every year, or by all harvesters. Some families returned to preferred areas on a regular basis . . .

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[886] The slopes of Tsimol Ch’ed are as close as Tsilhqot’in people came to “cultivated fields” at the time of sovereignty. They were not cultivated in a way that would be recognized by a European person. However, the root extraction was managed and cultivated in a fashion that ensured a passing on of this important resource from generation to generation.24 Ultimately, Justice Vickers concluded that the Tsilhqot’in had established sufficient occupation of roughly 2,000 square kilometres of the approximately 4,400 square kilometres of lands at issue, plus adjacent areas. The proven title lands included the Chilko River corridor, Tsimol Ch’ed (Potato Mountain), and the lands north and west of Ts’ilɁos Dzelh (Mount Tatlow), including Xeni (Nemiah Valley), Tsuniah (Tsuniah Valley), and Naghatalhchoz Biny (Big Eagle Lake) as modified by ɁEniyud: [959] The entire body of evidence in this case reveals village sites occupied for portions of each year. In addition, there were cultivated fields. These fields were not cultivated in the manner expected by European settlers. Viewed from the perspective of Tsilhqot’in people the gathering of medicinal and root plants and the harvesting of berries was accomplished in a manner that managed these resources to insure their return for future generations. These cultivated fields were tied to village sites, hunting grounds and fishing sites by a network of foot trails, horse trails and watercourses that defined the seasonal rounds. These sites and their interconnecting links set out definite tracts of land in regular use by Tsilhqot’in people at the time of sovereignty assertion to an extent sufficient to warrant a finding of Aboriginal title as follows: • The Tsilhqox (Chilko River) Corridor from its outlet at Tsilhqox Biny (Chilko Lake) including a corridor of at least 1 kilometre on both sides of the river and inclusive of the river up to Gwetsilh (Siwash Bridge); • Xeni, inclusive of the entire north slope of Ts’ilɁos. This slope of Ts’ilɁos provides the southern boundary . . . [960] The foregoing describes a tract of land mostly within the Claim Area but not entirely. It is an area that was occupied by Tsilhqot’in people at the time of sovereignty assertion to a degree sufficient to warrant a finding of Tsilhqot’in Aboriginal title land from three perspectives. First, there are village sites as I have discussed earlier. Second, there are cultivated fields, cultivated from the Tsilhqot’in perspective. These were the valleys and slopes of the transitional zone used and managed by Tsilhqot’in people for generations that provided them with root plants, medicines and berries. Third, by a well-defined network of trails and

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waterways, Tsilhqot’in people occupied and used the land, the rivers, the lakes, and the many trails as definite tracts of land on a regular basis for hunting, trapping, fishing and gathering. This is the land over which they held exclusionary rights of control: Marshall; Bernard at para. 77. This was the land that provided security and continuity for Tsilhqot’in people at the time of sovereignty assertion: Sappier; Gray at para. 33.25 Thus it is clear that ethnoecological and ethnobotanical evidence of plant resource management and regular use contributed to Justice Vickers’s finding of sufficient occupation to ground Aboriginal title in a significant portion of the Tsilhqot’in Nation’s claim area, as well as some areas outside of it. The factual step from basic occupation to sufficient occupation was available to Justice Vickers, according to his framing of the legal test, wherever the evidence demonstrated that the Tsilhqot’in people’s occupation of an area was tied to the management and regular use of that area for the long-term sustenance of the Tsilhqot’in Nation. reforMulation at the court of aPPeal (2012 bcca 285) Following the rendering of Justice Vickers’s decision, both the Tsilhqot’in Nation and the defendants, British Columbia and Canada, appealed aspects of the decision to the British Columbia Court of Appeal. At the centre of the issues dealt with on appeal was Crown disagreement with how Justice Vickers had interpreted the legal requirement for sufficient occupation. The Court of Appeal adopted the approach advanced by the Crown and found that the conception of Aboriginal title adopted by Justice Vickers was improperly “territorial.” “Sufficient occupation,” as framed in the Court of Appeal’s ruling, required use and occupation at a far more intensive and local scale.26 The Court of Appeal accepted that the Tsilhqot’in Nation had occupied the claim area in the manner found at trial. However, the Court of Appeal disagreed that this manner of occupation could support Aboriginal title to most of the areas where Justice Vickers found Tsilhqot’in Nation title proven. In effect, the BC Court of Appeal adopted the “postage stamp” theory of Aboriginal title. Under this theory, the conclusions drawn by Justice Vickers were in many cases not available based on the evidence given and facts found. That was because the BC Court of Appeal insisted that a semi-nomadic ranging use of lands was merely basic occupation and not “sufficient occupation.”27 In order to find Aboriginal title in the Court of Appeal’s framework, the Tsilhqot’in needed to show regular and intensive use of lands. The court identified some of the types of sites that could indicate sufficient occupation to ground Aboriginal title: “A title site may be defined by a particular occupancy of the land (e.g., village sites, enclosed or cultivated fields) or on the basis that

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definite tracts of land were the subject of intensive use (specific hunting, fishing, gathering, or spiritual sites). In all cases, however, Aboriginal title can only be proven over a definite tract of land the boundaries of which are reasonably capable of definition.”28 Applying this narrower concept of Aboriginal title, the BC Court of Appeal found that the facts supported a claim of Aboriginal title to only a few specific sites. The court found that the Tsilhqot’in had few permanent village sites, did not cultivate or enclose fields, and fished, hunted, and gathered plants “on an opportunistic basis” over a wide area with only a few sites of intense use and management.29 In short, the Court of Appeal found that the Tsilhqot’in way of life and the way that the Tsilhqot’in used their territory could not generally result in a finding of sufficient occupation to establish Aboriginal title. The court was candid on this point: “[I]ndeed, the plaintiff’s often repeated statement that the Tsilhqot’in did not lead a ‘postage stamp’ existence underlines the territorial nature of the claim – with a few exceptions, there are no definite tracts of land that were habitually occupied by the Tsilhqot’in at and around 1846.”30 In addition, part of Justice Vickers’s framework for Aboriginal title was that sufficient occupation is tied to lands that were used to sustain an Indigenous group. The Court of Appeal rejected this approach, stating that issues of sustenance are addressed by nonexclusive usufructary Aboriginal hunting, fishing, and harvesting rights.31 The Court of Appeal’s polemic approach meant that much of the ethnoecological and ethnobotanical evidence, which was so significant at the trial court, did not support the Tsilhqot’in Nation’s claim for Aboriginal title. The regular use and management of plant-harvesting grounds were no longer sufficient. The Court of Appeal’s framework required evidence of enclosure or more intensive cultivation. vindication at the suPreMe court of canada (2014 scc 44) On appeal, the Supreme Court of Canada restored Justice Vickers’s interpretation and application of the law of Aboriginal title and issued a declaration of the Tsilhqot’in Nation Aboriginal title claimed and proven at trial. This was the first judicial declaration of Aboriginal title in the four decades since the Supreme Court of Canada had first affirmed the existence, at least in legal theory, of common law Aboriginal title in Calder v. Attorney-General of British Columbia in 1973.32 The Supreme Court ruled that Justice Vickers had used the correct legal approach in assessing whether occupation was “sufficient” to establish Aboriginal title. Chief Justice Beverley McLachlan, on behalf of a unanimous court, wrote that “[s]ufficiency of occupation is a context-specific inquiry . . . The intensity

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and frequency of the use may vary with the characteristics of the Aboriginal group asserting title and the character of the land over which title is asserted. Here, for example, the land, while extensive, was harsh and was capable of supporting only 100 to 1,000 people. The fact that the Aboriginal group was only about 400 people must be considered in the context of the carrying capacity of the land in determining whether regular use of definite tracts of land is made out.”33 The chief justice went on to say that sufficient occupation requires “evidence of a strong presence on or over the land claimed, manifesting itself in acts of occupation that could reasonably be interpreted as demonstrating that the land in question belonged to, was controlled by, or was under the exclusive stewardship of the claimant group . . . Cultivated fields, constructed dwelling houses, invested labour, and a consistent presence on parts of the land may be sufficient, but are not essential to establish occupation. The notion of occupation must also reflect the way of life of the Aboriginal people, including those who were nomadic or semi-nomadic.”34  The question of sufficient use, the chief justice stated, must also be approached from the perspective of the Indigenous group in question and how that group conceived of and enforced its ownership of land: “In determining what constitutes sufficient occupation, one looks to the Aboriginal culture and practices, and compares them in a culturally sensitive way with what was required at common law to establish title on the basis of occupation.”35 The chief justice also held that Justice Vickers had appropriately applied the legal test to the facts. The chief justice agreed that, although the Tsilhqot’in population was small at the time of the assertion of Crown sovereignty, there was sufficient evidence to support Justice Vickers’s finding that portions of the claim area were used regularly by the Tsilhqot’in and thus sufficient evidence to ground Aboriginal title.36 Moreover, the Supreme Court dismissed Crown criticisms of Justice Vickers’s judgment with respect to his inference from the examination of certain specific sites that a broader and vaguely bounded area was used by the Tsilhqot’in people. The Supreme Court found that such criticisms were rooted in the rejected conception of Aboriginal title as being site-specific. The Supreme Court was satisfied that the evidence Justice Vickers reviewed regarding Tsilhqot’in use of a large number of individual sites allowed him to infer the broader boundaries within which the Tsilhqot’in regularly and exclusively occupied the land.37 the role of the ethnoecoloGist and ethnobotanist as exPert witness The Supreme Court of Canada’s ultimate conclusions with respect to the legal requirement of sufficient occupation – that it can be proved through regular

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use and management of plant resources – indicate that ethnoecological and ethnobotanical expert evidence may continue to play a significant role in Aboriginal title litigation. Considering this fact, it is important for such expert witnesses to understand how a court may use their evidence and, equally, the specific rigours that a court requires of expert witnesses. An expert witness who is assisting a court assumes an added set of duties and rigours beyond the usual academic ones. When serving as an expert witness, an ethnoecologist and ethnobotanist must establish the reliability of his or her expert opinion to the satisfaction of the court. Unsurprisingly, this requires above all convincing the court that he or she is a good scientist. However, it may be a surprise to some aspiring expert witnesses the extent to which a judge will examine the individual credibility of an expert witness and the extent to which a judge may wade into that expert’s opinion in order to assess not only the data relied upon but also how an expert has drawn his or her conclusions from that data. Ultimately, a valuable ethnoecological and ethnobotanical expert witness is one who will be accepted as trustworthy and objective by a court. exPert, not advocate The British Columbia Supreme Court civil rules, which govern civil litigation in the province, set out that the duty of the expert witness, in giving an opinion to the court, is to assist the court in understanding the significance of evidence beyond its expertise, not to be an advocate for any party.38 When an expert report is tendered as court evidence, the report must include a certification by the expert that he or she is aware of his or her duty to the court, that he or she has made his or her report in conformity with that duty, and that he or she will, if called on to give oral or written testimony, give that testimony in conformity with that duty.39 The above-noted rule is at its essence concerned with the reliability of an expert witness. The concern is that an expert who advocates for the cause of an Indigenous group is less likely to provide the court with an objective opinion. The Delgamuukw trial presents a good case study of how a court may treat perceptions of partiality on the part of an expert witness and how the court’s perception of partiality may be at odds with academic standards. The trial judge in Delgamuukw, Chief Justice Allan McEachern, was assisted by a number of expert witnesses, including some anthropologists tendered by the plaintiffs. Two of these anthropologists, the chief justice found, were too closely associated with the plaintiff Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en. One of these anthropologists was in fact very open with the court that he viewed himself as an advocate on behalf of the plaintiffs. This expert defended this position as consistent with the statement of ethics of the American Anthropological Association, which states that “an anthropologist’s paramount

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responsibility is to those he studies. When there is a conflict of interest, these individuals must come first. The anthropologist must do everything within his power to protect their physical, social and psychological welfare and to honour their dignity and privacy.”40 Although Chief Justice McEachern accepted that the anthropologist’s bias was honest, he concluded that this bias prevented reliance on the anthropologist’s opinion. In coming to this conclusion, he noted that the anthropologist had lived with the plaintiffs “for two years, while this litigation was under way, making observations on their activities, listening and, I think, accepting everything they said, without keeping any notes.”41 Chief Justice McEachern was clear that he still considered the expert a well-qualified and highly intelligent anthropologist. However, he found that during the course of the litigation, the anthropologist had become too close to his clients and that his evidence was therefore no longer reliable.42 With respect to the second anthropologist, Chief Justice McEachern concluded that she was overly sympathetic to the plaintiffs, and he therefore placed little weight on her evidence. This conclusion was based on his finding that the anthropologist had changed her opinion to reflect the position of the plaintiffs and that she had too readily urged total acceptance of all Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en cultural values.43 conclusion Ethnoecological and ethnobotanical evidence has featured, and foreseeably will continue to feature, prominently in the proof of Aboriginal title in Canada. Such expert opinion may allow a court to draw conclusions on the duration and degree of an Indigenous people’s occupation of lands – that is, the time depth of basic and sufficient occupation necessary to establish Aboriginal title. Reliability, in the eyes of the court, is key to this endeavour. It requires impartiality, close scrutiny of data, and well-cited and supported opinions. The rigours of judicial proof require careful attention to an expert’s broader duty to the court – which is to assist, not to advocate.

notes 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2014 SCC 44, para. 3. Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1997] 3 SCR 1010. Delgamuukw 1997, para. 143. Delgamuukw 1997, para. 149. Delgamuukw 1997, para. 156. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2007 BCSC 1700, paras 960–2. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 583. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 1377.

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9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 584. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 681. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 675. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 676–7. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 672. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 673–4. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 674. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 654–8, 666, 867–71. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 665. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 659–62, 764–6, 770. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 667, 669. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 679–80. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 682. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 683. Tsilhqot’in 2007, para. 707. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 884–6. Tsilhqot’in 2007, paras 959–60. Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2012 BCCA 285, paras 219–28. Tsilhqot’in 2012, paras 214–18. Tsilhqot’in 2012, para. 230. Tsilhqot’in 2012, para. 216. Tsilhqot’in 2012, para. 218. Tsilhqot’in 2012, paras 235–8. Calder v. Attorney-General of British Columbia, [1973] SCR 313. Tsilhqot’in 2014, para. 37. Tsilhqot’in 2014, para. 38. Tsilhqot’in 2014, para. 50. Tsilhqot’in 2014, para. 55. Tsilhqot’in 2014, para. 63. Supreme Court Civil Rules, BC Reg. 3/2016, Rule 11–2 (1). Supreme Court Civil Rules, BC Reg. 3/2016, Rule 11–2 (2). Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1991] BCJ No. 525, para. 364. Delgamuukw 1991, para. 371. Delgamuukw 1991, para. 373. Delgamuukw 1991, para. 375.

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19 Plants, Habitats, and Litigation for Indigenous Peoples in Canada Stuart Rush, QC

introduction Indigenous peoples’ relationship to the land is spiritual. Laws come from the land, carrying principles and values about how to live in right relationships. The land is the source of belonging. The narratives of Indigenous people emerge from their use of the land and their presence on it – their relationship with the land. I have heard elders talk about the land in many different ways: “I have to look after the land, as it is the land that takes care of me in every way.” “It goes way beyond merely stewardship, as we are so much part of it.” “The spirits of the land breathe to us, let us know we are safe.” “We have a responsibility to maintain our dialogue with the spirits of the land.” “That’s the way we keep that land and ourselves healthy.” Plants have been in dialogue with Indigenous people for centuries. They offer themselves for food, medicine, housing, clothes, and art. Knowledge of plants reveals the connectivity of Indigenous people to their homeland. From this connection, laws of land entitlement and stewardship become evident and may become evidence in title litigation. This chapter examines the powerful role that plants, knowledge of plants contained in oral histories, and ethnobotany and ethnoecology can play in Aboriginal title litigation in Canada and what these disciplines can tell us about Indigenous peoples’ cultures and laws in terms of their connection to and occupation of land.

In this chapter, I discuss plants – including trees of the forest – not just in the wild but also in the world of Haida plant use for food, medicine, and construction. The chapter tells the story of the journey of a spruce-root hat from Haida Gwaii to Madrid, Spain, in 1774 and offers an account of how the hat is perceived by a contemporary Haida weaver. The legal significance of the plants of Haida Gwaii and the hat are viewed through the lens of the law of Aboriginal title. the haida and haida Gwaii This chapter focuses on the Haida people of Haida Gwaii.1 According to their oral histories, the Haida emerged from the oceans surrounding Haida Gwaii. A Haida presence on Haida Gwaii can be dated to at least 12,500 years ago. The oral histories speak of the arrival of trees and of a long spiritual connection to the land and water. These narratives were passed on over the millennia through a distinctive language (Williams-Davidson 2017). There are over 2,600 place names in the Haida language that mark a Haida presence on the land (Council of the Haida Nation 2017). The archaeology of Haida Gwaii suggests a precontact population of over 14,500 (Acheson 2005, 300). By 1774 the Haida lived in at least twenty major villages located in all parts of the islands (Turner 2004; see also Acheson 2005).2 Haida Gwaii (“islands of the people”) is a unique land type for Aboriginal title litigation. It is an island archipelago situated 80 kilometres off the north coast of British Columbia on the edge of the continental shelf. It is surrounded by several large bodies of water: Hecate Strait separates Haida Gwaii from the mainland, and the islands are bound by Dixon Entrance in the north, Queen Charlotte Sound to the south, and the Pacific Ocean to the west (M aPP 2015, 16–17; see also Acheson 2005, 304). Haida Gwaii is made up of over 150 closely compacted islands. The two largest are Graham Island in the north and Moresby Island in the south. The length of the archipelago is 250 kilometres, with the maximum width being just over 80 kilometres. The total landmass is approximately 10,000 square kilometres (Turner 2004, 26). The physiographic units of Haida Gwaii are the Queen Charlotte Ranges, Skidegate Plateau, and Queen Charlotte Lowlands. The mountains of the Queen Charlotte Ranges are the backbone of the islands and are rugged, falling away abruptly to the Pacific shoreline. The Skidegate Plateau slopes away to the northeast and is marked by tabletop hills and flat ridges divided in part by waterways. Most of the extensive forest communities are located in the plateau lands. Farther to the northeast at the edge of the plateau are the extensive lowlying, boggy Queen Charlotte lowlands containing coniferous forest and raised bogs interlaced with streams and lakes. Along the eastern and northeast coastlines are many beaches (Turner 2004, 29–30).

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The oceanographic setting of Haida Gwaii is unique, as it marks the transition between the northern Alaskan current and the southern California current. The currents around the archipelago are highly seasonal and change from summer to winter. In the summer, the west coast is dominated by cool water from the upwelling of nutrient-rich waters along the continental shelf. Haida eddies periodically form off the west coast and around Cape St James and carry pockets of nutrient- and plankton-rich surface water to the North Pacific and to the Gulf of Alaska (M aPP 2015, 16–17). There are highly diverse nearshore habitats along Haida Gwaii and a mix of shoreline types. The rocky headlands of Gwaii Haanas, the sand-dune beach systems on the northeast coast of Graham Island, and the predominantly rocky shorelines along the west coast with their sheltered pocket beaches and sounds all provide important habitat for marine species. These shorelines are home to the rich kelp forests found on the outer coast and to the lush eelgrass meadows found in the sheltered inlets and bays. Marine life thrives in this region (M aPP 2015, 16–17). Many of the islands are quite small and would take no time to circumnavigate by water or to walk across. The two largest islands, Graham and Moresby, are penetrated by many inlets (e.g., Massett, Naden Harbour, Juskatla, and Cumshewa), sounds (e.g., Rennell), and bays (e.g., Dinan and McClinton). Numerous streams and rivers, home to salmon spawners, drain these inland lakes in high-elevation terrain. The ocean shore is never far from the inland – the farthest point from salt water being 20 kilometres (Williams-Davidson 2017, 81). first encounter: the haida Meet Juan Perez I turn to a story about Haida Gwaii and the Haida people – a story that brings the land and its plant life into historical, cultural, and legal focus. For many thousands of years, the Haida were sovereign peoples governing Haida Gwaii. There was no challenge to this fact by the many British and American mariners and traders who came later, frequenting Haida waters to explore, to trade for sea otter furs, and to obtain provisions. On 20 July 1774, in heavy fog and drizzle, the Spanish ship Santiago approached the west shore of Langara Island in Haida Gwaii. At about 1:00 p.m., Captain Juan Perez could barely make out the shoreline and an inlet. As the ship came closer, almost 5 kilometres off, Perez could see smoke rising from fires on the land. One of the crew described them as bonfires. At a large Haida village on the shore, likely Kiusta (K’yuusda), Chief Gannyaa and members of his clan, standing on the cliff overlooking the sea, could make out a large floating object – a ship with sails – emerging from the mist. A reconnaissance team from the village was sent out to investigate this vessel. At about

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3:00 p.m., the Haida scouts – eight men and a boy – approached the ship in an oceangoing canoe. As they drew near the ship and its crew, they spread eagle down feathers, sang, and drummed – obvious gestures of friendship and peace (Wright 2001, 22). This was the first contact of the Haida – indeed, of all the Northwest Coast people – with Europeans 245 years ago. It was a remarkable and dramatic moment and one that forever changed the Haida and the Europeans who came along afterward. Following the scouts, two groups of Haida paddled out in their oceangoing canoes to meet the ship. The observant Perez noted that the canoes were made of a single piece of wood. There was gifting from the Haida, as the ship’s log indicates, in which Perez received a woven hat and a woollen blanket. The fog returned and the ship withdrew from the coast with a swift current pushing against it. The next day, 21 July, the wind slackened in the afternoon, and 200 Haida in twenty-one canoes came out to explore the ship and to exchange items. Again, led by a person who was clearly the chief, they approached while spreading eagle down, singing, drumming, and shaking a rattle, arms open in a sign of friendship. There was much activity, trading, and exchange in the afternoon until the fog returned and the ship was forced farther offshore, never to be seen again by the Haida. First contact histories are invaluable evidence in Aboriginal title litigation. There are four written accounts of the encounter with the Haida that provide a rich verbal picture and invaluable record of this first contact history (for the full accounts, see Wright 2001, 26–7). This is the best record and picture of Haida society and culture at contact, one untainted by projections and assumptions and thus able to provide invaluable insights about Haida people, their way of life, and the environment and ecology of Haida Gwaii. These accounts tell us much about the Haida, the plants, shrubs, and trees present on the land, and how those plants were used by the Haida in precontact times. These accounts are evidence in Aboriginal title litigation establishing legal rights under the common law. coMMon law The law governing the British Crown when it established colonies overseas was international law, which became part of the common law expressed in the Royal Proclamation of 1763 requiring Crown governments to recognize the pre-existence of Indigenous societies, their occupation of land, and their laws as legal rights, with the incremental perfection of Crown sovereignty through treaty (Mandell 2010). The relevant time for the determination of Aboriginal title

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in British Columbia is 1846, which is when the British asserted their sovereignty over the lands and waters of present-day British Columbia and Haida Gwaii.3 And so, in title litigation, we look for accounts of the Indigenous nation to determine whether, in 1846, its members occupied their territories. If so, they have pre-existing collective rights to land and laws within the Canadian legal system. The Supreme Court of Canada has said that Aboriginal title is a justiciable right, whose source and authority originally lay outside of the common law and constitutional legal structures. This unique source was “the fact . . . that when the settlers came, the Indians were there, organized in societies and occupying the land as their forefathers had done for centuries.” As a result, the Supreme Court said that Aboriginal title and rights do “not depend on treaty, executive order or legislative enactment,” as most freedoms do. They are pre-existing legal rights and laws that have their own logic, “Indigenous to their culture [but] capable of articulation under the common law.”4 In short, “European settlement did not terminate the interests of Aboriginal peoples arising from their historical occupation and use of the land. To the contrary, Aboriginal interests and customary laws were presumed to survive an assertion of sovereignty.”5 This is the golden thread of continuity in the common law. If the Crown governments dispute this prior occupation, we rely on first encounter documents in litigation. Some stories, like the encounter with Perez, should be taken as decisive evidence in recognizing Aboriginal title. We can glean from the Perez account expressions of Haida laws and legal orders. There is a demonstration of Haida law in the way Chief Gannyaa approached Perez on the second day of their encounter. He came spreading eagle down, which is an indication of peace. He was dressed ceremoniously in a blanket with crests that identified his belonging and a robe that conveyed his rank – accompanied by his clan singing, drumming, and using rattles. This was certainly a declaration of welcome, but it was more: it was approval of passage, giving permission to the Spanish to be in their waters, to come forward, and to come ashore in order to interact and to trade. It was also an expression of the law of respect: we honour you and we require that you honour us. Also, the act of gifting valued items in the exchanges with the Spanish was a marker of Haida law. Perez and his crew were given products beautifully made from resources of the land: hats, blankets, mats, ornaments, bowls, baskets, and capes, all part of Haida culture. The whole encounter was an exercise of Haida jurisdiction and laws in action. Perez’s impressions of the people he met were of a healthy and beautiful people. The men were “of good stature, well formed, a smiling face, beautiful eyes and good looking” (Wright 2001, 17). The women were described as “good looking” even though they had “the lower lip pierced where they attached a tablet (which to Perez’s way of thinking) [was] a very ugly thing” (ibid., 19). These are descriptions of strong, healthy, and physically powerful people. The

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large number of people who came out to greet Perez would have been an indicator to the Spanish that there was a sizable Indigenous population living in the area. The Spanish were impressed with the beauty of the ornaments worn by the Haida but were puzzled by how they could be made by a people “without culture.” The quality of the artifacts procured from the Haida clearly surprised the Spanish. Jose Martinez, second officer, on receiving a “cloak,” thought it “beautiful, the more so for ‘being handmade by people without culture’” (Beals 1989, 101, citing Martinez on 20–21 July 1774). From the perspective of the Spanish in 1774, and many other Europeans, for the next two centuries, Indigenous peoples were without culture and without laws. From the observations made by the Spanish, we know that the Haida were skilfully reliant on the natural materials of the forested landscape for transportation, fishing gear, clothing, household utensils, personal ornaments, artistic forms, and musical instruments. The Spanish noted single-piece canoes, planking mounted along the gunwales and bows of their canoes, neatly carved paddles, beautifully woven “reed” (cedar bark) blankets, small wooden boxes ornamented with figures of men, animals, and birds in relief and carved, wellwoven and painted hats made from rushes (Sitka spruce root and western redcedar bark) with crowns running to a point, woven (cedar) robes, wooden spoons and bowls, wooden arrows, several woven mats, woven capes, wooden harpoons and axes, wooden drums and rattles, woven coverlets with fringes of twisted thread (also known as Chilkat and Ravenstail robes), “reed” tablecloths, wooden platters, large storage trunks inlaid with marine shells, woven belts, and basketry pouches. The hats, capes, and robes of cedar bark – possibly yellow cedar bark as well as western redcedar – confirm precontact development of a highly sophisticated art of weaving and ornamentation (Wright 2001, 17). The canoes, boxes, and fishing implements indicate highly developed technological skills. The diverse number of items made from wood and bark shows extensive reliance on plant life from the forests, particularly western redcedar and Sitka spruce. The Spanish accounts tell us that the Haida were there living on the land for all on the ship to see. When the ship sailed south, they took away a small piece of Haida culture and many products of the land of Haida Gwaii. They took away a picture of presence and occupation of the land and the sea. Only two items survived from this first encounter: a fine basketry hat made of Sitka spruce root (see figures 19.1 and 19.2) and a small ivory amulet of a bird with two teeth, once attached to a basketry pouch worn around the neck of one of the Haida women on the second day. These two items made their way to the Museo de America in Madrid, where they stayed, vaulted and waiting (Wright 2001, 29). The items were photographed

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19.1 | Hat of twined Sitka spruce root (Picea sitchensis) from Haida Gwaii, a gift to the Spanish captain Juan Perez in July 1774. 19.2 | Contemporary hat of Sitka spruce root (Picea sitchensis), made by Primrose Adams and worn by Candace (Weir) White of Masset, Haida Gwaii.

by art historian, curator, and professor Robin Wright and shown in her book Northern Haida Master Carvers (2001, 28). But that is not the end of this story. after contact During the period following that first encounter with Perez, many traders travelled to Haida Gwaii to obtain sea otter pelts, bringing with them devastating diseases. These diseases ravaged the Haida, whose large population was decimated and had plummeted to 588 people by 1900 (Acheson 2005, 330). Crown governments denied Aboriginal title. As with all Indigenous lands in British Columbia, Haida Gwaii was deemed terra nullius, and governments pursued misguided policies of assimilation and domination of the land by dismissing Haida

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laws and imposing Crown laws. In 2002 the Haida Nation commenced a title case seeking a declaration of Aboriginal title in respect of the land and waters of Haida Gwaii. I turn now to a brief discussion of the test to prove Aboriginal title in litigation where a court remedy for its enforcement is sought. The test to prove title was decided in Delgamuukw and applied in Tsilhqot’in Nation.6 An Indigenous nation must establish that its ancestors occupied the land (which is the subject of the litigation) when sovereignty was asserted, and this occupation must have three characteristics: sufficiency, continuity (where present occupation is relied upon), and exclusivity. In applying the test, the court must be careful not to distort the Aboriginal perspective. The Aboriginal perspective is expected to focus on laws and take into account “the group’s size, manner of life, material resources, and technological abilities and the character of the land.”7 Part of the pretrial process in the Haida title case was taking deposition evidence. In this process, the evidence of elders, whose age or health creates a risk of loss, is taken before the trial. Lawyers, a court reporter, and an elder came together on Haida Gwaii to preserve evidence before trial, which can be used at trial. Eighteen Haida elders gave evidence by way of deposition between 2009 and 2011. In 2009 I had the opportunity to talk with Haida elder Delores Churchill. Delores is a master Haida weaver and artist. She was eighty at the time. In 2006 she was one of nine people to receive the United States National Endowment for the Arts national heritage fellowship. She has been honoured by Canada, British Columbia, and the State of Alaska. She is renowned. When I interviewed her in September 2009, she discussed Haida weaving techniques and materials, the history of Haida weaving, and the continuity of Haida art forms. She showed me her baskets, hats, and robes. In a stunning synchronicity of events, Delores happened to have been at the Museo de America in Madrid for an altogether different purpose. Delores said that in 2003 she had visited the Museo de America to examine woven Tlingit armour. When she got there, the director of the museum, knowing she was Haida, brought her the hat obtained by Perez and asked her to examine it. Delores said that it was a Haida hat. The director explained that the hat had been collected by Juan Perez on his first voyage to Haida Gwaii and had been stored in the museum’s archives. The hat is prized by the museum. Significantly, Delores confirmed the hat’s provenance and was able to identify that it was made by a Haida person because of what she had been taught about weaving by her Haida mother, who was also a renowned Haida weaver in her own right. Haida spruce-root hats are woven with a distinctive multi-strand ending that she could see by closely examining the hat. The hat was adorned with a Haida pattern that is still in use. It was made

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from fine roots of Sitka spruce, a species typically found in Haida Gwaii and used by her for weaving. She told me that the people in Haida Gwaii still weave this type and shape of hat and that in this respect the hat shape had not changed since 1774. As evidence, the hat derived from the historical context speaks to the value of gift giving and ceremony in Haida culture. The hat was a gift, and gifting is a cornerstone of Haida society. It shows respect, power, jurisdiction, and a legal ethic of peacefulness. The hat is testimony to the beauty and sophistication of Haida society at contact, artfully formed in its original state. As well, the hat is an art form and artifact in its present state. The hat represents a continuity from old to new grounded in forests cultivated for the production of straight spruce roots to facilitate fine weaving, proof of a precontact presence on the land before 1774. Made by a highly developed artistic Haida culture, it is the product of a history of weaving using a distinctive fish-flake design still used by contemporary Haida weavers today. As testimony to the use of plants by the Haida, the hat was made from spruce roots indigenous to Haida Gwaii. Through the whole sequence of events that led Delores to the hat, she made the direct connection between present-day and precontact Haida – addressing the continuity of Haida culture, industry, and resources use. The common law recognizes and can give effect to the continuity of Haida culture. The Perez story provides a window into the complex, central relationship of plants to the culture and economy of the Haida people. In his account, Perez reported seeing a hill on a point of land, an island, and a forested landscape. He named the island Santa Margarita. Other records indicate there were three islands. Perez was no doubt sufficiently experienced, as an explorer, to conclude from what people were wearing, the canoes they were travelling in, the contents of the canoes, and the conduct of the people that the land from which the people had emerged was covered by a rich forest blanket where terrestrial resources were plentiful. From the trade in dried and fresh fish (cod or halibut) and the handsome ocean-worthy canoes, he could readily see that these were a deft marine people and that fishing and marine resources were important to their manner of life. We know from the Spanish record that the people they met depended on wood from the forests to make a multitude of necessary household, fishing, artistic, and construction items. The Spanish saw berry baskets, food storage chests, axes, arrows, harpoons, and root-digging implements in the canoes. Most everything they saw was crafted from tree resources of the land. To Perez’s trained eye, the wide diversity and abundance of plant life on Haida Gwaii would have been evident.

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I turn now to several other threads from the story of the Perez hat that are part of the ethnographic record and that have been woven into the scholarship supported by the title case. This is the scholarship of the celebrated ethnobotanist Dr Nancy J. Turner, whose work demonstrates the complexity of the plant resources on Haida Gwaii and their importance to title litigation. Plants of haida Gwaii Turner (2004) explains that the islands’ relative isolation has allowed the development of several notably unique and endemic species, subspecies, and varieties of plants and animals. The islands are home to a wide variety of large indigenous trees, including the Sitka spruce, western redcedar, yellow cedar, shore pine, Pacific yew, western hemlock, mountain hemlock, and red alder. The only large mammals native to Haida Gwaii were an endemic and exceptionally large subspecies of black bear (Ursus americanus carlottae) and a distinct subspecies of caribou (Rangifer tarandus dawsoni), of which only the former survives today (Fedje and Mathewes 2005, xix).8 Based on the early ethnographic record, we know that trails gave access to inland plant and other resources located in choice areas of the islands. George Dawson, a geologist who came to Haida Gwaii on behalf of the Geological Survey of Canada to map and document the fossil, plant, and insect life and ethnology of Haida Gwaii, reported in 1878 seeing the Haida travel up Masset Inlet to Ain River and Ain Lake in order to obtain western redcedar (Dawson 1993, 109–12). Yakoun River and Yakoun Lake, also inland from Masset Inlet, were known to be preferred areas to obtain top quality cedar wood for canoes, and there was a connecting trail from Yakoun Lake to Skidegate on the eastern shore. Yakoun Lake was also a place where medicinal plants, like Pacific yew, were found and harvested. Half-carved canoes have been found in many locations near Yakoun Lake, left standing like headstones after the smallpox epidemic. Robert Davidson, a noted Haida artist, told me in an interview in April 2017 that the Masset Lake area was known as the “bentbox capital of the world” because of the prevalence and quality of its cedar trees, whose wood was used to make bentwood boxes for food storage, cooking, gifts, and trade. The Haida would have travelled 4 to 5 kilometres inland from the Masset Inlet to get wood for these boxes and logs for canoes. It is plain from the Spanish logs that integral to Haida society were resources from the forests. There is, perhaps, no other terrestrial resource that is as pivotal to the Haida. Critically important were the old growth forest trees, especially western redcedar, a cultural keystone species whose wood, bark, and boughs provided numerous products (Turner 2004, 57). Trees and shrubs produce the materials that are essential for use as implements to harvest food – fishing gear,

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baskets, fishing hooks, nets, lines, weirs, canoes, and paddles – to construct dwellings, and to fashion cultural objects for ceremonies. Turner (ibid.) tells us that there are at least thirty different plant species used as essential materials for construction and in technology. Some of the tree resources are close to villages but many are not, and the Haida travel long distances inland by canoe and trail to access particular kinds of wood, such as yellow cedar and Pacific yew. Dozens of different species of trees and shrubs are used to make a variety of items, including houses, posts, poles, canoes, storage boxes, frames, and drying racks. Western redcedar wood is used for making canoes, paddles, bentwood boxes, crest and house poles, and posts and planks for the Big Houses. Whole sheets of cedar bark, harvested from living standing trees, are used for the roofing and siding of houses. The fibrous inner bark is the most important material for making hats, mats, cloaks, baskets, collars, and ceremonial regalia and is also used for ropes, fish lines, and nets. Culturally modified cedar trees – trees from which bark or planks have been removed in the past – are widespread in Haida Gwaii. Cedar is found in major temperate rainforests, meadow forests, and alluvial flats and terraces. Red alder wood is used for making bowls and masks as well as for smoking and kindling, and the bark is used as a colouring agent. Yellow cedar wood was also sometimes used for making canoes and was also used for paddles. Pacific yew and Pacific crabapple are tough and resilient trees, and they are used for digging sticks, bows, paddles, clubs, spears, and hooks. These trees are found in inland forest areas, including the edges of old growth forests. Stinging nettle and fireweed stem fibres were used for cordage, fishing nets, and binding. Sitka spruce roots – carefully dug, heated over a fire, peeled, and split – are used for weaving baskets and hats like the one gifted to Perez. The twining of the spruce-root baskets was so tight that they could be used as containers for water as well as for berries and sea products such as clams. As the people of a marine-oriented culture, the Haida developed a highly specialized fishing technology built upon implements and gear fashioned from the trees and other plants of the natural environment. Because they harvested and fished for many diverse marine resources throughout the year, they needed multiple gear and canoe types. Cedar was the key material for making these products. The Haida used wood and fibre from the cedar tree not only for canoes and paddles but also for fish lines, hooks, nets, binding, weirs, storage boxes, harpoons, and drying racks. A most ingenious item of fishing gear was the halibut hook, designed as a V-shaped device carved from a single piece of wood, usually yew, with a hardwood, bone, or horn point attached with cedar bark and twine wrapping. It was solid and effective in landing halibut of up to 25 kilograms.9 Fishing occurred in the deep sea, inland bays, rivers, and foreshore. The Haida engineered, designed, and carved canoes of various sizes out of single cedar

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trees. These canoes were required for different kinds of fishing and marine conditions. The oceangoing canoes, recorded by Perez, were constructed with a special prow, like a sail, that insured durability, speed, and manoeuvrability. These large transporters, over 10 metres in length and 1.5 metres wide, were capable of carrying heavy loads and twenty or more people in rough seas. Most impressive was the construction of large village houses.10 These dwellings were substantial structures housing up to forty family members. They were made in a post and beam style with cedar plank boarding for sides and cedar bark or plank roofing. The immense posts and panels were split out of large cedar trees obtained from choice interior locations. As noted previously, the Haida also shaped large storage boxes out of a single plank of wood by steaming and bending the material at horizontal grooves, or kerfs, carved in three places into a four-sided frame held together at the fourth corner by sewn cedar strips or pegs (Turner 2004, 58). The monumental totem poles were the height of Haida ingenuity and technological achievement. Fashioned from a single straight cedar log some 12 metres in length, they were carved with clan crests or representations of supernatural beings and figures from the oral record. laws rooted in Plants Turner (2004) has identified over 150 specific plant species that have Haida names and uses. That so many plants were known and named indicates intensity of use, widespread mobility, and knowledge of the land and its topography. There are many other plants of Haida Gwaii that, although not named at a generic level in the language, form part of the wider world in which Haida life is lived. Under Haida law, the land and sea form an ecosystem where everything is connected. According to Turner (2004), seventy named Haida plant species have been used by the Haida as food sources. Chief among them are wild berries: bunchberries, strawberries, salal berries, crabapples, grey currants, thimbleberries, salmonberries, blueberries, huckleberries, highbush cranberries, lingonberries, and bog cranberries. Berries are harvested in the summer and fall, preserved, stored, exchanged in ceremonies, and traded. Salal berries, lingonberries, and bog cranberries, all related to blueberries, are particularly important berry crops found in the interior of the islands. Beverage teas made using Labrador tea leaves and Wild Rose hip are high in essential vitamins as well, and the cambium, or inner bark, of the Sitka spruce and western hemlock is harvested and eaten for its sugar content. Root vegetables eaten by the Haida provided carbohydrates and included northern riceroot bulbs, silverweed and lupine roots, springbank clover rhizomes, and wood fern rootstocks. The Haida also ate green vegetables, which

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were a source of vitamins: the young shoots of salmonberry and thimbleberry, fireweed shoots (to help with digestion,), giant horsetail shoots, and young stalks of cow parsnip (carefully peeled), as well as the young leaves of western dock, after which rhubarb is named today. The Haida harvest plants not only for food but also for medicines. Key medicinal plants are licorice fern, red alder, Sitka spruce (for its pitch), Oregon lung lichen, wild lily-of-the-valley, grey currant, false hellebore, and Devil’s-club. These plants are used as tonics, health supplements, and salves, as remedies for colds, digestive tract pain, aches, and rheumatism, and as agents in ritual cleanliness. Plants are recognized for their healing power and are imbued with special powers of spiritual protection. Many plants contain effective antibacterial properties (Turner 2004). Devil’s-club in particular is seen as bestowing power and strength. Fasting and meditation, which occur in the inland areas, rely on medicinal plants such as Devil’s-club (Swanton 1908, 672). Names are animated with meaning, acting as the voice of history, function, and spirituality. So it is with the names given by the Haida to the plants of Haida Gwaii. As Turner’s (2004) research tells us, most Haida names for plants are unique to the Haida language. This nomenclature reflects ancient knowledge of plants and, by extension, the long-time presence of the Haida. Their uses are absorbed into language and discourse over a long time. The evolution of plant names over time indicates the ways that plants were used and conforms to oral narratives of the development of Haida resource use. narratives of the haida The primary written sources of Haida oral histories are the works of John R. Swanton, who arrived in Haida Gwaii in September 1900 as a young anthropologist under the direction of Franz Boas and the Jesup North Pacific Expedition. With the help of Haida translators, Swanton recorded and transcribed Haida oral narratives from knowledge keepers. These narratives trace the Haida histories back to their ancient ancestors and to an ancient time. Haida society is charged with stories and oral histories that recount the deeds of spirit beings and supernatural beings and convey the laws and values of the people. Raven, the trickster, is a principal actor in these stories (for some of the Raven stories, including origin stories, told to John Swanton, see Wright 2001, 9–12). The Raven stories, for example, describe the travels of Raven and the changes that happened in the world as a result of his exploits. The narratives and oral histories contain the laws, and they are the foundation of the Indigenous perspective in title litigation. Haida elder Barbara Wilson and anthropologist Heather Harris (2004, 122) explain the Haida narrative: “The stories [of the Haida] describe the origin of

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the lands, resource ownership, crests, songs, names, how medicinal plants are used, facial paintings, and the names and locations of places. These stories tell of places where people lived and travelled, marriage patterns and relations between groups, motivations for actions and events, spiritual beliefs and practices, values, and many other kinds of information unobtainable from other sources.” There is an important link between oral histories, including the body of laws and knowledge they contain, and physical activities on the land, including the use of resources (see chapters 8 and 11, this volume). Oral histories about the land and resources explain the Haida relationship to the land and its resources and to the spirits of the land. Oral histories are imbued with values and laws, preserved in memory, art, and song, depicted in the crests on poles and blankets, and represented in masks of the clans. There are extensive references to plants in the oral history narratives. Plants are named in their natural roles as sources of food, materials, or medicine for supernatural beings (Turner 2004). Cedar sister came alive as a tree. The cedar tree is “every woman’s sister” and thus sustains Haida existence (WilliamsDavidson 2017, 47). Cedars provide homes and wealth and are the source of fire. Cedars represent respect for all living things, giving of their life to sustain humanity (ibid., 57–8). Haida oral histories recount how different plants are used as sources of food. In November 1900, Ghandl (Walter McGregor) related to Swanton a story about two women bathers who transformed into geese (in Bringhurst 2011, 34–45). In this epic story, Ghandl recounts the important role of plants as food – how Goose Woman’s mother-in-law steamed silverweed roots to feed her. In an act of reciprocity, food of many kinds was located where the geese landed: silverweed and clover roots were “available back of the village” to share with the starving villagers (Turner and Bhattacharyya 2016, 717; the translated version is also in Bringhurst 2011, 37, who quotes Swanton). After walking a while, the husband meets Mouse Woman, who speaks to him about her cranberry patch: “When I was bringing a bit of cranberry back from my berry patch, you helped me.” Later, he offers to help the woman by using his “spruce-root cord” to hoist a pile of stones for her. The oral history narratives reflect both that plants were and are widely relied on and that they carried special importance, some with transformational spirit power. Plants that appear in the oral histories have been used for naming physical locations in Haida Gwaii, such as a point on the south side of Chaatl Island recorded by Newcombe as “skunk-cabbage point” (Turner 2004, 147). Other oral history narratives speak of the use of resources and the occurrence of supernatural events. For example, the story of “Creek Women,” or “Daughters of the River,” records that these women, who live far inland at the headwaters of spawning streams, are the catalysts for the return of the

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spawning salmon (Swanton 1905a, 23). According to Terri-Lynn WilliamsDavidson (Gid7ahl-Gudsllaay Lalaxaaygans) (2017, 84), the Creek Woman stories invoke the law of reciprocity: Creek Woman grants “the bears access to her salmon and in turn, the bears leave salmon on the forest floor, thereby fulfilling the essential role of nurturing the stunning old growth forests with the nutrients from the salmon.” The supernatural beings of the forest are humans and faeries. The latter were invisible and told stories about the right way of doing things on the land. suPernatural beinGs The oral narratives are replete with stories and references to supernatural beings. Haida Gwaii is the realm of supernatural beings. They helped to bring humans into existence (Williams-Davidson 2017, x). They helped with human endeavours and were the spirits that conveyed songs to the Haida people (ibid., xi). Spirit beings of the forests, mountains, and waters guided people’s actions and ways of relating to the natural environment. Turner (2004, 71) observes, “The Haida accord plants and animals innate powers to aid and support humans in their endeavours. These powers are recognized and respected and those wishing to avail themselves of the special help to be provided by the trees and other plants are careful to follow the proper and respectful protocols.” One story tells of Foam Woman, who after the land was created and the great floodwaters had receded, was sitting on the first piece of land that appeared. She was sitting where the village of Xaagyak (Xa’gi) was built on the present Bolkus Islands. Foam Woman had many breasts and could thus nurse the grandmother of each of the various Raven families among the Haida (Wright 2001, 11). Foam Woman represents the emerging land, which provides humanity with a place on this earth. According to Williams-Davidson (2017, 4–5), she represents the need to achieve balance during turbulent times. suMMary and conclusions What, then, can plants tell us about Haida land and laws in the context of title litigation? Haida stories about plants reveal basic tenets of Haida laws and values that reached across the archipelago; plants, like all living things, deserve and are given the highest respect. Plants are relatives. All members of Haida society share land resources as well as responsibility to steward these resources. Plants as food sources were and are shared and gifted. The narratives tell us that berries, roots, and greens were eaten, respected, and shared. Narratives using plant life teach lessons and acceptable standards of conduct. These narratives evidence the need for a balanced relationship with all living things and

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the importance of honouring and stewarding the land and all things on it. The plant life provides a valuable context for the Aboriginal perspective, which is an essential component of Aboriginal title litigation.11 From the Haida perspective, there is recognition of a balance in all things. There is a goal of harmony between human existence and the natural world. Humans, spirits, animals, and plants coexist through laws that encourage sharing, gifting, reciprocity, respect in all relations, peaceful conduct, and the stewardship of resources. Haida narratives, oral histories, songs, and spirit beings are unique to Haida Gwaiii and contain the values, tenets, and moral principles that infuse Haida society. The plants on Haida Gwaii can tell us much about the people’s way of life. They can show us that plants and people are of one family. The two are connected and look after one another, as demonstrated by Cedar Woman, both a woman and a tree, and by the Goose Women, both geese and sisters, who rely on plants for food. The plants tell us about the cosmology of the Haida people, where all living things are connected and form part of a holistic worldview. They show us that the laws that apply to the land and the people’s conduct on the land are living and vital: like the plants, these laws are part of a living society. The plants can also tell us about Haida material culture: what the Haida people ate, where they obtained their food, which medicines were used, and which trees and shrubs were heavily relied on for building materials for housing, transportation, and artistic expression. The use of plants as food can tell us about their importance in diet and health. The diverse berry, root, and green vegetable species, for example, tell us what was needed for consumption. Stories about plants and their use feature prominently in oral history narratives about the birth of Haida Gwaii, the role of spirit people, and spiritual events on the land. These stories can tell us much about the Haida people’s culture and and way of life. Stories are laden with special references to unique features of Haida Gwaii. Accounts of plants’ special spiritual and transformational qualities convey lessons about husbanding and distributing food. These narratives are an essential part of Haida cultural and spiritual life and show the imprint of the Haida people’s values and way of life on the land. Like the Perez spruce-root hat, the products and materials from the land are embedded with Haida spiritual values and history. The crests, songs, and narratives remain with us as proof of a distinctive culture and way of life. The Haida have emerged from their natural landscape and, as its occupants, are part of it. In their title case, the Haida are seeking a declaration of Aboriginal title over the lands and waters of Haida Gwaii. As MacGregor (2012, xxvi) says, “Through them [cultural objects] a whole culture can be glimpsed, apprehended and admired.” At a glance, the Perez hat, given the story it contains, establishes when the settlers arrived as well as the Haida people’s occupation of their homeland and the legal rights that flowed from it.

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The hat is the voice of Haida history rooted in 1774, allowing the Haida to speak to us from centuries ago. Its strands of spruce roots, so carefully gathered, prepared, and woven, convey to us today the story of precontact Haida people and their culture, art, and environment. The hat not only speaks to us of the world in which it was made but is also reshaped by our present understandings and given expression by the knowledge of Delores Churchill. The hat as an object with its own essential nature speaks to the need for Crown governments today to recognize the Haida people without the necessity of having to further prove their title in court through expensive and time-consuming litigation. Just as the Perez hat has been brought out of archival concealment and made visible, it is time to end the colonial denial of title by making visible the Haida laws and values that support coexistence based on legal pluralism and to share the wealth of the land in the same spirit that the Haida welcomed the newcomers.

notes 1 I participated on a team of lawyers acting on behalf of the Council of the Haida Nation with respect to a land title action started on 14 November 2002 on behalf of the Haida Nation. I have since retired but continue to provide consultation services on behalf of White Raven Law Corporation. 2 Turner (2004) states that at the time of the arrival of the Europeans, there were twenty permanent villages. Acheson (2005, 310–11) notes that there is evidence that the number of villages was quite higher: thirty-five permanent villages in the extreme southern region alone and another thirty-three towns on Kunghit Island. 3 The Haida knew nothing about the agreement between the British and American governments to draw the boundary between the western provinces of Canada and the western United States at the 49th parallel, which led to the Haida falling under British hegemony. 4 See Calder v. Attorney General of BC, [1970] 13 DLR (3d) 64 (BCCA), 156, 200. See also Guerin v. The Queen, [1984] 2 SCR 335. 5 See Mitchell v. Canada (Minister of National Revenue), [2001] 1 SCR 911, 2001 SCC 33, para. 8. 6 Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1997] 3 SCR 1010, paras 126, 128, 149; Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, 2014 SCC 44, paras 37, 40, 41. 7 Tsilhqot’in Nation, para. 41. 8 Other endemic mammals include pine marten, Charlotte ermine, river otter, deer mouse, and dusky shrew. 9 A photograph of the Haida halibut hook can be found on the UBC Museum of Anthropology website, object no. A135, http://137.82.92.91/search/item?keywords=A135&row=0. 10 A photograph of houses at Skidegate was taken by George Dawson in 1878 and reproduced in Wright (2001, 268). 11 The common law test for possession requires an intention to occupy or hold land for the purposes of the occupant, and this test must be considered alongside the perspective of the Aboriginal group, whose concept of possession of land, depending on the group’s size and manner of living, might be somewhat different from that of the common law. Tsilhqot’in Nation, para. 37; Delgamuukw, para. 149.

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references Acheson, S. 2005. “Gwaii Haanas Settlement Archaeology.” In Haida Gwaii, Human History and Environment from the Time of the Loon to the Time of the Iron People, ed. D.W. Fedje and R.W. Mathewes, 303–36. Vancouver: UBC Press. Beals, H.K., trans. and ed. 1989. Juan Perez on the Northwest Coast: Six Documents of His Expedition in 1774. Portland: Oregon Historical Press. Bringhurst, R. 2011. A Story as Sharp as a Knife: The Classical Haida Mythtellers and Their World. 2nd ed. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre. Churchill, Delores. 2009. Personal communication with author. Council of the Haida Nation. 2017. “Haida Place Names of Haida Gwaii.” 17 October. Davidson, Robert. 2017. Personal communication with author. Dawson, George M. 1993. To the Charlottes: George Dawson’s 1878 Survey of the Queen Charlotte Islands. Ed. Douglas Cole and Bradley Lockner. Vancouver: UBC Press. Fedje, D.W., and R.W. Mathewes, eds. 2005. Haida Gwaii, Human History and Environment from the Time of the Loon to the Time of the Iron People. Vancouver: UBC Press. MacGregor, N. 2012. A History of the World in 100 Objects. London: Penguin. Mandell, L., QC. 2010. “Mending with the Golden Thread.” Paper presented to Canadian Bar Association, BC Branch Conference, Scottsdale, Arizona, 19 November. Marine Planning Partnership Initiative (MaPP). 2015. Haida Gwaii Marine Plan. Haida Gwaii: Haida Nation and Province of British Columbia. http://mappocean.org/haida-gwaii/ haida-gwaii-marine-plan/. Swanton, J.R. 1905a. Contributions to the Ethnology of the Haida. Reprint, Leiden: AMS Press 1975. – 1905b. Haida Texts and Myths – Skidegate Dialect. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. – 1908. Haida Texts – Masset Dialect. New York: American Museum of Natural History. Turner, N.J. 2004. Plants of Haida Gwaii: Xaadaa Gwaay guud gina k’aws (Skidegate), Xaadaa Gwaayee guu giin k’aws (Massett). Winlaw, BC: Sono Nis. Turner, N.J., and J. Bhattacharyya. 2016. “Salmonberry Bird and Goose Woman: Birds, Plants and People in Indigenous Peoples’ Lifeways in Northwestern North America.” Journal of Ethnobiology 36, no. 4: 717–45. Williams-Davidson, T.-L. (Gid7ahl-Gudsllaay Lalaxaaygans). 2017. Out of Concealment: Female Supernatural Beings of Haida Gwaii. Vancouver: Heritage House. Wilson, B.J., and H. Harris. 2005. “Tilsda Xaaydas K’aaygang.nga: Long, Long Ago Haida Ancient Stories.” In Haida Gwaii, Human History and Environment from the Time of the Loon to the Time of the Iron People, ed. D.W. Fedje and R.W. Mathewes, 121–39. Vancouver: UBC Press. Wright, R.K. 2001. Northern Haida Master Carvers. Seattle: University of Washington Press.

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section fiVe Drawing Strength and Inspiration from People, Plants, and Lands through Justice, Equity, Education, and Partnerships introduction

Nancy J. Turner How can we apply the knowledge, insights, and lessons coming from the rich compendium of information and experiences presented in the previous sections of this book? How can we “move forward” toward a full and fair recognition and accommodation of Indigenous peoples’ rights to their lands, plants, and other resources – not only rights to use these resources but also rights to care for them in order to ensure that they are sustained and that they are valued as honoured and generous kin? There is profound guidance, in a general sense, in the “Calls to Action” of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015) and, internationally, in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007). But the chapters of this last section of the book offer hopeful and concrete examples of how we can achieve more just relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples and more equitable and ethical ways of living together and with the other lifeforms that support all of us. Sharing knowledge, power, planning, and decision making; honouring diverse ways of knowing; giving recognition to the importance of plants and other lifeforms, to life-giving waters, and to special places; finding ways to communicate about these things to others effectively and respectfully – all of these actions are needed if we are to maintain the integrity of our environment, on which all humanity depends, and if we are to reconcile past injustices in both social and ecological worlds. The chapters in this section, as well

as other parts of the book, offer models of how these actions can be, and are being, achieved. In “Restorying Indigenous Landscapes: Community Restoration and Resurgence,” Cherokee political scientist Jeff Corntassel, of the University of Victoria, describes how Indigenous peoples can mobilize themselves to make positive change and to restore their own cultural and environmental practices. Using an example from his own alliances with Straits Salish camas harvesters and supporters, he shows how action, even in the face of resistance, can change attitudes and rules and help to restore past practices in order to improve social-ecological well-being. In her chapter, “Partnerships of Hope,” Pamela Spalding, doctoral candidate in the University of Victoria’s School of Environmental Studies, examines the potential for shared jurisdiction of lands and resources that are within Indigenous peoples’ home territories but not presently under their control. She discusses opportunities for enduring, inclusive, and sustainable partnerships and co-management arrangements that recognize the ancient relationships and traditional land and resource management systems that Indigenous peoples have developed to sustain their lands and waters over many generations. These partnerships present a wide range of options for collaborations between and among First Nations, public governments, industry, and nongovernment organizations, resulting in decision-making capabilities that transcend conventional jurisdictions. In the next chapter, Leigh Joseph, whose Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish) First Nation name is Styawat, draws on her experiences of “walking in two worlds” – as a student whose Indigenous knowledge from her own family and other elders in various regions of western Canada is coupled with Western knowledge from her academic education – to show how combining different learning approaches can be an effective way to understand our relationships with plants and with the natural world. Along with Dr Nick Claxton (XEMŦOLTW̱ ), a Saanich (W̱ SÁNEĆ) Nation scholar who co-presented with Leigh Joseph at the May 2017 symposium that gave rise to this book, Leigh has led and participated in a number of key activities in cultural revitalization and ecocultural restoration that have provided the inspiration for their work and, in turn, inspired and encouraged others to develop similar initiatives. Working with knowledge holders and elders in their communities, both Styawat and XEMŦOLTW̱ have led projects involving traditional practices that had largely been lost. For her master’s of science research, Styawat studied the ecological and cultural characteristics of the edible bulb known as lhásem (northern riceroot, Fritillaria camschatcensis), a plant in the lily family, and through this research, which involved the elders and youth in her community, she was able to reintroduce this food to its former habitat along the Squamish River Estuary of the coastal mainland of British Columbia (Joseph 2012). XEMŦOLTW̱ undertook a similar restorative

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project for his doctoral research, renewing and relearning the W̱ SÁNEĆ reef net technology with instructions from his uncles (E. Claxton and Elliott 1994) and participation of his nation’s youth (N. Claxton 2015). These are just two examples of inspiring local initiatives that bring ancient knowledge and practices forward to the present and help to instill children and youth with a sense of pride in their own identity and the accomplishments and ingenuity of their ancestors. It is entirely fitting that the last chapter in this section, “On Resurgence and Transformative Reconciliation,” is contributed by Dr James Tully, a renowned and esteemed philosopher specializing in political science, law, and Indigenous governance (see Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018). His contribution is based on his recognition of the dual need for Canadian society to develop and nurture sustainable relationships both with Indigenous peoples of our country and with the earth, including all of the lifeforms on which we depend. He stresses that both Indigenous knowledge and the Western life sciences have recognized that we are all interdependent and that we need to recognize and work to uphold the rich complexity of human societies and ecosystems through our governance and decision making, our education systems, and our political systems. In his thoughtful way, he recognizes the various contributions made during the symposium that support this conclusion: the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance performance, the words of Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) and Dr John Ralston Saul, and the vision of Chief Gordon Planes of the T’Sou-ke Nation, who hosted the symposium on its final day. He epitomizes the very type of thinking that will make a difference in the world, that will create change, and that will inspire all of us to work together in our massive symbiotic enterprise of social and ecological reconciliation. references Asch, M., J. Borrows, and J. Tully, eds. 2018. Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Claxton, N. (XEMŦOLTW̱ ). 2015. “To Fish as Formerly: A Resurgent Journey back to the Saanich Reef Net Fishery.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Claxton, E., Sr (YELḰÁTŦE), and J. Elliott Sr (STOLȻEȽ). 1994. Reef Net Technology of the Saltwater People. Brentwood Bay, BC: Saanich Indian School Board. Joseph, L. 2012. “Finding Our Roots: Ethnoecological Restoration of Lhásem (Fritillaria camschatcensis (L.) Ker-Gawl), an Iconic Plant Food in the Squamish River Estuary, British Columbia.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. United Nations. 2007. United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/declaration-on-therights-of-indigenous-peoples.html.

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20 Restorying Indigenous Landscapes: Community Regeneration and Resurgence Jeff Corntassel

introduction One brisk fall morning in October 2014, a small group of us drove to the Unist’ot’en encampment in the heart of the Wet’suwet’en First Nation. The Unist’ot’en camp originated in 2009 when seven oil and gas pipelines were proposed that would have encroached on Wet’suwet’en homelands and waterways. As a direct response, Wet’suwet’en peoples reoccupied their homelands and challenged the colonial narrative of extractive industries by building a traditional-style pit house, bringing them into direct confrontation with one of the proposed pipelines. By reclaiming the landscape through the return of Wet’suwet’en peoples, plants, and practices, the people of Unist’ot’en have regenerated relationships that have sustained their nation for millennia. Upon arriving at the camp entrance, we stopped at a checkpoint on the bridge, which was barricaded with signs that read “honk and wait” and “no access without consent.” As we parked the car and waited, we couldn’t help but notice the power of Wedzin Kwah (Morice River), which is the main water source of Wet’suwet’en peoples. Pretty soon, Frida Huson, who is a spokesperson chosen by hereditary chiefs of the clan, walked across the bridge and asked us three questions as part of the protocols for entering the territory: 1 What is your name? 2 Do you work for industry or government? 3 How will your visit to Unist’ot’en benefit the land and community? Although we had no problem answering the first two questions, the third one has continued to challenge me personally. At the time, we stated that the

Wet’suwet’en youth travelling with us were coming back to their territory, which allowed us to gain entry. However, I thought of potential ways that I could have answered that question on my own as a Cherokee man, and none of my responses seemed sufficient in terms of meaningful ways the land and water might benefit from my visit. In this same way, I urge others to reflect on their discomfort and even unfamiliarity with the land they live on, trespass on, and/ or visit. Ultimately, what is your relationship to the land you live on? Kanaka Maoli scholar Noelani Goodyear-Ka’ōpua (2013, 36) challenges us to look deeply at our level of “land-centered literacies . . . based on an intimate connection with and knowledge of the land.” By cultivating land-centred literacies through the regeneration of Indigenous food systems, plants, and medicines, we can initiate acts of restorying Indigenous landscapes by honouring relationships from the ground up. Acts of restorying are also acts of remembrance as we honour and act on our sacred responsibilities to the land and water. It is about reinforcing our long memories as Indigenous nations that our self-determining authority is rooted in our longstanding relationships to land, culture, and community. The Wet’suwet’en of the Unist’ot’en camp are challenging the colonial narrative of extractive industries by defending their place-based relationships. The actions of Indigenous land protectors are often criminalized, and as Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik Stark (2016) points out, “casting Indigenous men and women as savage peoples in need of civilization and composing Indigenous lands as lawless spaces absent legal order, made it possible for the United States and Canada to shift and expand the boundaries of both settler law and the nation itself by judicially proclaiming their own criminal behaviors as lawful.” The Wet’suwet’en challenge to the colonial narrative was met by force on 7 January 2019 when the Royal Canadian Mounted Police invaded the Gidumt’en checkpoint and arrested fourteen land defenders. Despite not having the consent of Unist’ot’en and Gidumt’en hereditary chiefs to enter Wet’suwet’en homelands, the police asserted jurisdiction via an injunction issued in support of Coastal GasLink (CGL ), a subsidiary of TC Energy, formerly TransCanada, to facilitate the building of a proposed pipeline to deliver liquefied natural gas across unceded Wet’suwet’en homelands. The forceful destruction of the Gidumt’en checkpoint and subsequent arrests set the tone for “negotiations” with hereditary chiefs regarding access to Unist’ot’en so that CGL employees could access Wet’suwet’en homelands. Hereditary Chief Nam’oks spoke bluntly about CGL and its encroachment onto Unist’ot’en homelands: “I don’t have any respect for them” (quoted in Martens 2019). As the Unist’ot’en example above demonstrates, places of resurgence are places of confronting and restorying attempted colonial erasures. In this sense, a resurgence paradigm offers a reframing of decolonization premised on turning away from the state for solutions in order to focus more fully on the complex interrelationships between Indigenous nationhood, place-based Restorying Indigenous Landscapes | 351

relationships, and community-centred practices that reinvigorate everyday acts of renewal and community regeneration (Corntassel 2012; Coulthard 2014; Goodyear-Ka’ōpua 2013; Simpson 2011, 2017). Resurgence is about the ways we perpetuate nationhood, community, and family through Indigenous governance with stories, experiences, languages, and place-based relationships. Ultimately, the foundations for change, renewal, and resilience can be found in everyday, resurgent actions that promote the health and well-being of plant nations, such as lhiya (river cane, Arundinaria gigantea; Cherokee) and qwlháal (edible camas, Camassia spp.; Songhees Straits Salish), as well as Indigenous nations. According to Anishinaabe scholar and activist Leanne Simpson (2017, 44), “resurgence must be concerned with the reattachment of our minds, bodies and spirits to the network of relationships and ethical practices and generates grounded normativity.” The aforementioned reattachment to “the network of relationships” occurs in everyday settings, where our relational bonds to land, culture, and community are renewed, reaffirmed, and regenerated. The ways we engage in our familial relationships within intimate spaces, such as our families and homes, mirrors the ways we manage and nurture our relationships with our plant nation relatives and the natural world. In this chapter, I examine the ways that Indigenous nations embody and express their relational responsibilities to plant and animal nations and how these relationships foster our health and well-being. Restorying is an important dimension of resurgence that emphasizes community ways of sharing knowledge, acts of remembering, land-centred literacies, and the intimacy of everyday actions. Here, I examine examples of land-based resurgence as it relates to landscapes of food security and Indigenous knowledges in the Blackfoot First Nation (Alberta), Songhees First Nation (Victoria, British Columbia), and Cherokee Nation (Oklahoma). “the stories shaPe us” Cherokees have often told me that the stories shape who we are. They shape our relationships, our forms of governance, and even our legal traditions. The Cherokee story of how medicine came to the people teaches us how to honour our relationships with both animal and plant nations or face serious consequences. These stories teach us how to live with honour, health, and integrity in a community context, and they are “a deep source of wisdom, humor and irony” (Teuton 2012, 8). In this sense, restorying is about reclaiming and renewing our rebellious dignity as Indigenous peoples and nations and about activating landbased resurgence. According to Citizen Potawatomi Nation scientist Robin Kimmerer (2013, 9), “our relationship with land cannot heal until we hear its stories.” In this sense, Indigenous bodies and Indigenous peoples’ land and water are intrinsically interrelated in a resurgence process. Shape-shifting colonial entities (Alfred and Corntassel 2005, 601) attempt to impose unnatural narratives

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on Indigenous peoples’ bodies and the landscape. This attempted erasure of Indigenous peoples, communities, plants, and other relationships from homelands and waterways is a central facet of settler colonialism. Unfortunately, according to the first chapter of this book, “[a]ssumptions that Indigenous peoples’ knowledge is inferior to Western scientific knowledge are widespread.” As ethnobotanist Nancy J. Turner and colleagues (2008) point out, the “invisible losses” experienced by Indigenous peoples are the result of ongoing colonization. Often unrecognized as colonial legacies, these eight identified invisible losses have distinct impacts on Indigenous health, cultural practices, self-determination, emotions, economies, and several other aspects of Indigenous everyday life. But we cannot allow invisible losses and invasive species to be the defining story of Indigenous nationhood and homelands. Aleut scholar Eve Tuck challenges us to “suspend damage-centered research, which focuses on documenting pain or loss in an effort to explain underachievement or failure” (in Hoover 2017, 275). Ultimately, “[a] restorying process for Indigenous peoples entails questioning the imposition of colonial histories on our communities” (Corntassel, Chaw-win-is, and T’lakwadzi 2009, 139). For example, Cherokee stories about how medicine came to the people tell us how to regain and regenerate our relationships that have been harmed. These stories shape us by showing us how to live honorably and sustainably with plant and animal nations. According to Simpson (2011, 34), Indigenous stories challenge colonial narratives by “visioning, imagining, critiquing the social space around us, and ultimately challenging the colonial norms fraught in our daily lives.” As one Akwesasne Mohawk man proclaimed after being confronted by the realities of toxic contamination of Kaniatarowanenneh (Saint Lawrence River), “I decided to keep eating . . . No, I never did stop planting” (in Hoover 2017, 2). Such “everyday acts of resurgence” also tend to be invisible and unacknowledged, yet they are often critical sites of resistance and transformative change. Nuu-chah-nulth scholar Johnny Mack (2011, 289) poses an important question: “What would we as Nuu-chah-nulth do differently if we took our stories seriously?” And what does taking our stories seriously look like? It is through these stories and experiences that we uncover the complexity of Indigenous worldviews and relationships. According to Lyackson First Nation scholar Qwul’sih’yah’maht, “storytelling forces us to keep the teachings and protocols of our Ancestors, culture, and tradition alive (front and centre) throughout the entire research process” (Thomas 2015, 183). By taking stories seriously and decolonizing the research process, we begin to centre Indigenous “concerns and worldviews” (Tuhiwai Smith 2012, 41) in order to reclaim dignity, voice, and research from a community perspective. Restorying – through storytelling methodologies (Archibald 2008; Corntassel, Chaw-win-is, and T’lakwadzi 2009; Mack 2011; Thomas 2015; see also chapter 3, this volume), everydayness (Corntassel

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2012; Hunt and Holmes 2015; Simpson 2017), and decolonizing methodologies (Tuhiwai Smith 2012; Tuck, McKenzie, and McCoy 2014; see also chapter 15, this volume) – helps us to better understand the complexities of Indigenous worldviews and knowledges on the land. The restorying of Indigenous landscapes occurs in everyday ways that challenge the erasures of ongoing colonization. According to Simpson (2017, 173), “We have found ways to connect to the land and our stories and to live our intelligences no matter how urban or how destroyed our homelands have become.” These everyday acts of resurgence centre our attention on strengthening and renewing relationships with land, culture, and community. How are Indigenous relationships perpetuated through everyday actions? The literature in this emerging area gives us some important insights about the intimate ways that everyday acts of resurgence are practised. Māori scholar Brendan J. Hokowhitu (2009, 103–4) finds that scholarship tends to focus on everyday Indigenous political struggles, such as “jurisprudence, or in terms of ‘victimhood’ conceived of as the genealogical descendant of the trauma of colonisation.” However, such a trauma-centred focus on Indigenous reactions to political contexts overlooks the “immediacy” of everyday Indigenous life. As a result, Hokowhitu sees a pressing need for “Indigenous existentialism” that focuses on the “immediacy of Indigenous culture” and everyday life (ibid., 104). As Simpson (2011, 16) points out, “When resistance is defined solely as large-scale political mobilization, we miss much of what has kept our languages, cultures and systems of governance alive. We have those things today because our Ancestors often acted within the family unit to physically survive, to pass on what they could to their children, to occupy and use our lands as we always had.” A significant part of everydayness is being politically aware and acting to disrupt colonial landscapes. Ultimately, “whether they know it or not (or even want it), every Indigenous person is in a daily struggle for resurgence. It is in these everyday actions where the scope of the struggle for decolonization is reclaimed and re-envisioned by Indigenous peoples” (Corntassel 2012, 89). In line with Simpson’s findings on relationality and storytelling, everyday acts of resurgence challenge the colonial status quo and attempted erasures of Indigenous peoples from their homelands by disrupting “the colonial physical, social and political boundaries designed to impede our actions to restore our nationhood” (ibid., 88). Examining everyday acts of decolonization potentially reveals how Indigenous peoples engage in intimate spaces, such as families. As Kwakwaka’wakw scholar Sarah Hunt and social work scholar Cindy Holmes (2015, 157–8) point out, “While large-scale actions such as rallies, protests and blockades are frequently acknowledged as sites of resistance, the daily actions undertaken by individual Indigenous people, families, and communities often go unacknowledged but are no less vital to decolonial processes.” Additionally, everyday

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acts of resurgence provide us with a deeper understanding of gendered relationships and how they drive resurgence movements. By focusing on intimacy and gendered relationships within an everyday context, our understandings of community resurgence and nationhood are deepened. Overall, a brief review of the literature on storytelling, everydayness, and resurgence uncovers the need for a deeper understanding in terms of the immediacy of relationships, the politics of intimate settings, and gendered relationships. Each of these factors helps us to uncover the often hidden community dynamics that perpetuate Indigenous nationhood and families. When we discuss the immediacy of relationships, a deeper engagement with the everyday actions of Indigenous peoples provides important insights into how extended kinship networks operate in ways that subvert colonial nuclear family structures. Simpson (2017, 9) speaks of “radiating responsibilities,” which drive nationhood and link our relationships to actions of resurgence and renewal. Regarding the politics of intimate settings, focusing on everyday actions allows us to witness how we relate to each other within intimate spaces, such as families, communities, and close friendships. It is within these intimate settings, whether at the kitchen table or in ceremony, that we learn how to engage in meaningful and sustainable relationships with land, culture, and community. These everyday micro-processes of resurgence can lead to larger-scale movements and community actions. The family and other intimate sites are places where we practise relational accountability, assert rebellious dignity, navigate/ counter the colonial system, and move from public performativities to embodied practices. Everydayness also helps us to understand the ways that gendered values and decolonial practices are shared with future generations within the context of homes and families. Each of the above-referenced areas in this review helps us to better understand the analytical and applied practices of restorying and everyday acts of resurgence. It is clear from this review that our engagement in processes of restorying and resurgence are just as important, if not more so, than the achievement of our aspirations. It is through such engagement that our relationships are renewed and perpetuated, thus promoting the health and well-being of Indigenous nations and homelands. I now turn to three examples that demonstrate how restorying occurs in different community contexts. the bison treaty In 2014 a treaty was signed between Indigenous nations living along the USCanada border. Iiniiwa, which is the Blackfoot (Niitsitapi) name for bison, have a deep, longstanding relationship with the land, people, and cultural practices of prairie ecosystems. In fact, among the Blackfoot and surrounding Indigenous nations, iiniiwa is one of the “cultural keystone species,” those that “shape in

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a major way the cultural identity of a people, as reflected in the fundamental roles these species have in diet, materials, medicine, and/or spiritual practices” (Garibaldi and Turner 2004; Massie 2014). When discussing the role of the bison in their homelands, Blackfoot scholar and elder Leroy Little Bear and colleagues (2014) point out, “Acting as a natural bio-engineer in prairie landscapes, they shaped plant communities, transported and recycled nutrients, created habitat variability that benefited grassland birds, insects and small mammals, and provided abundant food resources for grizzly bears, wolves and humans.” This account shows the linkages between plant and animal nations, indicating how the entire landscape can be altered by the regeneration of one keystone species, such as bison. Unfortunately, the widespread slaughter of bison in the nineteenth century led to the deterioration of the prairie ecosystems and of the health and wellbeing of Blackfoot and other prairie peoples. The decimation of the bison also impacted the cultural practices of Indigenous peoples of the region, which has prompted the need for community action to restore the iiniiwa in Indigenous homelands. On 23 September 2014 eight Indigenous nations – the Blackfoot Nation, Blood Tribe, Siksika Nation, Piikani Nation, Assiniboine and Gros Ventre Tribes of the Fort Belknap Indian Reservation, Assiniboine and Sioux Tribes of the Fort Peck Indian Reservation, Salish and Kootenai Tribes of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Indian Reservation, and Tsuu T’ina Nation – gathered in Blackfeet territory near Browning, Montana, and signed the historic Buffalo Treaty, which called for the return of bison to the prairie ecosystems. Given that it was the first transborder Indigenous treaty signed in over 150 years, the Buffalo Treaty also rekindled old alliances. The Buffalo Treaty outlined the following community-led goals: • Engaging tribes and First Nations in continuing dialogue on bison conservation • Uniting the political power of the tribes and First Nations of the Northern Great Plains • Advancing an international call for the restoration of the bison • Engaging youth in the treaty process • Strengthening and renewing ancient cultural and spiritual relationships with bison and grasslands in the Northern Great Plains (CBC News 2015) As a way to restory the Blackfoot landscape with bison, the above-mentioned provisions highlight the sacred nature of this treaty and its goals of fostering the return of bison to some 6.3 million acres of Blackfoot homelands. Additionally, the Buffalo Treaty is a living document that requires periodic renewal and reinterpretation. According to Little Bear, “The treaty is open. Other nations can sign on” (CBC News 2015). In fact, just two years after the Buffalo Treaty was

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signed, the number of treaty signatories had gone from eight to twenty-one (Derworiz 2017). In September 2016, the Buffalo Treaty signatories held a pipe ceremony in Banff National Park to honour the planned reintroduction of sixteen bison to the area. The Buffalo Treaty demonstrates how Indigenous nations can take the initiative in regenerating the relationships that promote their health and well-being. Like treaties, Indigenous stories reflect the deeply held protocols and practices regarding relationships with bison. In this way, agreements with plant nations and animal nations have been in place for millennia, and a formalized version of an agreement, such as a treaty, can be useful for rekindling ancient relationships. New treaties such as the Buffalo Treaty reflect the complex diplomacies and spiritual reawakenings of resurgence. the lekwunGen coMMunity tool shed The Lekwungen and Wyomilth peoples of the Songhees and Esquimalt First Nations live on a fraction of their original ancestral homelands and waterways in Metulia (Victoria), British Columbia. A vital part of the centuries-old Garry oak savannah ecosystem is qwlháal (camas). Qwlháal, a carbohydrate-rich bulb, has been a key food and trade item of Indigenous peoples in the Northwest region for generations (Corntassel and Bryce 2012; Penn 2006; Turner and Kuhnlein 1983; chapters 7 and 21, this volume). Qwlháal has distinctive blue flowers,1 borne on an elongated stalk, that bloom around April and May (see figures 20.1 and 20.2). Although qwlháal is invisible to most when it is not flowering, there is so much going on underground with the camas bulb throughout the year that is critical to its growth as a major food source of Indigenous nations (Beckwith 2004). According to Songhees First Nation activist Cheryl Bryce, “the University of Victoria is located in the one area where kwetlal [qwlháal] was celebrated, harvested, pit cooked, and traded with people up and down the coast” (Corntassel and Bryce 2012, 157). Similar to other Lekwungen women and families, Bryce and her family have managed the Garry oak savannahs of the Victoria area for several generations, and qwlháal has been a key plant in the sustainability of their communities. With the encroachment of invasive species, such as Scottish broom, English ivy, and introduced grasses, as well as the imposition of colonial policies, “Today, the kwetlal food system comprises less than five percent of its original yield over 150 years ago” (ibid., 158; see also Turner and Turner 2008; chapter 7, this volume). Quoting Bryce, environmental activist Briony Penn (2006, 2) explains, The Douglas Treaties were supposed to allow traditional harvesting of resources in their territory but in practice that has never happened or been acknowledged. Look at the Indian Act [. . .] “when they passed laws

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20.1 | Edible blue camas (Camassia quamash) in flower.

that it was illegal to leave the reserve without a pass, told what you can grow on the reserve, harvest off reserve and what you can purchase[;] it was one more aspect of cultural genocide.” It was illegal to gather traditional foods outside of reserve lands and yet the practice of gathering the foods, processing and eating them [. . .] “were what kept us alive both from the perspective of diet and culture.” Additionally, gender roles regarding the management and harvest of qwlháal have been disrupted, and planting areas have been heavily encroached upon by settler populations. Even where environmentalists are seeking to conserve the Garry oak ecosystem and its species, they do not address the food security needs of the Lekwungen people by recognizing the necessity of revitalizing food systems in the region and maintaining the ecosystem through selectively

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20.2 | Bulbs of edible blue camas (Camassia quamash).

harvesting the camas bulbs. The Lekwungen landscape of qwlháal and Garry oaks was there only “by virtue of a lot of hard work by her [Bryce’s] female ancestors who owned and managed the camas fields through seasonal burning, weeding and harvesting on a sustainable scale” (ibid.). Bryce recalls that as a child when she went with her grandmother Edna George (née Norris) to her ancestral homelands, which had been designated “public lands” by settlers, the authorities told them that they couldn’t harvest in “Victoria parks” (Corntassel and Bryce 2012, 159). Bryce decided early on that she was going to focus her life on the revitalization of Lekwungen food systems and on finding new ways to regenerate the qwlháal, which occurs in only 5 per cent of its original abundance. In 2009 Bryce formed the Lekwungen Community Tool Shed (CTS ) with the intention of educating the public while regenerating Indigenous food systems in “urban” contexts. This network is led by her and consists of Indigenous and non-Indigenous participants who meet once per month at local parks as well as at the Songhees First Nation Reserve to remove invasive species and rejuvenate Lekwungen food systems. The CTS does not ask for permission from park officials to pull invasives in city parks,

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as the authority to be there comes from Bryce and her family, who have been managing these qwlháal fields for centuries. Scholar Mishuana Goeman (2013, 12) of the Tonawanda Band of Seneca describes this land management as a form of “embodied geographies” in which “Native feminisms can play a major role in our thinking about the connections between land, individuals, and constructions of nations.” This form of (re)mapping is critical to understanding how resurgence takes place amid convergences of gender, place, and nationhood to restory landscapes. I have brought my daughter to several of the CTS ’s monthly “pulls,” and at one point we decided to focus our efforts on pulling invasive species at Meegan (Beacon Hill Park). The results have been noticeable, as there are fewer Scotch broom plants and more qwlháal plants each year. Additionally, several people bring their entire families to the “pulls,” with children listening to stories and working alongside adults toward a common goal. Such intergenerational learning is key to restorying the landscape (see chapter 22, this volume) and to decolonizing public parklands. At one point, in November 2015, the participants of the Community Tool Shed were evicted from Meeqan by a Park Services employee. Although no reason was provided at the time, we found out later that our group was pulling the “wrong” kind of invasive species – Spanish broom instead of Scottish broom. Thinking strategically about how to hold Park Services and other elected officials accountable for the problematic evictions, Bryce called a meeting in January 2015 with both the mayor and the city manager of Victoria and other City Council members. After the mayor apologized to Bryce and the CTS for the unfortunate evictions, she asked her what she would like to see happen. Bryce described six key projects that she wanted to see as a result of the mistreatment of the CTS by Victoria Park Services. These proposals included removing the access road to the top of Meeqan (i.e., Beacon Hill itself) because the road was causing more traffic and destruction of qwlháal and even of ancestral gravesites in the area; building a permanent tool shed at Meeqan because the current tool shed consisted of tools that were housed and transported to each “pull” by CTS members; initiating a controlled burn of Meeqan, a process by which Lekwungen had managed this part of their territory for generations; and having the city help with the mapping of invasive species and native plants to promote Indigenous food systems. Although Cheryl Bryce’s proposals haven’t been fully realized yet, the Community Tool Shed has expanded its goals and collaborators by mapping invasive species and continuing invasive removal projects at other locales, such as Tl’ches (Discovery and Chatham Islands), also part of Songhees traditional territory. These undertakings are part of the everyday ways that change occurs in Indigenous landscapes. Although the results often are not noticeable in the immediate sense, these everyday land-based actions are effective ways to get

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people to have a stake in protecting Lekwungen homelands and food systems from encroachment. According to Simpson and Bagelman (2017, 565), “Managing the space in this way has created tensions and conflicts with both local conservationists, who consider their actions to be ecologically disruptive, and parks officials, who claim sole jurisdiction.” Conflicts over access to these contentious sites, as the above example with Park Services illustrates, are inevitable. As Swampy Cree geographer Michelle Daigle (2019, 302) points out, “resurgent politics is premised on how these intimate relations and everyday renewals of authority (including the authority of non-human kin) are co-constitutive to building larger scale political, legal and economic relations within and across Indigenous nations, which complicate settler colonial conceptualizations of authority, including its territorial reach.” Overall, the CTS is a way to reclaim Indigenous landscapes and to regenerate Lekwungen food systems in urban contexts, as well as to instill in younger generations an appreciation for these nutritious local foods and for the knowledge and values of tending the lands of their ancestors. seed banks in the cherokee nation Lhiya (river cane, Arundinaria gigantea), which is a Turtle Island version of bamboo, can be found along the edges of rivers, wetlands, and forests in the south-central and southeastern United States. For Cherokees, both in our original territory in the eastern United States (Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians) and in Oklahoma (Cherokee Nation and United Keetoowah Band), this plant was valued for its strong, hollow stalks, which were used to make a number of items, including pipe stems, sleeping mats, chairs, flutes, baskets, fishing poles, blowguns, and more. Although once plentiful, river cane is becoming harder to find in the Cherokee landscape. Climate change (and subsequent flooding), as well as the use of pesticides and clearing for agriculture, have devastated river cane populations. In Oklahoma, for example, 98 per cent of the river cane is gone. In response to these devastating losses, the Cherokee Nation began a Cherokee Nation Heirloom Seed Bank in 2006, which includes harvesting, storing, and disseminating the seeds of rare plants and varieties that are not available commercially. This revival in Cherokee plants was also linked to the revitalization of the Cherokee language – with seeds, plants, landscapes, language, and cultural practices all going hand in hand. Cherokee ethnobotanist Pat Gwin speaks about the unique types of Cherokee plants: “They were developed probably over 1,000 years ago, these varieties were . . . They’re just as uniquely Cherokee as is Sequoyah” (in Crawford 2018). There are now varieties of river cane and red root (New Jersey tea, Ceanothus americanus) being grown by the Cherokee Nation in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. Additionally, several varieties of Cherokee seeds, including prized varieties of

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corn, beans, and squash, as well as special strains of tobacco, are stored in the Svalbard Global Seed Vault, which is located deep underground on a Norwegian island in the remote Arctic, being designed to protect seeds from “natural disaster, nuclear catastrophe or any apocalypse that might bring humans to the brink” (Layden 2017). When recounting the history of the Cherokee seed bank, Gwin recalls, “It started with one seed, and that was Cherokee White Eagle Corn” (in Layden 2017). Each year, Cherokee citizens can request two varieties of seeds to grow wherever they live, whether in Tahlequah or Seattle. The goal is to revitalize our relationships with plant nations while also perpetuating plant knowledge and ultimately propagating more seeds for the Cherokee seed bank. The future of plant nations is inherently linked to the future of the Cherokee Nation. Just like the story of how medicine came to the people, plants provide us with ways to live and conduct ourselves in healthy ways. This past summer, my daughter and I requested tobacco and White Eagle corn to grow in Metulia (Victoria) after seeking guidance from local First Nations about the protocols and practices of growing plants on their homelands. Reminiscent of the questions posed to me by Frida at Unist’ot’en, we had to ask ourselves how Cherokee White Eagle corn and tobacco will benefit the Songhees, Esquimalt, and W̱ SÁNEĆ First Nations. Although there is no easy answer to this question, this conversation needs to continue with First Nations whose unceded lands and waterways comprise urban spaces in Metulia. Overall, we had great success with the tobacco but not as much success with the corn. However, we learned so much about growing these plants in different climates that we are already preparing for next year. Although these two varieties will not feed our families, they will perpetuate our knowledge and links to Cherokee nationhood, as well as propagate future Cherokee seeds. To promote W̱ SÁNEĆ food security, we have committed ourselves to growing just as many local plants, such as qwlháal, for community use. All such undertakings are forms of reclaiming and restorying urban landscapes. conclusion I started off this chapter with a story about a visit to the Uni’stot’en camp and about grappling with the question “How will your visit to Unist’ot’en benefit the land and community?” This question still resonates, as I am a Cherokee living in unceded Lekwungen, Wyomilth, and W̱ SÁNEĆ homelands. It is about a relational responsibility to take direction from local Indigenous nations in order to help promote the regeneration of Indigenous food systems, landscapes, languages, and lifeways. These new forms of restorying the landscape often take place in everyday contexts, whether within a family, ceremonial, or other intimate setting. Ultimately, focusing on everyday actions allows us to promote

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family resurgence that takes us out of the classroom in order to engage in kitchen, backyard, and other land- or water-based activities where our families can thrive together. A Cherokee notion of leadership starts with a person having a vision or dream. That person begins to embody that vision by putting it into everyday practice. While implementing it, the person also has a responsibility to make that vision understandable to other people through his or her words and actions. After gaining this experience, the person offers some direction for people to mobilize around that vision. In short, this is leadership by example, which is common to most Indigenous nations. Key to this process is making the vision relatable to other people. This form of leadership by example is encompassed in the ways we honour and nurture our families and homelands every day. It is about moving beyond performance and/or symbolic gestures to meaningful everyday practices of resurgence. Remembering is a key part of resurgence. When people are out on the land and water, they begin to remember the sources of their strength, whether it is their relationship to water, plants, animals, and other aspects of the natural world. This work provides important insights regarding how we educate future generations about relationships to plant nations for the perpetuation of our nationhood. The three examples of cultural resurgence undertaken by the Blackfoot First Nation, Songhees First Nation, and Cherokee Nation offer different but overlapping directions for sustainable self-determination and ways to enable the production of Indigenous knowledges and their transmission to future generations. By restorying and regenerating Indigenous landscapes, Indigenous nations are honouring and practising community resurgence so that future generations will thrive.

note 1 There is also a bulb-producing plant known as death camas (Zigadenus venenosus), which often grows with the edible camas. The flowers of death camas are cream-coloured, and the flowers and fruiting capsules are more densely crowded at the top of the stalk than those of the edible camas. In my previous conversations with Cheryl Bryce, she has often noted that caution is needed when harvesting camas if one does not know where the death camas is growing. Indigenous peoples who have deep relationships to the land and waterways possess this knowledge.

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Archibald, J. 2008. Indigenous Storywork: Educating the Heart, Mind, Body, and Spirit. Vancouver: UBC Press. Beckwith, B.R. 2004. “‘The Queen Root of This Clime’: Ethnoecological Investigations of Blue Camas and Its Landscapes on Southern Vancouver Island.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. CBC News. 2015. “Historic Treaty Signed among 10 First Nations and Tribes in Banff.” 14 August. http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/calgary/historic-treaty-signed-among10-first-nations-and-tribes-in-banff-1.3190715. Corntassel, J. 2012. “Re-Envisioning Resurgence: Indigenous Pathways to Decolonization and Sustainable Self-Determination.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society 1, no. 1: 86–101. Corntassel, J., and C. Bryce. 2012. “Practicing Sustainable Self-Determination: Indigenous Approaches to Cultural Revitalization and Restoration.” Brown Journal of World Affairs 28, no. 11: 151–62. Corntassel, J., Chaw-win-is, and T’lakwadzi. 2009. “Indigenous Storytelling, Truth-Telling, and Community Approaches to Reconciliation.” English Studies in Canada 35, no. 1: 137–59. Coulthard, G. 2014. Red Skin, White Masks: Rejecting the Colonial Politics of Recognition. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Crawford, G.D. 2018. “Some CN Seed Bank Items Go Back 1,000 Years.” Tahlequah Daily Press, 10 January. http://www.tahlequahdailypress.com/news/local_news/some-cnseed-bank-items-go-back-years/article_de231578-4775-515b-ba43-1a3eba4b485c.html. Daigle, M. 2019. “Tracing the Terrain of Indigenous Food Sovereignties.” Journal of Peasant Studies 46, no. 2: 297–315. Derworiz, C. 2017. “Pipe Ceremony at Lake Minnewanka Welcomes Bison ‘Back to Their Homeland.’” Calgary Herald, 7 February. http://calgaryherald.com/news/local-news/ pipe-ceremony-at-lake-minnewanka-welcomes-bison-back-to-their-homeland. Garibaldi, A., and N.J. Turner. 2004. “Cultural Keystone Species: Implications for Ecological Conservation and Restoration.” Ecology and Society 9, no. 3, art. 1. http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol9/iss3/art1. Goeman, M. 2013. Mark My Words: Native Women Mapping Our Nations. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Goodyear-Ka’ōpua, N. 2013. The Seeds We Planted: Portraits of a Native Hawaiian Charter School. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hokowhitu, B.J. 2009. “Indigenous Existentialism and the Immediacy of the Indigenous Body.” Cultural Studies Review 15, no. 2: 101–18. Hoover, E. 2017. The River Is in Us: Fighting Toxics in a Mohawk Community. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hunt, S., and C. Holmes. 2015. “Everyday Decolonization: Living a Decolonizing Queer Politics.” Journal of Lesbian Studies 19, no. 2: 154–72. Kimmerer, R.W. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed. Layden, L. 2017. “Cherokee Nation Preserves Food Culture by Freezing History.” StateImpact Oklahoma, 26 January. https://stateimpact.npr.org/oklahoma/2017/01/ 26/cherokee-nation-preserves-food-culture-by-freezing-history/. Little Bear, L., E. Carlson, A. Grier, Chief E. Old Person, and T. Christian. 2014. “Historic Treaty: Bring Buffalo Home, Heal the Prairie (Op-Ed).” Live Science, 24 September. http://www.livescience.com/47998-tribal-treaty-to-restore-territory-americanbison.html.

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Mack, J. 2011. “Hoquotist: Reorienting through Storied Practice.” In Storied Communities: Narratives of Contact and Arrival in Constituting Political Community, ed. H. Lessard, R. Johnson, and J. Webber, 287–307. Vancouver: UBC Press. Martens, K. 2019. “An Uneasy Peace: Deal Reached to Open Unist’ot’en Gate to CGL.” APTN National News, 10 January. https://aptnnews.ca/2019/01/10/an-uneasy-peace-dealreached-to-open-unistoten-gate-to-cgl/. Massie, M. 2014. Forest Prairie Edge: Place History in Saskatchewan. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press. Penn, B. 2006. “Restoring Camas and Culture to Lekwungen and Victoria: An Interview with Lekwungen Cheryl Bryce.” Focus Magazine, June. http://www.firstnations.de/ media/06-1-1-camas.pdf. Simpson, L. 2011. Dancing on Our Turtle’s Back: Stories of Nishnaabeg Re-Creation, Resurgence, and a New Emergence. Winnipeg: Arbeiter Ring. – 2017. As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Simpson, M., and J. Bagelman. 2017. “Decolonizing Urban Political Ecologies: The Production of Nature in Settler Colonial Cities.” Annals of the American Association of Geographers 108, no. 2: 558–68. Stark, H.K. 2016. “Criminal Empire: The Making of the Savage in a Lawless Land.” Theory and Event 19, no. 4. https://muse.jhu.edu/article/633282. Teuton, C. 2012. Cherokee Stories of the Turtle Island Liars’ Club: Dakasi Elohi Anigagoga Junilawisdii. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Thomas, R. (Qwul’sih’yah’maht). 2015. “Honouring the Oral Traditions of the Ta’t Mustimuxw (Ancestors) through Storytelling.” In Research as Resistance: Revisiting Critical, Indigenous and Anti-Oppressive Approaches, 2nd ed., ed. S. Strega and L. Brown, 177–98. Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press. Tuck, E., M. McKenzie, and K. McCoy. 2014. “Land Education: Indigenous, Post-Colonial, and Decolonizing Perspectives on Place and Environmental Education Research.” Environmental Education Research 20, no. 1: 1–23. Tuhiwai Smith, L. 2012. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. 2nd ed. London and New York: Zed Books. Turner, N.J., and H.V. Kuhnlein. 1983. “Camas (Camassia spp.) and Riceroot (Fritillaria spp.): Two Liliaceous ‘Root’ Foods of the Northwest Coast Indians.” Ecology of Food and Nutrition 13, no. 4: 199–219. Turner, N.J., R. Gregory, C. Brooks, L. Failing, and T. Satterfield. 2008. “From Invisibility to Transparency: Identifying the Implications.” Ecology and Society 13, no. 2, art. 7. http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol13/iss2/art7/.

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21 Partnerships of Hope: How Ethnoecology Can Support Robust Co-Management Agreements between Public Governments and Indigenous Peoples Pamela Spalding introduction Canada’s balanced, somewhat decentralized federal state is built on the principle of harmonized disaggregation. The ability to recognize difference in a synchronous framework is one of this country’s great strengths, making it possible to reconcile diversity with unity. Canada’s federalism creates the potential for experimentation in the “social laboratory” that each constituent part of our federation encourages. These principles should be extended beyond federal-provincial relations and applied to First Nations, Metis, and Inuit laws and governance. – John Borrows and Leonard Rotman (2012, 271–2)

Borrows and Rotman’s (2012) bold vision of Canadian federalism includes Indigenous laws and governance and suggests new possibilities for negotiating shared jurisdiction in Canada outside of the court system. Legal avenues have produced one tool for identifying, discussing, and proving Aboriginal rights within what Christie (2015, 786) refers to as the “exceedingly narrow confines” of a court system built upon colonial jurisprudence. Yet identifying legal rights for Indigenous peoples and obligations of the Crown does not necessarily clarify the full meaning of these rights, nor does it ensure that the Crown will take these obligations seriously or acknowledge Indigenous self-determination. Alfred and Corntassel (2005) suggest that the outlay of extensive resources through which to litigate claims is not only bankrupting First Nations but also providing a “politics of distraction” that further alienates Indigenous peoples from their unceded lands and resources (Alfred and Corntassel 2005; Corntassel 2012). The Court has encouraged, cajoled, and directed the parties to find

political solutions through good faith negotiations over the course of forty years of Aboriginal rights litigation, yet questions of authority over most of the lands and resources in present-day British Columbia remain in a state of deep confusion (Harris 2002; Trosper 2009; Trosper and Tindall 2013). Ethnobotanical and ethnoecological research about Indigenous peoples’ harvesting, cultivation, and management of hundreds of plant species in the province has helped to support Aboriginal rights and title litigation (see chapters 18 and 19, this volume). Can this legal acknowledgment of rights associated with plants and plant management be negotiated into a co-management role for First Nations throughout British Columbia?1 More importantly, now that the treatment of Indigenous peoples and their historic, extensive modification of plants and cultural landscapes has been brought into focus through Indigenous activism, academic research, and legal decisions, how can we develop and implement long-term, sustainable, and inclusive partnership and co-management arrangements that reflect these ancient relationships? Co-management arrangements have been experimented with in one form or another for decades in British Columbia, but there is still a disconnect between the legal acknowledgment of Aboriginal rights (including title) and their articulation as modern rights reflected in functioning agreements between First Nations and public governments.2 This chapter summarizes the impact of asserted sovereignty and colonialism on Indigenous peoples’ plant use and management to better understand why plant use and management have been widely overlooked in co-management arrangements in the province. A brief history reveals that the assertion of sovereignty by Britain and (later Canada) has seriously undermined Indigenous peoples’ connections to plants and plant knowledge and, therefore, has in effect severed their key relationships with much of their territories. I then explore how globalization and political projects such as neoliberalism have further impacted Indigenous peoples’ relationships with plants and habitats, thereby complicating the reassertion of plant-related Aboriginal rights. Finally, I examine the characteristics and broader implications of co-management in general and identify some features of successful institutional co-management arrangements. My goal here is to illustrate some of the underlying challenges associated with establishing co-management agreements and to discuss how non-Indigenous Canadians can support Indigenous peoples in reconnecting with culturally significant plants and places throughout their territories. historicizinG indiGenous Plant use and ManaGeMent Although it is beguiling to characterize co-management agreements as “forward-looking,” as promoted by provincial and federal treaty negotiators during the BC Treaty Commission process, the historical assertion of Crown

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sovereignty is so tightly woven into Canadian governance structures, policy, law, politics, and political theory that Canadians are often blind to its ongoing implicit impact on every aspect of Indigenous lifeways (Shaw 2008). Decolonization efforts must consider how Crown sovereignty has undermined First Nations’ connections to species, places, and landscapes since the time of contact (Turner and Turner 2008; Turner et al. 2008). As Shaw (2008, 153) observes, it is insufficient to simply recognize cultural differences and aspirations in the Canadian Constitution. Rather, we must consider and explore how even the “politics of recognition” of Indigeneity within existing governance structures – institutions that are based on a historic assertion of British sovereignty – perpetuate the violent effects of sovereignty over, marginalization from, and assimilation into the Canadian state. Since 1651,3 Thomas Hobbes and many others who followed have justified the violence arising from the assertion of modern sovereignty as “the regrettable necessity of civilization” (Shaw 2008, 37, 39).4 In keeping with the Royal Proclamation of 1763, sovereignty throughout Canada was presumed to be acquired through treaty, yet in British Columbia this policy was largely ignored. Indeed, Crown sovereignty over the lands and resources west of the Rocky Mountains was achieved based on a series of convenient and powerful assumptions about the incompetence of Indigenous peoples vis-à-vis their lands and resource tenures – assumptions that are now widely rejected as racist and unsubstantiated (Bryan 2000).5 Butler (2006, 126, 107) suggests that “Indigenous knowledge must thus be historicized – it must be understood in light of the forces of change acting upon Indigenous resource activities since contact” – because otherwise this knowledge is too often presented without acknowledgment of the “massive disruption of Indigenous resource use” caused by the assertion of Crown sovereignty. Without some comprehension of how Indigenous peoples’ connections with and knowledge of plants in British Columbia were affected by historical forces, we will be unable to find the path that led us to the current state of discord and unable to create a path forward that is more just and equitable. At the time of asserted sovereignty in the province, Indigenous peoples depended upon a wide variety of plants to support the dietary, technological, spiritual, and medicinal aspects of their societies. Despite the prominence of plant species in the subsistence, prestige, and trading economies of Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest, many early European settlers and generations of scholars assumed that fishing and hunting primarily and overwhelmingly supported the cultures and economies of this region (Norton 1985). Scholars now understand that the powerful relationships that Indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest had with plants and plant habitats helped to define their identity and responsibilities within their territories and that their cultivated terrestrial landscapes, arising from the harvesting, processing, storage, trading, and management of a wide range of plants, provide evidence of their long-term land use, occupancy, and tenure in the region (Lepofsky 2009; 368 | P. sPaldinG

Thornton 2012; Trosper 2009; Turner 2014; Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013b). Prior to European contact, Northwest Coast groups harvested over 300 different plant species from eight major environmental zones, including meadows, rain shadow forests, coastal rainforests, montane forests, marshes and swamps, bogs and fens, tidal wetlands, and human occupation sites (Turner and Peacock 2005). Their food systems included fish and game for protein and a wide variety of plants for vitamins, carbohydrates, and minerals (Gunther 1945; Lane 1977; Moss 2011). Plants and fish were processed extensively for use in the subsistence, prestige, and trade economies (Turner and Loewen 1998). Different plant parts were harvested for food at different times of the year, requiring an extensive and detailed knowledge of selective harvesting and replanting, digging and tilling, tending and weeding, sowing and transplanting, pruning and coppicing, landscape burning, and food processing and storage (Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013b). Prior to contact with Europeans, plants were the primary components of the extensive material culture throughout the Pacific Northwest, and the knowledge associated with the harvesting of roots, bark, fibre, wood, and other plant materials to support this activity is complex and vast (Stewart 1977). The precontact period of the region can be characterized as a time of self-sufficiency and self-determination for Indigenous nations, whose livelihoods were embedded in a complex network of kin relationships that included human and nonhuman partners (Natcher, Davis, and Hickey 2005). The rules of this world were maintained through management of robust and resilient relationships between humans and the natural world and through the construction and maintenance of knowledge required to “sustain core social and cultural values and critical relationships” within the ecosystems of their homelands (M.G. Stevenson 2013, 120). The steady marginalization of Indigenous peoples’ plant use and cultivation over a period of 150 years after European contact served to shatter the roles and knowledge systems, particularly of Indigenous women, with respect to childcare and cultural teachings, membership within communities, traditional economic exchanges, and perhaps most importantly, plant management and resource tenures (Turner and Spalding 2018). The slow erasure of both women’s and men’s plant use, cultivation, and management as a central, legitimate, and lawful activity within northwestern cultures resulted in profound changes to social organization and land-use patterns (Norton 1985). Acknowledging and understanding the deep tragedy of these changes – the violent impact on Indigenous peoples by the imposition of a European sovereign governance system – helps us to understand why building new relationships of culturally distinct plant rights is a key part of reconciliation between Indigenous peoples and the rest of Canadian society. Beginning in the 1950s, earlier draconian laws and policies designed to assimilate Indigenous people into the Canadian state were slowly repealed, allowing First Nations the rights to vote, hold potlatches, be schooled in their Partnerships of Hope | 369

communities, organize politically, and perhaps most significantly, litigate their outstanding claims to lands and resources in British Columbia. These adjustments to law and policy mark a step in the right direction for recognition of Indigenous peoples’ laws and governance in Canada. However, because of the deep colonial values embedded in the structure of Canadian governance, adjusting the edges of sovereignty to allow for more inclusion of Indigenous political and social concerns without properly addressing the wider issues of how Crown sovereignty was originally asserted may simply reinscribe colonialism by “crafting solutions to problems of the past rather than responding to emerging political possibility” (Shaw 2008, 149). So although a form of delegated Indigenous self-government is now being contemplated, it appears to be merely an adjustment of the band style of government imposed by the federal Indian Act rather than the re-establishment of culturally appropriate forms of Indigenous government and political organization aspired to by many First Nations and discussed by Indigenous scholars (Borrows 1999, 2010; Christie 2015; Napolean 2015). shiftinG Global Markets and daMaGed landscaPes Another challenge to understanding how practices, customs, and traditions regarding plants can now be exercised in modern landscapes is that the ecosystems within which human-plant relationships were conducted in the region have been eroding for almost two centuries, largely due to settlement, agriculture, and industrial activities of the newcomers. The original ecosystems in British Columbia have been transformed by the introduction of hundreds of plant and animal species now integrated with existing native species, thereby creating novel ecosystems (Hobbs, Higgs, and Harris 2009). Therefore, in order for First Nations to exercise their rights and responsibilities to their homelands, these rights need to be articulated in a contemporary physical context, within a new economy, and with different nonkin people. In short, Indigenous peoples’ abilities to rebuild ancient relationships with species in their home places are thwarted by the fact that the landscapes of their traditional territories have been altered, if not totally destroyed, by a combination of industrialization and what many Indigenous peoples would classify as neglect (Turner 1999). How do Indigenous peoples re-establish relationships with plants and landscapes in this context? Throughout British Columbia, the loss of native prairies and grasslands, forests, wetlands, and estuarine tidal lands to agriculture, industrial use, settlement, and parkland is profound (Deur et al. 2013). For example, the remnant camas (Camassia spp.) prairies of southeastern Vancouver Island – relied on for hundreds, if not thousands, of years as a source of carbohydrates in peoples’ traditional diet (see chapter 7, this volume) – are today repopulated with invasive grasses, Scotch broom, Himalayan blackberry, English

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ivy, and countless other introduced species, mostly from Europe. Native shrubs such as snowberry (Symphoricarpos albus) and Nootka rose (Rosa nutkana) and native trees such as Douglas-fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) and other forest trees have populated the original meadows, no longer cleared by landscape burning, and those clearings that are left have been transformed by livestock grazing and development (Beckwith 2004; Boyd 1999; Proctor 2013). Most of the remaining camas populations and other food species exist within privately held forest lands or in parks, where any harvesting of native plants is generally prohibited (see chapter 20, this volume). Furthermore, without traditional tending and weeding, those areas where there still is edible camas have become repopulated with death camas (Zigadenus venenosus),  thereby making any harvesting potentially dangerous (Turner and Spalding 2018). BC ecosystems, whose plant and animal populations have been subjected to generations of colonial, scientific, Western legal, and economic notions of land management, as well as to a changing climate, are adjusting to new stressors that they have not evolved to absorb. No wonder that trying to articulate and negotiate abstract legally defined Aboriginal rights, proven within a long ago landscape that has today been academically reconstructed, is such a challenge! The general pattern of European elites accumulating land by dispossession through enclosure of commonly managed lands has a deep and violent history in Europe, where it has been referred to as a “revolution of the rich against the poor” (Polanyi 1944, 37).6 From the fourteenth to the nineteenth centuries, the conversion of common tilled lands, and common forests and fens, to enclosed private lands for control by a small ruling elite across Europe provoked considerable rebellion and violence by the people who had relied on and managed these lands and resources as “commons” for thousands of years (Fairlee 2009; Harvey 2005; Holzl 2010). Removing common lands to private ownership in Europe and later in North America, India, and other British colonies was justified by the assertion of sovereignty and by claiming that the commons were waste lands that required the management of an enlightened sovereign (Armitage 2012; Gregory 2001). In the early period of the province, settlers determined that the BC environment was pristine wilderness from which European industrial technology could efficiently extract local assets, such as timber, minerals, crops, fish, and marine mammals, for transport to global markets, thereby generating wealth for the enterprising newcomers. The dispossession of Indigenous lands and resources and their repossession by newcomers as enclosed agricultural spaces, private residential lands, and state-owned timber and mining resources were based on “a conception of property rights derived from a racist ideology that turned on the identification of ‘us’ and ‘them’ and held that only particular kinds of labour and land improvement warranted claims of ownership” (Rossiter 2007, 789). British Columbia adjusted the familiar pattern of land and resource dispossession

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by retaining state ownership over forests as Crown lands and by introducing a complicated lease and licensing system for corporate users, which effectively transformed forest ecosystems into tree plantations. Since the 1970s, on a global scale, state governments, the corporate sector, and the global economy have increasingly valued more openly free-market goals (Harvey 2005). This economic climate valorizes privatization, short-term contracts, and the confining of state activity to support the investment interests of large resource-extraction companies – substantially impacting BC First Nations’ ability to exercise or rebuild their traditional relationships with plants and landscapes. Over the past century, BC assets such as old growth timber, fish stocks, and minerals were harvested and transported to distant markets, and as the overall standard of living increased in the province, the remaining resources could no longer be produced as cheaply, so the search for these commodities has resumed in areas outside of North America (Hann and Hart 2011; Marchak 1991). During recent decades, in sovereign states throughout the globe, government-centralized management through legislation and policy has been replaced by deregulation, privatization, and withdrawal of the state from many areas of social provision, resulting in an associated wave of outsourcing, downsizing, and casualization of the labour force,7 as well as in much reduced tax revenues for governments tasked with land-use and ecosystem planning (Harvey 2005). British Columbia and other parts of Canada have not escaped this trend, and as a result, the priority of recent provincial governments has been to stimulate regional economies by seeking investment from global corporate interests whose deep pockets may build infrastructure and provide employment in depressed regions (Rossiter and Burke Wood 2016; Smith 2013). Now, just as Aboriginal rights’ claims are gaining traction in the courts, First Nations governments are being thrown back into the role of obstructing the progress of corporate and labour interests that are seeking to harvest and export energy and primary resource products. In this respect, Tsing (2015, 205) reminds us of how deeply “globe-spanning supply chains through which commodities are procured and the state-andindustry pacts through which capitalists gain leverage” shape forests just as much as local livelihood practices and state management policies. Because of the flexibility of the supply chains of goods and services, the demand for resources – such as timber, liquid natural gas, minerals, fish, and water – within a certain region may quickly shift elsewhere based on cost per unit, thus affecting the ecological and social management of forests and other habitats, as well as the priorities and interests forwarded in the negotiation of Indigenous rights (Harvey 2005; Tsing 2015; Turner et al. 2013a). Berkes and colleagues (2006) describe these new capitalists as “roving bandits,” who are mobile agents of capitalism using short-term contracts as leverage to move on to other unprotected resources, thereby avoiding local opposition and discouraging the maintenance

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of state institutions that could protect ecosystems as well as local access to resources. In a climate of government deregulation, these researchers argue, resources in economically depressed areas become a form of open-access commons, where freely accessible resources are competitively depleted, after which the “bandits” move on to their next source of the asset. How can Indigenous peoples maintain strong links with plant species in their ancestral territories if, at the same time, in order to survive and thrive, they must participate in a global economy that has no loyalty to a specific place and demands obedience to the goals of a distant and fickle market? creatinG new relationshiPs: co-ManaGeMent Co-management is characterized as a formalized arrangement that facilitates significant participation in resource management decisions by local resource users . . . The concept has developed through scholarship on common pool resources, which critiques the ability of both centralized bureaucracies and deregulated markets to respond to highly contextualized environmental management problems, and emphasizes the role of local knowledge in establishing enduring management systems. – Sibyl Diver (2014, 26)

According to von Hellermann (2017), good environmental governance relies on an interplay between the formal and informal arrangements of locally organized and state groups. Co-management encompasses a range of activities, from a consultative arrangement where advice and input are sought to full powersharing authority between two governments. First Nations in British Columbia are arguing for some level of joint decision making over their entire traditional territories and are generally not interested in a consultative role, particularly when there is no compelling mechanism for their advice and perspectives to be heeded. In contrast, the preferred co-management model of the federal and provincial governments, in keeping with their assumption of underlying Crown sovereignty, is always a delegated approach, where First Nations can exert some decision-making authority so long as that authority does not conflict with the paramountcy of the public governments. In the turbulent political legal and economic environment where Indigenous human-plant relationships are being played out in British Columbia, the social-ecological systems concept of adaptive co-management may provide guidance (Ostrom 1990). Flowing from the bottom-up approach in common-pool resource theory, adaptive co-management is a process whereby “institutional arrangements and ecological knowledge are tested and revised in a dynamic, ongoing, self-organized process of trial-and-error” (Folke et al. 2002, 20; see also Armitage, Berkes, and Doubleday 2008; Ostrom 1990). Social-ecological systems are the result of “aggregate decision-making processes and actions of the people,” where environmental knowledge is developed by feedback learning and where social rules and behaviours are constantly being adjusted and filtered

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through knowledge, practice, and belief systems (Berkes and Turner 2006, 487). As social and ecological systems are deeply connected, they co-evolve across spatial and temporal scales (Folke 2007). Developing new institutions that maintain cross-cultural understandings and respectful government relationships regarding Indigenous plant management will take time and patience. It requires that the negotiating parties step out of rigid positions, such as the federal and provincial governments’ desire to have First Nations cede, release, and surrender all land and resource rights outside of their treaty settlement lands. I suggest that if we are to reimagine a political space where more than one authority can collaboratively manage a single tract of land, we need to support Indigenous peoples in asserting their rights with small-scale projects where they practice traditional plant harvesting and cultivation based on Indigenous systems of management and law – projects that can inform and nurture the larger-scale political and legal negotiation of more robust institutional arrangements (Diver 2014; Menzies 2006; Parlee and Berkes 2006; Penn 2006). What are the examples, then, of co-management agreements in British Columbia that might support Indigenous plant harvesting, cultivation, and management? There are three primary areas where agreements have been negotiated that may have some potential reference to plant use: forestry, parks and protected areas, and modern-day treaty negotiations. Forestry

Co-management in British Columbia has been contemplated in the context of forestry planning since the 1990s, arising from rights-based conflict over public forest lands (Forsyth, Hoberg, and Bird 2013). The BC government began by drafting consultation protocols with First Nations to establish whether an industrial forestry activity would infringe upon Aboriginal rights. These negotiations often took the form of developing and assessing information about Indigenous cultural interests in lands and species in attempts to accommodate these interests while still approving the industrial activity (Spalding 1998; Trosper 2009).8 This form of consultation is seen by First Nations to be insufficient for addressing issues related to Aboriginal rights and is fraught with methodological and ethical shortcomings regarding the collection and application of traditional ecological knowledge (McIlwraith and Cormier 2016; Spalding 1998; Turner and Spalding 2013). In 2001 an ideologically conservative provincial government presented a more business-based approach to co-management through the negotiation of Forest and Range Agreements with First Nations in an attempt to address Indigenous peoples’ concerns over Aboriginal rights by appeasing them with economic incentives to harvest timber and share stumpage fees (Mabee et al.

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2013). Although over 200 of these agreements were signed, they did not address the issues associated with Aboriginal rights, so the then BC government shifted its policy focus to include building relationships of reconciliation through expanded agreements with the Haida and several other First Nations along the north and central coasts (Forsyth, Hoberg, and Bird 2013; Mabee et al. 2013). These latter agreements show progress by including First Nations in broader land-use planning, in some decision making regarding the annual allowable cut of timber, and in revenue sharing and new forest tenure opportunities. However, they do not obviously reflect plant management practices beyond the priorities set by industrial forestry. Another noteworthy arrangement is the Community Forest Tenure Agreement of 2010 between the Xáxli’p and the BC Ministry of Forests, which reflects the Xáxli’p First Nation’s vision of a community forest, including its plans for eco-cultural restoration, particularly of important cultural keystone plant species. Although the authority is still delegated by the provincial government, the jurisdiction over forest management activities combines cultural, ecological, economic, and educational goals established by the Xáxli’p First Nation (Diver 2016). Parks and Protected Areas

Cruikshank’s (2007) seminal research in the Kluane area of the Yukon territory strikes at the heart of challenges associated with recognizing Indigenous knowledge, narratives, and uses within boundaries of Canadian contemporary political designations such as parks and protected areas. She warns of the pitfalls of the double exclusion of Indigenous peoples: first through colonial dispossession of lands for settlement and industrial development and then by a form of neocolonial appropriation and reformulation of Indigenous knowledge and territories to suit the legal establishment of parks and protected areas.9 This message is slowly being heeded, and all public governments are increasingly undertaking policy to decolonize parks legislation in Canada. Ruru’s (2012) inquiry examines how Canada’s commitment to recognizing Indigenous peoples in law has resulted in their participation in the ownership and management of national parks within Canada and New Zealand. Although she acknowledges progress in the development of new relationships in both jurisdictions, Ruru concludes that in order to achieve real reconciliation within parks, the law needs to shift to a greater recognition of Indigenous place and knowledge systems (Ruru 2012). She explains that the Crown’s insistence on explicitly asserting sovereignty over national parks means that any inclusion of Indigenous peoples in decision making will ultimately require that they acquiesce to the final authority of the Crown rather than drawing on ancient authority stemming from their legal traditions developed over thousand of years in one place.10 Again, the question of sovereignty appears, and its exclusion as a topic of discussion

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limits the potential for concluding co-management agreements in national and provincial parks in Canada. The Canada National Parks Act now formally permits traditional renewable resource harvesting in park reserves across Canada through park management plans;11 in places such as along Clayoquot Sound, it “commits to facilitating drafting harvest protocol(s) by the local First Nations in mutually acceptable ways” (Ruru 2012, 299–300). Yet, although these plans facilitate the harvesting and use of plants and animals in park reserves, they are not full co-management agreements. An exception is the Gwaii Haanas Agreement on Haida Gwaii (Canada and Council of the Haida Nation 1993), which addresses the sovereignty problem by using nonderogation clauses – stating each party’s sovereignty, ownership, and jurisdiction – from both the Haida Nation and the federal government. Implementation of the agreement is facilitated through the Archipelago Management Board, which maintains a joint management plan, oversees Haida traditional harvesting, protects Haida cultural sites, and monitors visitors and information management for Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve, National Marine Conservation Area Reserve, and Haida Heritage Site (Mabee et al. 2013). This board, with equal representation by both parties, makes decisions by consensus, and outstanding issues are referred to a mutually agreed upon mediator. This example of co-management appears to include all the design elements of a long-term, successful management regime based on common-pool resource theory, which may explain its stability over twenty years (Cox, Arnold, and Tomás 2010). Treaty Negotiations

Modern treaty agreements can be understood as comprehensive co-management agreements (M.L. Stevenson 2013). The final agreements signed with First Nations in British Columbia reveal the clearest statements, to date, of co-management arrangements with respect to plant management. The Nisga’a Final Agreement – the first modern treaty to be signed in the province – contains the least significant provisions for plant use and management (British Columbia, Canada, and Nisga’a 1999). In fact, the treaty addresses Nisga’a rights only with respect to aquatic plants and harvesting, which is curious given that the Nisga’a, like all other Tsimshian peoples, were intensive plant harvesters, cultivators, and managers (Burton 2012). The Maa-nulth First Nations Final Agreement, one of the first to be signed in the BC Treaty Commission process, allows for plant-gathering rights in provincial and federal parks, provided that the harvesting is for “food, social and ceremonial purposes” (British Columbia, Canada, and Maa-nulth 2009, 285). In the agreement, however, the authority to gather plants is a delegated one, the Maa-nulth are required to submit harvesting plans and to carry state-specified identification, and only a consultative role in management planning is included.

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In contast, the more recent Tla’amin Final Agreement allows plant gathering in provincial and federal parks as well as on other provincial Crown lands. Although Tla’amin authority is still delegated and could potentially be withdrawn at the pleasure of the Crown, the language in the agreement does appear to be evolving to acknowledge a more robust role for Indigenous peoples in managing plant use on provincial Crown lands after agreements are concluded (British Columbia, Canada, and Tla’amin 2014). discussion No single approach can resolve the complicated negotiation of new political relationships that acknowledge a form of joint ownership of lands and resources in British Columbia. The Canadian state’s disregard for Indigenous peoples’ plant harvesting, cultivation, and management for over a century has further marginalized a significant part of the cultural, political, and domestic practices and beliefs of Indigenous peoples in this region. Historically, Indigenous peoples’ plant practices did not reflect Canada’s sovereign identity, which emphasized European-style cultivation, plantation forestry, privatization of lands and resources, and centralized governance. The mutually dependent relationship between the Crown and corporate interests in the global market economy has contributed significantly to the marginalization of Indigenous peoples’ plant practices. Continuing corporate interests in the lands and resources throughout Indigenous peoples’ territories limit any motivation the Crown may have to develop co-management agreements associated with the stewardship of the over 300 culturally significant plant species and their habitats throughout the province. It is challenging to consider how co-management agreements can support practices, customs, and traditions that are everywhere characterized by invisible losses to Indigenous peoples (Turner et al. 2008) and are usually not relevant to the global market economy. Some of the factors contributing to successful examples of co-management in British Columbia reveal an interesting pattern. Over decades, First Nations such as the Haida, Nuu-chah-nulth, Xáxli’p, Secwépemc, and Tsilhqot’in were able to create sites of multilayered legal and political activity from which they challenged the Crown’s assumption of sovereignty and disrupted corporate interests through blockades and other protests (Atleo 2001; Shaw 2002; Takeda 2015). At times, these First Nations practised everyday acts of resurgence and asserted their own laws over lands and resources within their territories, concurrently negotiating co-management agreements, engaging in treaty negotiations with the federal and provincial governments, and launching important legal action that resulted in profound changes to state policies. These groups also developed significant relationships and political agreements with corporate and environmental interests without any government involvement.

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For example, the Nuu-chah-nulth established the joint-venture logging corporation Iisaak Forest Resources with MacMillan Bloedel to pursue economic development in Clayoquot Sound, and in 1999 they signed a tripartite memorandum of understanding between Iisaak, MacMillan Bloedel, and a consortium of environmental groups (Passelac-Ross and Smith 2013). Although nonbinding, this memorandum committed all of the parties to sustainable logging within the Clayoquot region according to the spirit and recommendations of the Scientific Panel for Susstainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound and is notable for its complete absence of state involvement (Shaw 2002). Equally significant in establishing new relationships among the many players in these negotiations, however, is the example set by the Haida, who were frustrated by the provincial government delegating its responsibilities regarding consultation to corporate forestry interests. In response, the Haida launched legal action against the province and were rewarded when the findings of the court stated that the honour of the Crown cannot be delegated and that the legal responsibility for consultation and accommodation rests with the Crown.12 In each case, it was the building of multiple relationships with a judicious selection of partners that forged sites of political strength, acknowledgment of Aboriginal rights, and increasing self-determination. With the exception of the agreements resulting from the BC Treaty Commission process, plant use and plant habitat management have not been explicitly considered in co-management agreements. Given the obvious challenges within the arena of co-management, do the experiences of groups who are making headway with co-management offer any lessons that we can apply to Indigenous plant harvesting, cultivation, and management? It would appear that strong political activity blends both formal and informal arrangements to establish agreements that fall within and outside of the boundaries of Canadian sovereignty. Successful Indigenous negotiators did not allow the Crown to dictate the definition of their communities or the goals and terms of the negotiation processes. They used standard negotiation and legal avenues where possible and created new opportunities with nonstate players to forward their own agendas, which emerged from a foundation of self-determination and a unified cultural identity. Inclusion of robust dispute-resolution mechanisms in co-management arrangements as a means to navigate inevitable conflicts is imperative (Ostrom 2009). An effective mediation process to resolve disputes, rather than a decision imposed by a single authority, appears to be better aligned with a relationship of co-existence than with one of assimilation. Resolving disputes through legal action will likely continue to play a role in helping to validate legal rights from which to re-establish human-plant relationships throughout Indigenous territories in British Columbia and beyond – but, ideally, litigation will not be the primary solution.

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conclusion Indigenous peoples’ extensive relationships with plants and plant habitats have been consistently, sometimes violently, disrupted in British Columbia over the past 150 years. By acknowledging and understanding the racist biases embedded within cherished concepts such as sovereignty, private property, and capitalism, we can argue for shifting this worldview to accommodate different histories, differing ways of knowing the landscape and the species within it, and associated systems of rights to use and manage these resources. As legal arguments can carry us only so far, political negotiations need to be open to expanded concepts of rights, ownership, and resource management that go beyond the tenure systems of private property or centralized government. As dispute-resolution mechanisms are fundamental to these negotiations, legal action regarding Aboriginal and treaty rights will continue to be an effective buttress motivating these negotiations. Ideally, the recognition and understanding of Indigenous laws and traditions related to plant use in British Columbia and elsewhere will increasingly influence legal culture so that these issues can be deliberated in a truly intersocietal legal court. As suggested at the outset of this chapter, recognizing difference in a synchronous framework is one of Canada’s great strengths, but in the context and history of Indigenous-state relations, this is not a straightforward goal. The scholarship associated with Indigenous peoples’ plant use and plant management has tremendous potential to help inform the political space within which First Nations and public governments can creatively explore new relationships that address multiple sources of authority and management regarding single tracts of land and their diverse resources. These new relationships might take the form of nation-to-nation agreements, government-to-government (including provincial and municipal) co-management agreements, and informal arrangements between corporations, groups, or individuals. This space for negotiating co-management arrangements, however, must recognize as its foundation an informed historical and political perspective when attempting to build new, equitable relationships regarding Indigenous peoples’ plant use and plant management. Proactive acknowledgment of ancient authorities found in traditional ecological knowledge and wisdom, respect for legal obligations, and the support of strong political leaders will help Indigenous groups to push back against government standards or entrenched biases that exclude Indigenous ways of knowing and managing plants, plant habitats, and landscapes. The outcomes of these new connections could include the affirmation of Aboriginal rights and title as well as a pathway to decolonization of landscapes and to greater reconciliation between Indigenous peoples, settler communities, and native plants and plant habitats. Reimagining the conventional assumptions of

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sovereignty and political hierarchy within ancient human-plant-landscape relationships can take inspiration from many examples of successful and failed attempts at reconciliation. In turn, the cultivation of diverse, contemporary human-plant relationships can contribute to the discourse on cultural resurgence, traditional ecological knowledge, management of common-pool resources, and joint exclusivity, helping these tools to support a workable shared future for resource use and management in Canada.

notes 1 Throughout this chapter, I refer to First Nations and Indigenous peoples who reside in the geographic context of the Pacific Northwest of North America, focusing on the province of British Columbia. 2 In this chapter, I refer to the federal, provincial, and local governments collectively as public governments. 3 With the publication of Leviathan in 1651, Hobbes set out a modern governance system that would lead England out of the brutal and divisive violence of an internal civil war (Shaw 2008, 30–4). 4 Shaw (2008) reveals that this transformation was piloted by the production of sovereignty, whereby Indigenous peoples were first marginalized by creating a unifying sovereign British identity through which Indigenous peoples were cast by Hobbes as outside of sovereignty – the savage barbarians to stand as the antithesis of the civilized sovereign. Once they were cast into the “other”/outsider role, the authority of sovereignty could be asserted to create these colonial places where the policies of terra nullius were asserted, leaving Indigenous peoples with the stark choice to be either assimilated or defeated by an increasingly powerful British military. 5 Even the few treaties that were signed in British Columbia by Sir James Douglas are generally viewed as peace and friendship treaties that did not contain land or resource transfers (Borrows and Rotman 2012, 402–4; Vallance 2016). 6 As Polanyi (1944, 37) describes, “The lords and nobles were upsetting the social order, breaking down ancient law and custom, sometimes by means of violence, often by pressure and intimidation. They were literally robbing the poor of their share in the common, tearing down the houses which, by the hitherto unbreakable force of custom, the poor had long regarded as theirs and their heirs’. The fabric of society was being disrupted.” 7 Casualization is a process whereby employment shifts from a focus on full-time and permanent positions to casual and contract positions. The preponderance of short-term contracts is a defining principle of neoliberalism (Harvey 2005). 8 Information was developed and assessed through inventories of cultural heritage sites, traditional-use studies, and land-use and occupancy studies. 9 The discourse on neocolonial appropriation is informatively laid out in the riveting scholarly debate set in motion with the publication of Sheperd Krech’s The Ecological Indian: Myth and History (2000) (see also Krech 2005; Nadasdy 2005). 10 This requirement for the paramountcy of Crown authority is why newer “national parks” in British Columbia, such as the one in the southern Gulf Islands, will continue to be

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22 “Passing It On”: Renewal of Indigenous Plant Knowledge Systems and Indigenous Approaches to Education Leigh Joseph (Styawat) introduction This volume emphasizes the importance and relevance of Indigenous peoples’ knowledge of their homelands and the plants and animals upon which they depend. This knowledge – learned by children through observation, participation, and instruction – is critically important. This learning continues through a lifetime of activities and relationships developed on, and with, the land and water. For generations, Indigenous peoples were told that their culture, language, and ways of life were wrong. Children were removed from their homes and communities, and many faced atrocities no child should ever face. It was illegal for people to practise their culture, and those who resisted faced incarceration or large fines. Much of the knowledge and wisdom related to environmental stewardship and to looking after the land was severely interrupted, or “put to sleep,” as some have expressed it. Indigenous children grew up with little access to the richness of their ancestral knowledge and practices (Truth and Reconciliation Commission 2015). Yet, recently, there has been a renewal of this critically important knowledge within Indigenous communities. This renewal has been increasingly recognized and welcomed both within and alongside formal educational institutions of Canada, with the Indigenous Studies programs at the University of British Columbia and the University of Victoria being great examples. Within this history of suppression and growing knowledge renewal, I have had the experience of walking in two worlds. The first world is that of my Indigenous family and community, and the other is the world of academic studies,

through which I have gained experience through my degrees, research, and teaching. Styawat is my ancestral name. I am a member of the Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish First Nations), and I am currently pursuing doctoral studies with a focus on ethnobotany and ethnobiology. In this chapter, I offer my experiences, along with my growing understanding of the importance of Indigenous knowledge systems and their role in creating a foundation for cultural renewal. It is important to start by acknowledging the history of suppression of this knowledge. Through stories and examples of my involvement in the area of cultural knowledge renewal, I provide an Indigenous perspective on this time of revitalization. I draw on examples of culturally rooted research and educational programs and explore ways to integrate academic research with applications of cultural environmental knowledge in meaningful ways. Finally, I discuss ways that the fields of ethnobotany and ethnoecology can move into the future and create a safe, supportive, and informed space where Indigenous and non-Indigenous students, researchers, and professors can continue working together to contribute to the knowledge renewal taking place. walkinG in two worlds: acadeMic exPeriences of an indiGenous ethnobioloGist My father, Chief Floyd Joseph (Skwatatxwamkin siýam), is Coast Salish, being descended from the Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish First Nations) on his father’s side and from the Snuneymuxw (Nanaimo First Nations) on his mother’s side. My mother grew up in North Vancouver and has English ancestry on her mother’s side and Sephardic Jewish ancestry on her father’s side. I grew up primarily with my Coast Salish heritage and teachings; however, I have always felt that I walk in two worlds. My father’s parents both attended residential school and came out deeply wounded by the experience. Despite that, they loved their culture. My grandmother, one of the sweetest and gentlest people I have known, lived with pain and loss, yet she loved fully. In her lifetime, she had the chance to heal herself by reconnecting to her culture, to the extent that she accepted her Squamish ancestral name, Quaw-iss-sult, toward the end of her life. This was a big step for her, as she had spent much of her life feeling afraid and ashamed of who she was and of the culture that she came from due to her experiences at residential school. I have spent much of my adult life thinking about the intergenerational effects of residential school on my family. Being the oldest of three children, I have early memories of my grandparents, whose home I visited on the Stawamus Reserve in Squamish, British Columbia. I have memories of spending time with the old people, elders who told stories of our territory and how we are connected to the land. These same elders had survived traumas that I did not know of yet “Passing It On” | 387

and that I would never know the likes of in my own childhood. I was given the chance to be a child and spent my early years learning from my parents and my extended family. My father wasn’t given this chance. He grew up all too fast as a result of being the eldest boy in a family of ten. He knew what it meant to find love in the rubble left behind by his parents’ residential school experience. My grandparents struggled with alcoholism, which led to times of domestic violence in their home, and my father was often the one to take a physical stand against his father, a man he loved and a man he fought. I’ve asked myself, “How did he reconcile himself to this upbringing? How does one sort out the tangle of emotions growing up in this kind of environment?” My father has worked hard in his life to address his own traumas and pain. He has overcome his own alcoholism and broken the cycle of violence. For these two incredible acts of love and strength, I will be forever grateful. I am coming to understand that I have a deep sadness within me when I think about my grandparents’ experiences and how they have affected my family. I find myself imagining how some members of my family would have been different if they hadn’t experienced such deep loss and trauma in their own lives. I imagine how they would carry themselves if their connection to the land and their knowledge of how to sustain themselves had not been taken from them. I think about what it might have been like if they had grown up feeling pride about their cultural knowledge and speaking their language without fear. It is my family, and the countless other families who are going through the process of healing from the impacts of colonization and residential schools, that I hold in my mind and in my heart as I write this and as I move forward in my work in the field of ethnobotany and cultural knowledge revitalization. an introduction to the ancestors I have been taught to introduce myself properly. Doing so means showing consideration for the people you are addressing but also for the ancestors who are ever present in the community and out on the land. I’ve been taught to explain where my family line comes from, to indicate who my parents and grandparents are, and to show respect for those who have walked before me. The belief that ancestors inhabit the natural spaces around us and walk with us promotes the kind of accountability you have when in the presence of a grandparent or someone else you respect, prompting you to do things in a good way. This practice also creates a deeper connection with place based on the knowledge that your family has walked the same estuaries, forests, and mountains since time before memory (Geniusz 2015; Joseph 2012; Kimmerer 2013; Simpson 2004; Turner 2014).

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This teaching of introducing yourself to the spirits is part of the cultural protocol when working with plants. I remember going out to harvest cedar bark for the first time with my Auntie Joy (Siyál Tenaat), who told me that we are never alone when we harvest because the ancestors are there beside us. For this reason, it is important to introduce yourself and to show your gratitude for the plants that are being harvested to clothe us, heal us, and keep us healthy, as they have done since time immemorial. Introducing oneself is an act of connecting to place. When I stop to find the few words of introduction that I know in the Skwxwú7mesh snichim (Squamish language), I consider the ancestors who walked before and the generations yet to come. I consider the sound of the language and how the words mimic sounds on the landscape. Wind is a prominent feature in Squamish, and I’ve been told that many of our words sound like wind passing over the landscape. This act of self-introduction is a catalyst for reciprocity, as it reminds us to always offer something in return when we take something from the natural world for our own use. Our plants heal us. Often food plants are also considered medicines. When we take these plants into our bodies, they strengthen us and prevent illness, both physical and spiritual. The benefits of plants are derived from their consumption but also, importantly, from their gathering, their preparation, and one’s belief in the power of the plants (Geniusz 2015; Kimmerer 2013; Matthews 1955). The recovery of plant knowledge leads to the renewal of cultural relationships. Plants connect us to language, harvesting sites, stories, songs, and the rituals associated with particular plants. The restoration of a culturally important plant is not an isolated event. the role of education and what it Means to learn within coMMunity Our language wasn’t dying; it was put to sleep. This opportunity is our chance to wake it up. – Char George, past student, Squamish Nation Language Immersion Program, Simon Fraser University

Education occurs in different contexts depending on variables such as who is teaching you, when along your own journey the learning is taking place, and where you are learning. One may learn in a classroom, and one may also learn out on the land. One may learn from a professor, and one may learn from a grandparent or relative. More opportunities are emerging to honour both approaches to learning and education. Traditionally, family was responsible for teaching children the skills required not just to survive in their ancestral homeland but also to thrive. These skills were intimately connected to the place where children were raised,

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thus setting them up for successful and meaningful lives based on an education that instilled them with the pride of knowing that they were connected to their place (Corntassel and Bryce 2012; Kimmerer 2002, 2013; Simpson 2004). Indigenous education programs at all levels are creating opportunities for collaboration between cultural and contemporary education. Many Indigenous peoples are seeking the training required to hold positions as educators, researchers, and leaders within their own communities. Academic institutions are putting programs in place to collaborate with knowledge holders in Indigenous communities. These initiatives support the education of both Indigenous and non-Indigenous students. They create greater understanding and connection to place through the integration of traditional ecological knowledge both in the classroom and out on the land. The following sections discuss three examples of such programs. The Squamish Language Revitalization Program at Simon Fraser University

In 2016 the newly developed Squamish Nation Language Immersion Program at Simon Fraser University graduated its first class. This program is run through the First Nations Language Centre and the Department of Linguistics and is a collaboration with Kwi Awt Stelmexw, a Squamish-led nonprofit organization founded by a young community leader named Khelsilem. This program is a response to the dramatic decline in the number of speakers of the Squamish language over the past two centuries due to colonial impacts. The course is taught by Khelsilem and includes 1,000 classroom hours of immersion instruction over an eight-month period. Up to fifteen students per year will participate in this program, which aims to bring the number of Squamish-language speakers up from fewer than 9 fluent speakers in 2009 to at least 157 speakers by 2027. The language is the foundation for cultural resurgence and healing. Having the opportunity to learn the language offers connection to culture and place for the students as well as for the Squamish peoples as a whole. Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning, Northwest Territories

The Dechinta Bush University takes a unique approach to the academic experience and is dedicated to creating access to high-quality education, both academic and cultural, in the Far North. Dechinta is the Dene word for “bush.” Born out of the desire to have a university experience married with learning on the land, Dechinta, situated at Blachford Lake, Yellowknife, has been running land-based, university-accredited programs since 2010. The program originated as a collaboration between doctoral student Erin Freeland Ballantyne and the Akaitcho First Nations in Denendeh, the Dene name for the Northwest

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Territories. Dechinta is accessible only by floatplane, skidoo, or dog team, and the school offers semester courses and short courses, taught by knowledge holders from the local Dene community along with leading professors from the University of British Columbia and other Canadian universities. During a semester course at Dechinta, students gain an array of experiences and knowledge ranging from discussions of Dene political theory to checking fish lines, scraping moose hide, and gathering medicines from the land. This is a northern-led initiative and one that is building knowledge, capacity, and strength through a culture-based approach to education. Tr’ondek Hwech’in Teaching Farm

The Tr’ondek Hwech’in Teaching Farm is a collaboration between Tr’ondek Hwech’in First Nations, Yukon Research Centre, and Yukon College. Last year the farm celebrated the graduation of its second class of Indigenous students. During the course of their study at the farm, students learn a variety of farming skills through a combination of hands-on work and classroom teaching. The students gain skills required to increase food security within their communities. They learn from knowledge holders in the community, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous, about how to connect to the land through plant foods. The students also have opportunities to connect with, and contribute to, the spiritual side of working with plants. As of 2018 the farm was going into its third year of operation. I will be working with local Tr’ondek Hwech’in elders to design and deliver ethnobotanical sessions to the students. There is also a plan to start a traditional harvesting area for plant foods and medicines. This is an inspiring model of collaboration between an educational institution and a First Nations community. With this form of meaningful collaboration, the farm school is able to base its curriculum development on cultural teachings and at the same time support the Tr’ondek Hwech’in community in its work toward greater food security in the North. eMotion and sPirituality within education These examples, and numerous others, show the undeniable resurgence of cultural knowledge, practices, and pride that is taking place in Indigenous communities throughout North America and beyond. Much joy and a feeling of connection arise when contributing to the cultural resurgence that is taking place. Yet there are still many struggles and challenges for the Indigenous peoples involved in this resurgence. I mentioned the sadness that is surfacing for me at this point in my work. I’ve had to stop and pay attention to why these emotions are coming up. I think the best answer I have is that when we move forward with knowledge renewal

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and cultural revitalization, there is an inherent recognition of the reasons why we need to undergo these efforts in the first place. Generations of Indigenous peoples have experienced extreme levels of trauma, violence, and loss. The very foundations of their cultural, spiritual, economic, legal, and political knowledge systems were attacked with such vigour that people went into survival mode. And many didn’t survive. We, as Indigenous peoples, are still processing this experience. In the same breath, it is important to remember there were people who fought to hold on to parts of their culture by hiding their grandchildren from residential schools, practising their language behind locked doors in their own homes, and holding onto childhood memories of being out on the land with their family. Beloved by their community and by the land and ancestors, these people were warriors in their own right. They were activists, visionaries, and leaders. Many of these people lived complicated lives that were not untouched by the long tendrils of intergenerational trauma. These people recognized in their hearts and minds that cultural knowledge was absolutely crucial to the generations to come. The knowledge renewal that is taking place now is building on the remembered words, plant medicines, place names, spiritual practices, and more that these people fought for. As we move forward into a time when more Indigenous peoples will be pursuing academic study in the fields of ethnobotany and ethnoecology and related areas, we need to consider how to feed both the spirit and the minds of students and how to address the emotionality and the celebration of this work. This undertaking is not the sole responsibility of the professor or research supervisor. More often than not, there are family and community members who can offer this guidance and support to students. It is also important for the process of reconciliation that non-Indigenous students address the emotional side of this area of study and research so that they can move into their careers with greater understanding of the communities they will work with and greater empathy for community members. strenGth and healinG froM the Plants We thank the Creator for the plants that He gave us, and we always say, “I hope it heals anybody that uses it.” – Fanny Lindstrom, Tahltan First Nation

Through my time working with Squamish and other First Nations communities, I have witnessed a strong link between working with plants and healing. In this context, healing refers to gaining strength by connecting to the land, identity, language, community, and culture through traditional plant foods and medicines. This healing happens on a spiritual and emotional level as well as a physical one.

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One story that comes to mind is of a friend from the Tsartlip First Nation who was going through a very difficult time in her life. She was struggling to find peace and calm, and she turned to plants instinctively. She and her two babies headed out every day to the same area of forest near her house to collect medicines. She gathered Douglas-fir tips, salal berries, wild blackberries, and rosehips. Day-by-day that summer, she started to feel her feet on the ground more and her heart lifting. By the end of the summer, she had renewed her own strength and energy by turning to her ancient relationship with the land and with plants. There is no substitute for the act of harvesting a plant, learning where it grows, when it is ready for harvest, how is smells, looks and feels, and – most importantly in the case of plant foods – how it tastes. The flavour of fir tips, for example, is an ancient part of the palate that we have largely forgotten. Tasting these flavours is a wonderful experience when done in the context of renewing traditional plant knowledge and practice. I worked on an ethnobotanical book project with a number of Tahltan elders in Telegraph Creek and Dease Lake in northern British Columbia. In my discussions with these elders, they shared stories of their elders teaching them about the important plant medicines and foods in their territory. One elder, Roy Quock, who was ninety-six years old at the time of our interviews, recalled how he learned to use spruce pitch to heal wounds: “Us kids, we all learned how to use it . . . [T]hem old people, they never fail, eh, you know way back. They just knew what to do. That’s how we learn.” Another elder, Lucy Brown, spoke of the importance of sharing knowledge with the youth: “I never realized how much we have in our traditional land, and what our people used to live on, and how they used to treat their illness and infection. There wasn’t no doctor, no pills in those days. It’s important to teach the younger generation that . . . make sure it’s kept. You know, it’s very important.” During my interviews with Squamish community members for my master’s research, the following reflections were shared with me on the connection between healing and our traditional plants: I think more people are trying to go back to traditional foods. People are really interested in finding out more about the traditional foods and medicines and plants. With the way that the health of our community has been with diabetes and heart problems and arthritis, I think a lot of people are realizing that it has a lot to do with diet. Our bodies aren’t used to these new foods, and it’s causing all of these ailments. People that aren’t usually really interested in the culture or the history want to know about the food because they understand that the closer we can get back to our traditional diet, the healthier we’ll be. (Charlene Williams)

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I think [the traditional food] still had, what would you call it, the spirit? The spirit was still in the food, and it rejuvenated you, whereas now there’s nothing there anymore. The food that we get now is so polluted with vitamins and chemicals, and you’re getting all that in your system, and it’s tearing you down. We need to get our foods where they still have Mother Earth’s spirit in it. (Shirley Toman) The resurgence of cultural knowledge and practice related to traditional plants has a great capacity to facilitate healing. This area of knowledge does not exist in a vacuum. It is connected to all other areas of Indigenous knowledge renewal, including language and land-based stories, and it is connected to physical, spiritual, and emotional health (Geniusz 2015; Joseph 2012; Kimmerer 2013; Simpson 2004; Tuhiwai Smith 2012). case study: restoration of lHásem (FriTillaria CamsCHaTCensis) in the skwxwú 7 Mesh estuary The project for my master’s research focused on the ethnoecological restoration of an important root vegetable, lhásem, in the Squamish River Estuary (Joseph 2012) (see figures 22.1 and 22.2). Lhásem (northern riceroot, Fritillaria camschatcensis) is in the lily family (Liliaceae). It occurs around the rim of the North Pacific, from Japan and the Kamchatka Peninsula to the coast of Alaska and British Columbia and as far south as Oregon. It generally grows in coastal areas with high rainfall. It occurs most frequently in the upper regions of tidal estuaries but sometimes also grows in subalpine meadows (Sommargren 2008). Its bulb and surrounding rice-like bulblets have been an important food for Indigenous peoples all along the Northwest Coast, as well as on the Asian side of the North Pacific (Kuhnlein and Turner 1991).1 My twofold purpose in undertaking this research on lhásem was to contribute to the revival and documentation of traditional foods in the Squamish First Nations and to lay the foundation for the restoration of a traditional root vegetable in an ecologically and culturally relevant way. In my thesis, I used ecological and ethnoecological methods to pursue four research objectives that all related to achieving a better understanding of lhásem and its place in the ecocultural world of the Squamish: 1 to describe the plant community composition and micro-environmental conditions at a reference site where lhásem populations are growing relatively undisturbed by intensive human industrial activities 2 to apply ecological and cultural parameters to the design and implementation of the first stages of an experimental estuarine garden site in the Squamish River Estuary in order to provide educational

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22.1 | Northern riceroot (Fritillaria camschatcensis).

opportunities for the Skwxwú7mesh community during the research project, as well as harvesting opportunities for lhásem in the long term 3 to document traditional cultural knowledge of the Squamish River Estuary, with an emphasis on knowledge and experience of lhásem harvesting, cultivation, and consumption 4 to document contemporary perspectives of elders, adults, and youth on the importance of traditional foods, such as lhásem, in order to inform future generations of Squamish people and future ethnoecological restoration projects The bulbs and bulblets of lhásem were cooked and eaten by almost all Northwest Coast First Peoples. Commonly found in estuarine habitats, they were harvested, usually when the plants were dormant, in spring or fall. The bulbs generally grow quite shallow in the soil, and they were typically harvested by

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22.2 | Bulbs and rice-like bulblets of northern riceroot (Fritillaria camschatcensis).

women using pointed digging sticks. The bulbs are rich in sugar and starch and were an important component of the traditional diets of many First Peoples. They were often served with a “grease” called ooligan, or eulachon, rendered from a small oily fish (Bouchard and Turner 1976; Kuhnlein and Turner 1991). In Squamish, lhásem was a highly regarded food plant and was harvested along both sides of the lower Squamish River. Due to the degree of ecological damage that the Squamish River Estuary has sustained, mostly from industrial development, it has been many years since Squamish people have been able to access and actively harvest lhásem. One of the last documented memories of doing so is Dr Louie Miranda Sr’s recollection of harvesting lhásem with his mother at the confluence of Pilchuck Creek and the Squamish River, recorded in an interview with Nancy J. Turner and Randy Bouchard in the mid-1970s (Bouchard and Turner 1976).

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The deep cultural connection to plants, such as lhásem, adds a layer of cultural relevance when aiming to restore a plant food that was utilized and valued historically by Squamish people. Traditional foods hold great cultural importance, which makes traditional foods and plant medicines an effective way to address diet-related health concerns in Indigenous communities in a culturally relevant way (Beckwith 2004; Cullis-Suzuki 2007; Dilbone 2011; Joseph 2012; Kuhnlein et al. 2013; Lloyd 2011; Pukonen 2008). For many Indigenous people, plants serve as a kind of cultural interface between spirituality and physical health. Plants offer nutrition, medicine, shelter, spiritual protection, spiritual awakening, and more (Bouchard and Turner 1976; Deur and Turner 2005; Garibaldi and Turner 2004; Lantz 2001; Nazarea 2006; Pukonen 2008; Thompson 2004; Turner 1988, 2005, 2014; Turner et al. 2008). In many cultures, there are teachings and protocols for harvesting plants for food and medicine to ensure that the plants are respected and will continue to provide for the people (Deur and Turner 2005; Turner 2005; Turner, Ignace, and Ignace 2000; Turner and Turner 2007; Turner et al. 2008). My father, Chief Floyd Joseph, explains, “Our people look after what we take, we don’t take too much, we leave something, we don’t go back to that same place, and we go gather elsewhere. All the harvesting is done to take what you need and not take everything. You need to leave something for other people and leave something so that the plant can continue to live. You’ve got to take care of those things.” What I found during the course of my research was that restoring lhásem populations created a powerful cultural foundation that all of the participants could use to connect to the broader issue of health and well-being. Interviews with a range of participants showed that focusing on lhásem as a flagship traditional food species was an effective way to build general awareness of the link between traditional diet and health. This foundation also provided a vehicle to discuss a number of broader issues, including cultural connections to food, knowledge renewal, and the importance of youth involvement in restoration activities and educational activities that increase their awareness of the importance of the link between traditional foods and health. To better understand the ecological requirements of lhásem, I undertook an ecological survey in impacted eastern areas and less impacted western areas of the Squamish River Estuary. During my field surveys, I measured soil moisture, salinity, acidity, and prevalence of plant species. The analysis of the data collected during the ecological survey showed that salinity was the abiotic factor most strongly associated with lhásem presence or absence. My surveys suggested that lhásem abundance may be controlled by salinity and moisture thresholds, but further investigation is needed to clearly define the respective roles of these factors. Certain characteristics of lhásem make it an ideal candidate for restoration. In particular, each mature lhásem bulb is surrounded by many smaller bulblets,

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each capable of growing into a new plant, which makes this species very successful in reproducing vegetatively. It is possible for the plant population to be increased from its seeds as well as through a certain level of disturbance, provided by tilling, weeding, and replanting. This capacity for vegetative reproduction makes lhásem an ideal candidate for cultivation historically and for restoration today. Lhásem is a plant that caught the imagination of contemporary Squamish people, representing a link between traditional foods, physical health, and cultural renewal. During my research, I worked with colleagues and community members to establish lhásem in experimental and educational estuarine root gardens. Through learning how to cultivate and harvest lhásem, the Squamish people have been able to begin the restoration of an iconic plant food on the land and to renew knowledge about its use in the community. The community’s interest in this research was rooted in the broader context of renewing and re-establishing knowledge of culturally important plants with the ultimate aim of addressing diet-related health concerns as well as cultural identity. Our restoration efforts were based on the hope of eventually incorporating lhásem back into the Squamish diet. Prior to this project, lhásem had not been harvested in Squamish territory for over seventy years.2 Among the elders I interviewed, only a small number remembered hearing about the plant from family members, and only one elder recalled going out to harvest this plant with family. The restoration of lhásem in this project created significant opportunities for Squamish people, from elders to children and youth, to become familiar with this plant again in a variety of ways, including how to identify it at different stages of its lifecycle, how it was eaten by their ancestors, and how to tend to the gardens where it grows in order to promote its growth and potentially increase its populations to a point where this root vegetable might be eaten again by numbers of people, along with other healthy traditional foods. Over the years since the initial restoration project took place, the community has been developing its knowledge and ongoing restoration of this plant. In 2017 we harvested lhásem for the first time and added it to a seafood soup at the first annual Skwxwú7mesh Traditional Plant Foods and Medicines Celebration. We harvested only a small amount, as this species still needs to be restored to a larger population, but even a couple of handfuls of the bulbs being incorporated into the feast was a powerful way for people in the community to connect with lhásem again. Along with the restoration of lhásem comes renewed knowledge of the traditional technology used in harvesting, increased understanding of the traditional management of estuary root gardens, a different idea of healthy carbohydrates in our traditional diet, and a new understanding of how our ancestors interacted with the land.

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lookinG to the future As an Indigenous person and doctoral student, I have experienced how academia can lead me home culturally. There is a responsibility as an Indigenous student to come home and contribute to one’s community. The way that I have done this is through my studies in ethnobotany and ethnoecology. My academic experiences have opened a door within community for me. There are many Indigenous communities that are ready to incorporate the healing and strength that traditional plants offer. From the first steps of learning how to identify a plant to the pride that comes from harvesting, preparing, and utilizing a plant food or medicine, there are healing opportunities to be had. We are in a time when Indigenous peoples are choosing to take both academic and cultural approaches to education and cultural empowerment. It is crucial to consider how to bring together cultural and academic education in meaningful ways in order to support and strengthen the opportunities for more Indigenous students to pursue their studies in this holistic way. By marrying the lived experiences of learning on the land with the tools and knowledge that come from academic research, students can honour the fact that Indigenous knowledge is a lived knowledge. One cannot separate Indigenous knowledge from experiences on the land. I intend to continue working to strike a balance between my cultural education and my academic research so that I can apply both to my teaching.

notes 1 The genus Fritillaria consists of approximately 100 species of erect, herbaceous plants grown from perennial bulbs or corms and distributed across the Northern Hemisphere. Seventeen of these species are native to North America, with three occurring in western Canada: northern riceroot, chocolate lily (F. affinis), and yellowbell (F. pudica) (Marchant 1981). 2 This estimate is based on approximations of contemporary elders who remember their own parents and grandparents harvesting lhásem, as supported by written documentation (Bouchard and Turner 1976; Matthews 1955).

references Beckwith, B.R. 2004. “‘The Queen Root of This Clime’: Ethnoecological Investigations of Blue Camas (Camassia leichtlinii (Baker) Wats., C. quamash (Pursh) Green; Liliaceae) and Its Landscapes on Southern Vancouver Island, British Columbia.” PhD diss., University of Victoria. Bouchard, R., and N.J. Turner. 1976. Ethnobotany of the Squamish Indian People of British Columbia. Victoria: British Columbia Indian Language Project.

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Corntassel, J., and C. Bryce. 2012. “Practicing Sustainable Self-Determination: Indigenous Approaches to Cultural Revitalization and Restoration.” Brown Journal of World Affairs 18, no. 2: 151–62. Cullis-Suzuki, S. 2007. “Tending the Meadows of the Sea: Traditional Kwakwaka’wakw Harvesting of Ts’áts’ayem (Zostera marina L.; Zosteraceae).” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Deur, D., and N.J. Turner, eds. 2005. Keeping It Living: Traditions of Plant Use and Cultivation on the Northwest Coast of North America. Seattle: University of Washington Press; Vancouver: UBC Press. Dilbone, M. 2011. “The Nutritious Springtime Candy of People and Animals in British Columbia: Lodgepole Pine Cambium (Pinus contorta Douglas ex Louden var. latifolia Engelm. ex S. Watson).” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Garibaldi, A., and N.J. Turner. 2004. “Cultural Keystone Species: Implications for Ecological Conservation and Restoration.” Ecology and Society 9, no. 3, art. 1. https://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol9/iss3/art1/. Geniusz, M.S. 2015. Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have to Do Is Ask: Anishinaabe Botanical Teachings. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hill-Tout, C. 1978. The Salish People: The Local Contribution of Charles Hill-Tout. Vol. 2, The Squamish and Lillooet. Ed. Ralph Maud. Vancouver: Talon Books. Joseph, L. 2012. “Finding Our Roots: Ethnoecological Restoration of Lhásem (Fritillaria camschatcensis (L.) Ker-Gawl), an Iconic Plant Food in the Squamish River Estuary, British Columbia.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Kimmerer, R.W. 2002. “Weaving Traditional Ecological Knowledge into Biological Education: A Call to Action.” BioScience 52, no. 5: 432–8. – 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed. Kuhnlein, H.V., B. Erasmus, D. Spigelski, and B. Burlingame, eds. 2013. Indigenous Peoples’ Food Systems for Health: Interventions for Health Promotion and Policy. Montreal: Centre for Indigenous Peoples’ Nutrition and Environment, McGill University; Rome, Italy: Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Kuhnlein, H.V., and N.J. Turner. 1991. Traditional Plant Foods of Canadian Indigenous Peoples: Nutrition, Botany and Use. Philadelphia: Gordon and Breach Science Publishers. Lantz, T.C. 2001. “The Population Ecology and Ethnobotany of Devil’s Club (Oplopanax horridus (Sm.) Torr. & A. Gray ex. Miq.; Araliaceae).” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Lloyd, A.T. 2011. “Cultivating the Tekkillak, the Ethnoecology of Pacific Silverweed or Cinquefoil [Argentina egedii (Wormsk.) Rydb.; Rosaceae]: Lessons from Kwaxsistalla, Clan Chief Adam Dick, of the Qawadiliqalla Clan of the Dzawadaēnuxw of Kingcome Inlet (Kwakwaka’wakw).” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Marchant, C.J. 1981. “The Genus Fritillaria in British Columbia.” Davidsonia 12, no. 1: 18–25. Matthews, J.S. 1955. Conversations with Khahtsahlano, 1932–1954. Vancouver: City Hall Press. Nazarea, V.D. 2006. “Local Knowledge and Memory in Biodiversity Conservation.” Annual Review of Anthropology 35: 317–35. Pukonen, J. 2008. “The λ’aayaʕas Project: Revitalizing Traditional Nuu-chah-nulth Root Gardens in Ahousaht, British Columbia.” MSc thesis, University of Victoria. Simpson, L. 2004. “Anticolonial Strategies for the Recovery and Maintenance of Indigenous Knowledge.” American Indian Quarterly 28, nos 3–4: 373–84. Sommargren, A. 2008. “The Ecology of Black Lily (Fritillaria camschatcensis) in the Pacific Northwest.” MSc thesis, University of Washington, Seattle.

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Thompson, J. 2004. “Gitga’at Plant Project: The Intergenerational Transmission of Traditional Ecological Knowledge Using School Science Curricula.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Tuhiwai Smith, L. 2012. Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples. 2nd ed. London and New York: Zed Books. Turner, N.J. 1988. “‘The Importance of a Rose’: Evaluating the Cultural Significance of Plants in Thompson and Lillooet Interior Salish.” American Anthropologist 90, no. 2: 272–90. – 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre; Seattle: University of Washington Press. – 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., R. Gregory, C. Brooks, L. Failing, and T. Satterfield. 2008. “From Invisibility to Transparency: Identifying the Implications.” Ecology and Society 13, no. 2, art. 7. https://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol13/iss2/art7/. Turner, N.J., M.B. Ignace, and R. Ignace. 2000. “Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Wisdom of Aboriginal Peoples in British Columbia.” Ecological Applications 10, no. 5: 1275–87. Turner, N.J., and K.L. Turner. 2007. “Traditional Food Systems, Erosion and Renewal in Northwestern North America.” Indian Journal of Traditional Knowledge 6, no. 1: 57–68.

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23 On Resurgence and Transformative Reconciliation James Tully

introduction On the last day of the symposium that led to this volume, Chief Gordon Planes of the T’Sou-ke First Nation invited us onto his territory. I was asked to speak about reconciliation and resurgence. This request gave me the opportunity to discuss these two concepts in the specific context of the T’Sou-ke First Nation and other First Nations on the Northwest Coast. This chapter is the result of those discussions. It is part of a larger exercise to move away from theoretical debates and to contextualize reconciliation and resurgence and the responsibilities they entail for non-Indigenous participants and citizens (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Tully 2018a). I thank Chief Gordon Planes for welcoming us onto T’Sou-ke territory and for hosting our gathering. As we were guests of the T’Sou-ke Nation, our responsibility was to reciprocate by being “good guests” and by sharing our knowledge with him in reciprocity. The protocols for this kind of exchange are recorded in the oral traditions of the Douglas Treaties and of the Te’mexw Treaty Association today. They are also set out in the Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial of 1910, discussed below. These protocols guide activities of resurgence and reconciliation for many First Nations of the Northwest Coast and beyond. The T’Sou-ke Nation, under the guidance of Chief Planes, is a leader in sustainable ways of life and ecological economics. Its members are achieving selfsufficiency in energy and food, as well as considerable economic self-reliance. They have energy projects for solar, wind, and wave power. Their food sovereignty enterprises of growing wasabi seedlings and oyster farming, along with their other forms of intertidal regenerative plant and animal usage, are also leading initiatives (T’Sou-ke First Nation 2017).

This transition to an ecosocially sustainable way of life is a concrete example of Indigenous resurgence and reconciliation. It is part of the global movement of “closing the circle,” as Barry Commoner (1971) called it fifty years ago. As the Indigenous Peoples’ Working Group on Climate Change explains, it consists of reconnecting with and regenerating the life-sustaining ecosocial relationships, networks, and cycles that co-sustain all life on the living earth – Mother Earth or Gaia (Grossman and Parker 2012). These practices by the T’Sou-ke and other First Nations on the Northwest Coast can be seen as sharing a well-known and traditional way of enacting resurgence and reconciliation. It is the way of living with each other and with the living earth that is taught in the Raven stories of the Northwest Coast (Boas 1916). It also underlies the protocols of the Douglas Treaties, the Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial, the Royal Proclamation of 1763, the Treaty of Niagara of 1764 (Borrows 1998; Mills 2017), and the Kaswentha, or Two Row Wampum Treaty (Alfred 2009, 266, 277). Furthermore, this Indigenous way of living both with each other individually and collectively and with the living earth is expressed in different ways in many Indigenous legal traditions throughout what is now called Canada (Borrows 2010, 2015). Moreover, it is the way of reconciliation that was presented on the opening day of the symposium in the Kwakwaka’wakw mask dance called Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) (see Benediction, this volume). As portrayed by the dancers, the forest spirits collectively represented the resilient spirit of life itself, a power that reconciles wayward human beings with each other and with their more-than-human relatives in sustainable relationships and cycles. I am just a student of this way of resurgence and reconciliation, with limited knowledge. I apologize beforehand for the mistakes I make in discussing it. I am indebted to many wise elders and students for my limited knowledge, especially Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) (2004, 2011), who was also an advisor on the organization of the symposium. For the reasons I now attempt to explicate, this approach to resurgence and reconciliation is called the gift-gratitude-reciprocity way, or the gift-reciprocity way for short. transforMative reconciliation and resurGence The first feature of gift-reciprocity reconciliation is that it is genuinely transformative. Participation in practices of reconciliation with each other and the living earth transforms the current, destructive relationships between the partners and, in so doing, changes the mode of being of the partners themselves. They realize their interdependency, become friends, and cooperate together in co-sustaining ways, as the “Spirits of the Forest” dance illustrates. That is, it does not “reconcile” the human and more-than-human partners to the existing status quo but instead transforms the status quo. It transforms the existing,

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dominative, and exploitive power-over-others relationship between partners into a power-with-and-for-each-other relationship of peace, friendship, and mutual sustainment. Why is such a radical transformation of the status quo necessary? The answer is that the partners are currently in a relationship that is systemically vicious. It is dominative and exploitive, and the habitual ways of interacting within it generate increasingly dominative and exploitive cycles. If it is not transformed, it becomes unsustainable and ultimately self-destructive. As renowned Haida artist Robert Davidson (2004, 36) puts it in telling a Raven story, some or most partners become vicious or “voracious.” They take the gift of food and sustenance from others without reciprocating and thus establish a dominative and exploitive gift-nonreciprocity relationship. A similar language of virtuous (cosustaining) and vicious (nonreciprocal and unsustainable) relationships and cycles is used to describe our local and global predicament in earth systems theory (Capra and Luisi 2015; Harding 2013). In Atla’gimma the dancers depicted this predicament by acting out the story of a young man who was viciously taking all the grouse and other animals and plants for himself without thinking of others or of the sustainability conditions of the grouse family. Nancy J. Turner (2005) describes this predicament as the vicious partner taking from his kin without taking care of his kin and future generations. In so doing, he violates the sustainability norms of the Northwest Coast kincentric view of the living earth and all its members. The difficult role of practices of genuine reconciliation is thus to transform the learned behaviour of the vicious partner, whose habitual ways of acting reproduce vicious ecosocial systems, into virtuous ways of acting. This virtuous conduct, in turn, regenerates virtuous relationships and cycles (ecosocial systems) that co-sustain the well-being of community members and the systems as a whole. “Virtuous” relationships and cycles of life are co-sustaining rather than co-destroying (Turner and Mathews 2019). In the life sciences, these virtuous relationships are called symbiotic, symbiogenetic, or sympoietic. Here again, there is a recent and revolutionary convergence of Indigenous traditional ecological knowledge and wisdom with Western life sciences (Kimmerer 2013). The chapters in this volume concur. Humans are caught up in complex and vicious social relationships among themselves, of which settler-Indigenous relations involving the dispossession, colonization, and exploitation of Indigenous peoples and their territories are of fundamental importance (social injustice). The predominant ecosocial relationships to plants, animals, ecosystems, the atmosphere, oceans, and soil (the ecosphere) are equally vicious (ecological injustice). According to the Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial, these vicious ecosocial systems became dominant on the Northwest Coast with the second wave of settlers after 1858. They now comprise a complex global assemblage of the vicious ecosocial systems of industrial modernization (Heinberg and Lerch 2010).

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Vicious social systems are internally connected to vicious ecological extractive systems because, as Atleo (2004) explains, all forms of life, human and nonhuman, are interdependent. The earth does not belong to humans as their property, private or collective. Rather, human beings, like the members of every species, belong to the living earth as its citizens and have civic responsibilities to sustain the lifecycles of its more-than-human inhabitants as a condition of sustaining their own (see also Capra 2002). What follows from this interdependency is the fact that it is not possible to transform the colonial relationship over Indigenous peoples without also transforming the dominative and exploitive relationship over the living earth that is the cause of climate change, global inequality, the sixth mass extinction, and escalating cycles of conflicts and wars over nonrenewable and scarce renewable resources. That is, because it is the living earth that sustains all life, we cannot reconcile our relations with each other as long as we are participating in and reproducing unsustainable and destructive relationships with the living earth. That is why both projects of reconciliation – social and ecological – have to be carried out at the same time and have to transform both dimensions of the vicious ecosocial systems we inhabit. Practices of reconciliation are doomed to failure if they attempt to change Indigenous-settler relations without dismantling the vicious economic relations or if they attempt to change the global economic systems without addressing the exercise of colonial power over Indigenous peoples worldwide. Doing so would be like the human dancers in the “Spirits of the Forest” dance trying to reconcile themselves to the presence of the vicious young man in their midst while ignoring his unsustainable relationship with the plant and animal dancers (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018). Yet this is unfortunately the approach offered in British Columbia and elsewhere in Canada by mainstream models of Indigenous-settler reconciliation, with their “business as usual” imperative. This acceptance of the status quo has given rise to the widespread criticism and rejection of reconciliation and a turn to resurgence without reconciliation. However, if the Indigenous and life sciences worldview is correct to emphasize the interdependency and co-sustainability of all lifeforms – being is being-with – then Indigenous and non-Indigenous partners need to find ways to combine practices of resurgence, such as those of the T’Sou-ke First Nation, with practices aimed at reconciliation between interdependent non-Indigenous and nonhuman partners if both approaches are to be transformative and successful – and thus virtuous. the Gift-reciProcity way of transforMation If this analysis is an approximately accurate description of our predicament, the great question is What is the way of transformative resurgence and reconciliation? Traditional ecological knowledge and wisdom and Western life and earth

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sciences both converge on the same answer. They both suggest that we should look to the living earth and ask how species and ecosystems recover and regenerate themselves when some species act viciously – that is, when they take the gifts of life without reciprocating carefully and overreach the sustainability conditions of the species and ecosystems on which they depend, thus destroying them and gradually destroying themselves unless they are transformed. The answer is that nutrients, fungi, plants, and animals respond by continuing to interact co-sustainably, gradually building new relations of mutual aid, symbioses, and symbiogenesis in what is referred to as ecological succession. Think, for example, of how a clear-cut forest recovers and regenerates, as explained to me by Michael Simpson (2017): Living systems do not only reproduce themselves; their very life processes nourish their habitat and strengthen the conditions of life around them. They thereby create an organism that is larger than themselves or their individual species. When a forest is growing back from a disturbance, herbaceous (nonwoody) plants are the first to move in. These plants exude sugars that attract bacteria around their roots. The bacteria in turn exude an alkaline “bioslime” that creates a favourable habitat for themselves as well as for the pioneer plant species. The alkaline condition of the bioslime also allows the bacteria to break down ammonia in the soil into nitrates that are taken up by plants, allowing them to grow vegetatively. This cycle of life creating the conditions for more life continues as the forest gradually grows into a rich, biodiverse ecosystem (ecological succession). Living systems are not only self-regulating, but they are relational in so far as they build the conditions of life around them. These life-regenerating practices and cycles are called self-remediation, sympoiesis, homeotelic transformation, and so on (Margulis 2001). But basically, life regenerates life by being the very change it wishes to bring about – that is, by a mutually co-sustaining way of life among lifeforms. Indigenous people learn this lesson from attending to Mother Earth and her earth teachings and through trial and error over generations of interacting with their ecosystems and each other accordingly (Kimmerer 2013). In many Indigenous languages, the word for education has its root in “looking to nature” and “learning from nature” (Borrows 2018; Mills 2016). Lately, this has come to be called “biomimicry” in the life sciences. However, long before that, Indigenous peoples of the Northwest Coast referred to the way that life sustains and regenerates itself as the “gift-reciprocity way” of living together. They have built and regenerated their relations with the living earth and with their neighbours by acting in the same way in their social relations for over 15,000 years. Even treaty relation-

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ships with settlers are seen as gift-reciprocity relationships modelled on the gift-reciprocity relationships among plants and animals, rivers and ecosystems, and intertidal zones and marine animals. The potlatch system of governance throughout the Northwest region is the best known example of this Indigenous way of transforming conflictual relationships and re-establishing reciprocal relationships of mutual sustainment (Hénaff 2010, 101–56). According to this view, the way to transform vicious relationships is to be the change by acting virtuously with all our interdependent relatives, both human and more-than-human, in everything we say and do and by always acting in ways that not only sustain ourselves but also co-sustain the ways of life of all our affected, interdependent relatives. When living beings interact according to the gift-reciprocity way in every step they take, their immediate neighbours are slowly moved to reciprocate in kind. These small sustainable relationships and cycles begin to expand within a community of practice and reach a tipping point that transforms the local vicious actors – often because the virtuous partners are no longer dependent on the vicious ones. This outcome shows the power of noncooperation and local resurgence by means of local gift-reciprocity relationships of reconciliation. These local communities grow in turn and gradually transform larger vicious systems, and so on, slowly bringing about transformative systemic change and reconciliation. In these complex ways, colonial, extractive, linear, developmental systems can be gradually hollowed out by noncooperation and resurgence, those subject to them can be encouraged to change their ways by various forms of protest and persuasion, and the systems can be replaced by expanding circles of gift-reciprocity ecosocial relationships that are noncolonial, regenerative rather than extractive, based on cyclical economics, and so on. It seems to me that this outcome is what the T’Sou-ke Nation is achieving through its treaty relations and through its regenerative economic and ecological practices. Such conduct is also modelled by the “Spirits of the Forest” dance. The virtuous plants, animals, and humans do not attack the vicious young man with counter-violence and domination. They do not call on some central authority to make the change for them. Although it is often said that Raven brings the light, this light is always the transformative power of cooperating with each other (power-with) to overcome nonreciprocating actors. Accordingly, the dancers withdraw their submissive support from the vicious partner and surround him with their proactive, gift-reciprocity way of life until he sees the light and joins them, to his mutual benefit. You do not defeat vicious actors, or the vicious dispositions in all of us, by playing their game of violence, domination, and exploitation in retaliation. You win them over by playing another game altogether: the transformative gift-reciprocity game of nonviolent powerwith-and-for each other.

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This transformative dialectic of resurgence and reconciliation requires careful and pragmatic planning that is context-dependent. For Indigenous peoples to enter into negotiations that can be genuinely transformative, they require self-reliance and self-determination. These powers are essential to the work of resurgence. However, resurgence often requires good, mutual relationships of preliminary reconciliation with, and support of various kinds from, nonIndigenous partners who are also working on their ecosocial relationships. So webs of resurgent and reconciliatory relationships with each other and the living earth – with all our relatives, as Aaron Mills (2018, 152–8) puts it – need to be cultivated from the ground up as we move forward, one step at a time. This is a complex and difficult process of careful trial and error, yet it is the way that mutually sustaining communities have co-evolved for millennia (Sterelny 2012). the iMPortance of the Gift-reciProcity way of life In Resilience, Reciprocity and Ecological Economics, Indigenous economist Ronald Trosper (2009) demonstrates the superior resilience of the gift-reciprocity economies and governments of Northwest Coast Indigenous groups compared to the capitalist economy that was forcibly imposed on them. These gift-reciprocity systems sustained healthy communities through thick and thin. In contrast, the newcomers’ gift-nonreciprocation economy and government, in place for about 120 years, have decimated Indigenous peoples and their communities; depleted fish stocks, forests, and agricultural land; polluted rivers, lakes, and land; polluted and acidified the ocean; depleted nonrenewable resources; extracted renewable resources faster than they can renew themselves in their ecological relationships; contributed to climate change; created rates of inequality and poverty that are among the highest in Canada; undermined local self-reliance; and rendered the coast and interior dependent on equally rapacious trade, extractive development, and transportation from elsewhere. In this predicament, the gift-reciprocity way of resurgence and reconciliation is not some minor policy issue. It is the way of and to a sustainable future for this living ocean, earth, and home that Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples all share. Over her long and distinguished career, ethnobotanist Nancy J. Turner has worked with Indigenous people. She has shown how they have learned the giftreciprocity way of the natural world of the Northwest Coast and have designed their social systems in accordance with it so that they always support present and future generations. This volume is not only a testament to her scholarship and teaching but also an indication of the validity, practicality, and growth of knowledge and practice regarding the gift-reciprocity way of resurgence and reconciliation among Indigenous and non-Indigenous people today. This chapter is only one description of this phenomenon, from my limited perspective, to be compared and contrasted with the many other descriptions in other

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chapters in this volume in order to gain a sense of the integral whole. Davidson (1992, 9–10) describes it in the following exemplary way (see also Takeda 2015): We are now coming full circle, we are the fourth generation in which the white people have instilled their ideas and values, and denied our way of life, without any knowledge or concern of who we were and where we were coming from. It is our generation that is making the attempt to bridge the gap, to reclaim our identity, our cultural values, the philosophies developed by our ancestors for generations and generations. We are also making a great effort to reconnect with the land. The land is the very foundation of our culture. It is our homeland. We were born into it. We are the stewards: it is our right and responsibility to maintain, nurture and preserve it for the future. (Emphasis added) the laurier MeMorial I conclude with a brief discussion of the Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial of 1910. It is a description, from a concerted Indigenous perspective, of two kinds of relationship between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples and the living earth. These two kinds of relationship seem to me to describe exceptionally clearly the gift-reciprocity and gift-nonreciprocation ways of life. It shows that the gift-reciprocity way of resurgence and reconciliation with newcomers and the living earth has been at the centre of the “land question” in the Northwest since early contact. The Memorial to Sir Wilfrid Laurier, by Chief John Tetlenitsa (Nlaka’pamux), Chief Petit Louis (Secwépemc), and Chief John Chilahitsa (Syilx), is a written text presented orally to Sir Wilfrid Laurier, the prime minister of Canada, by the Chiefs of the Shuswap (Secwépemc), Okanagan (Syilx), and Couteau (Nlaka’pamux) Tribes on 25 October 1910. It had support from other Indigenous peoples of the Northwest and continues to figure prominently in the engagement of these Indigenous peoples and of the Interior Alliance of BC Indigenous Nations with the Governments of British Columbia and Canada, the Crown, and the governor general (Tetlenitsa, Louis, and Chilahitsa 1910; see also Ignace and Ignace 2017; chapter 8, this volume). As the chiefs explain, the document is based on their peoples’ observation of and attempts to understand the behaviour of the whites (colonists) who have been coming into to their “country” throughout the previous 100 years – that is, since 1811, when the colonists erected the first trading post near Kamloops. Their interpretation and understanding of the behaviour of the white colonists is that they fall into two distinct types: those who came before 1858 (the “real whites”) and those who came after 1858 (the “other whites”). The crucial feature of the chiefs’ explication is that it does not primarily regard the written

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words (literal meaning) of the white colonists but regards their behaviour – their lifeways and earthways – in the Northwest (participatory meaning) from the perspective of the Indigenous peoples’ own lifeways and earthways. My objective as a non-Indigenous person in the Northwest who is trying to become what the chiefs call a “good guest” is to learn from their memorial to Laurier by trying to explicate the main differences between these two kinds of relationship as the Secwépemc (Shuswap), Syilx (Okanagan), and Nlaka’pamux (Thompson or Couteau) understand them; to present some possible reasons for these differences; and to ask what the stakes are for us today in a globalized world deeply subject to the social system that the chiefs call the system of the post-1858 “other whites.” The chiefs greet Sir Wilfrid Laurier as a French Canadian and thus as a descendent of the “real whites” who came into their country before 1858, the majority having been French-speaking fur traders from Lower Canada. Here is how they describe the lifeways of the “real white” colonists: The real whites we found were good people. We could depend on their word, and we trusted and respected them. They did not interfere with us nor attempt to break up our tribal organizations, laws, customs. They did not try to force their conceptions of things on us to our harm. Nor did they stop us from catching fish, hunting, etc. They never tried to steal or appropriate our country, nor take our food and life from us. They acknowledged our ownership of the country, and treated our chiefs as men. The chiefs then explain how they greeted the “real whites”: We never asked them to come here, but nevertheless we treated them kindly and hospitably and helped them all we could. They had made themselves (as it were) our guests. We treated them as such, and then waited to see what they would do. As we found they did us no harm our friendship with them became lasting. (Emphasis added) Thus the Indigenous people treated the “real whites” as guests, and the “real whites” reciprocated by conducting themselves as guests should, thereby becoming true guests and thus friends. This way of being “guests” of Indigenous peoples by following their customs and ways in their country, including their ways of greeting newcomers, is another example of the the gift-reciprocity way. Notice that these good guests did not abandon their own civilization and go completely Native. Rather, they shared good features of their own Western, colonial heritage. They brought their language, customs, and ways with them. Yet they gave their hosts useful knowledge and technologies from Western

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culture in reciprocity for their hosts’ hospitality and Indigenous knowledge and technology. Franz Boas discovered these ubiquitous gift-reciprocity, intercultural trade practices while working and sharing with Tlingit ethnologist George Hunt on the Northwest Coast. He claimed members of different civilizations engaged in these sharing practices throughout human history. He called this the “diffusion thesis” and argued that the modern Western representation of cultures as separate and ranked hierarchically misrepresented the interactive world of thousands of cultures and gave Europeans a false sense of superiority. The major factor in the evolution of civilizations up to Western imperialism is not the triumph of the fittest over the less fit, as the Western view has it, but the diffusion of knowledge, techniques, and practices among civilizations (Boas 1911; Tully 2018b). Not only does this “welcoming” way of greeting the newcomers indicate that the Indigenous hosts would like the newcomers to reciprocate by becoming guests, entering into dialogue, and sharing knowledge and technology – that is, by forming gift-reciprocity relationships – but it also indicates that the hosts are not afraid of the newcomers. Rather, they are courageous in initially assuming that they can trust the newcomers. This is the way of the strong. What happens if you meet newcomers with a closed fist (violence) rather than a welcoming open hand (peace)? It shows that you are afraid of the others and not strong enough to uphold the welcoming ethic. This is the way of the weak. It also shows that you distrust the newcomers, which generates distrust and draws them into violence, thus begining a vicious cycle of violence and counter-violence. In contrast, welcoming the newcomers in a hospitable way tends to generate trust and draws them into acts of reciprocity (guestship), thus making virtuous cycles of “friendship” possible. As Indigenous peoples of the Northwest and historians of encounters argue, this is the way to begin to make peaceful relationships – the way to bring them into being and carry them forward – because this way is autotelic; it shapes the end. What are the Indigenous ways that the good guests respected? The chiefs explain their lifeways and the earthways in which these lifeways are woven. Indeed, they do not make a distinction between lifeways and earthways but instead describe the ways of their country as seamlessly ecological and social. They live in their communities not only in ways that sustain their members and the community as a whole but also in ways that sustain all the nonhuman lifeforms and their lifeways, which reciprocally co-sustain the Indigenous peoples. Moreover, all humans and more-than-humans live in ways that sustain the whole ecosocial system (Mother Earth), which reciprocally sustains it members. In this way of life, the chiefs say, “all the people had equal rights of access to everything they required”:

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When they first came among us there were only Indians here. They found the people of each tribe supreme in their own territory, and having tribal boundaries known and recognized by all. The country of each tribe was just the same as a very large farm or ranch (belonging to all the people of the tribe) from which they gathered their food and clothing, etc., fish which they got in plenty for food, grass and vegetation on which their horses grazed and the game lived, and much of which furnished materials for manufactures, etc., stone which furnished pipes, utensils, and tools, etc., trees which furnished firewood, material for houses and utensils, plants, roots, seeds, nuts and berries which grew abundantly and were gathered in their season just the same as crops on a ranch, and used for food; minerals, shells, etc., which were used for ornament and for plants, etc., water which was free to all. Thus, fire, water, food, clothing and all the necessaries of life were obtained in abundance from the lands of each tribe, and all the people had equal rights of access to everything they required. You will see the ranch of each tribe was the same as its life, and without it the people could not have lived. The crucial feature of this way of life is that it is not an arbitrary set of customs and laws that the “real whites” went along with. Rather, it replicates the lifeways of all the mutually and reciprocally co-sustaining lifeforms that comprise the chiefs’ living country. They describe this country as a big “ranch” so that Laurier will understand, and they emphasize this point in the crucial sentence that reads, “You will see the ranch of each tribe was the same as its life, and without it the people could not have lived.” When the “other whites” came into the chiefs’ country after 1858 – the year of the Fraser River Gold Rush – the Indigenous nations greeted them just as they had greeted the “real whites” earlier – that is, as “guests,” for this was their Indigenous way: “With us when a person enters our house he becomes our guest, and we must treat him hospitably as long as he shows no hostile intentions. And the same time we expect him to return to us equal treatment for what he receives.” They treated the newcomers according to the same gift-gratitudereciprocity ways that they treated each other and the nonhuman lifeforms that comprised their country, and they expected guests to do likewise – that is, to weave their lifeways into the broader systems and cycles of lifeways that sustain all forms of life in the Northwest. Rather than reciprocating, however, the “other whites” have taken the living land and “settled” on it. As the chiefs see it and name it, the other whites are “settlers” rather than “guests.” They are nonreciprocators. The chiefs describe the settlers as lying to them, making false promises, and taking advantage of their friendliness. The chiefs say that the settlers, having grown in strength, “treat us as subjects . . . force their laws on us . . . have broken down our old laws

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and customs,” and “drag us into their courts” rather than letting the Indigenous peoples work out their “[m]inor affairs amongst ourselves.” The settlers have “knocked down” and ignored the tribal boundaries, saying that “there are no lines, except what they make” with their laws and surveys. The settlers have divided people into rich and poor. The chiefs conclude, “They have taken possession of all the Indian country and claim it as their own . . . They have stolen our lands and everything on them and continue to use [the] same for their own purposes.” Here, the chiefs return to the central theme of the memorial: that their way of life is the same way of life as the lifeway of their country and thus a subsystem of it. They say that the stealing and settling on their land are “[j]ust the same as taking the ‘house’ or ‘ranch’ and, therefore, the life of every Indian tribe into their possession” (emphasis added). With this thick description of the two ways of acting in place, the chiefs go on to argue for treaty negotiations and reconciliation with the queen of England in the spirit of the gift-reciprocity relationship. To capture its gift-reciprocity spirit, this can be called a nation-with-nation treaty relationship (Asch 2014; Borrows 2018; Mills 2018). Now, I very briefly and schematically discuss the character formation that accounted for the good guests (“real whites”) responding in their reciprocal way to the Indigenous peoples’ hospitality and the character formation that accounted for the settlers (“other whites”) responding in their nonreciprocal way. This is a question about character formation or ethos. It is about ethical self-formation in its classic, nonmodern sense of the characteristic dispositions and comportment that Homo sapiens come to acquire through the activities in which they engage, as well as about their modes of meditation and reflection on them. In the case of the good guests, my hypothesis is the following. These fur traders came into tribal country on foot and by canoe, often with Indigenous people alongside them as guides and fellow canoeists. They thought nothing of travelling back and forth between Montreal and the Northwest every few years. They spoke mostly French, but they also learned an Indigenous language along the way, usually Cree. In addition, they learned the lingua franca of the Northwest, which was Chinook Jargon. The majority of them married Indigenous women, doing so under the laws and customs of the women’s nations: “the law of the country” or “mariage à la façon du pays.” And, of course, they traded for furs in accordance with Indigenous peoples’ customary gift-reciprocity way, or they would not have been considered good guests (Barman 2014). Given that they lived off the land with Indigenous people and given the evidence of their journals, I think it is fair to suggest that the fur traders came to appreciate, to some extent, that the customs and ways of the Shuswap, Okanagan, Couteau, and other nations they lived with were derived from the symbiotic earthways of these nations’ bioregions. This awareness came not just from

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observation but also from the wealth of stories they heard about the benefits of living in accordance with the ways of Mother Earth and about the consequences of viloating those ways. Take the example of James Douglas, a fur trader and the first governor of the Colony of Vancouver Island. Douglas’s father was Scottish and his mother was African. He travelled back and forth across Canada many times and spoke French, Cree, and Chinook Jargon. He married a Swampy Cree woman, Amelia, in 1828 under Cree law (wikihtowin). Amelia was the daughter of Miyo Nipiy (“beautiful leaf ”), who had also married a Scottish trader, William Connolly, under Cree law in 1803. These marriages under Indigenous law were recognized as valid by the highest court in Canada in 1867. Douglas spoke Cree and French to his wife. One of their daughters spoke Cree and published a book of Cree stories her mother had told her (Adams 2001). Douglas entered into fourteen treaties with First Peoples on Vancouver Island before 1858. The participatory meaning of the treaties for Douglas (and the First Peoples) was such that the colony purchased specific parcels of land for settlement of newcomers, with the rest of the relevant Indigenous people’s tribal land being reserved for them. If more settlers arrived, they had to lease land from the respective tribes, and 100 per cent of the lease money went to the tribe to be used to protect its “independence.” This commitment was violated as soon as Douglas retired. Settlers refused to pay their leases in Victoria. Douglas came out of retirement four times after 1858 to restate his understanding of the treaties, doing so in 1859, 1861, 1864, and 1874. In 1864 he stated that “all land the Indians claim is to go into the reserves.” He said the only reason he did not sign a treaty with the interior tribes was that Westminster did not give him enough money to purchase land. Moreover, he stipulated that settlement on reserve land by treaty had to be limited by the rule that at least 100 acres of land must be reserved for every Indigenous family forever in order to enable them to remain “independent” while in peaceful relations with their colonial neighbours. He also facilitated the move of 200 African American slaves from slave states in the United States to the Northwest so that they could live in freedom (British Columbia 1975; Cail 1974; Tully 2014). I think this kind of experiential character formation helps to explain why the pre-1858 whites entered comfortably into gift-reciprocity guest relationships. As the chiefs insightfully put it, “they had made themselves (as it were) our guests.” The behaviour of many post-1858 settlers is partly explicable in terms of their character formation. They came during the Fraser River Gold Rush or subsequent Cariboo Gold Rush. Many had gold fever and were land-hungry. The majority did not come overland but came by ship from San Francisco. They spoke English and refused to speak Indigenous languages for the most part. They disliked the Indians and the pre-1858 traders, whom they called half-breeds. They complained

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about Douglas and the “half-breeds” who dominated life at Fort Victoria. They thought of themselves as racially superior to Indigenous people and the French Canadians (see chapter 5, this volume). They reduced Douglas’s reserve rule of 100 acres per Indigenous family to 10 acres immediately after he retired. When the Gold Rush did not pan out for them, they applied the same acquisitive dispositions to the land of the Northwest. And this competitive-extractive ethos was characteristic of the broader “modern civilization” to which they belonged. There was, as the chiefs argue, a broad transition in this period from roughly equal mercantile trade among nations, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to the coercive imposition of capitalist property, labour, and market relations in the Northwest (Clayton 2000). This very different character formation explains their behaviour in response to the interior tribes’ hospitality. They had no or little experience of the Indigenous way of life and thus no understanding of it from within. They judged it from the outside and from their colonial settler perspective. This worldview portrayed Indigenous people as members of a primitive race at a much lower level in the so-called stages of development who were mentally and psychologically unable to cope with the pace and competitiveness of modern, civilized life. Boas (1911, 3–4) presented a classic portrayal of this worldview and then subjected it to a devastating critique (see also Tully 2018b): Proud of his wonderful achievements, civilized man looks down upon the humbler members of mankind. He has conquered the forces of nature and compelled them to serve him. He has transformed inhospitable forests into fertile fields. The mountain fastnesses are yielding their treasures to his demands. The fierce animals which are obstructing his progress are being exterminated, while others which are useful to him are made to increase a thousand-fold. The waves of the ocean carry him from land to land, and towering mountain-ranges set him no bounds. His genius has moulded inert matter into powerful machines which await a touch of his hand to serve his manifold demand. With pity he looks down upon those members of the human race who have not succeeded in subduing nature; who labor to eke a meagre existence out of the products of the wilderness; who hear with trembling the roar of the wild animals, and see the products of their toils destroyed by them; who remain restricted by oceans, rivers or mountains; who strive to obtain the necessities of life with the help of few and simple instruments. Such is the contrast that presents itself to the observer. What wonder if civilized man considers himself a being of higher order as compared to primitive man, if he claims that the white race represents a type higher than all the others!

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From within this worldview, one civilization has power-over and knowledge-over the living earth and other civilizations, and one is subject to and ignorant of the ways of the civilized masters of humankind and the earth. There is no place for power-with, knowledge-with, and learning-with others, the essence of the giftreciprocity relationship. conclusion This modernist worldview and the social systems it legitimates have been spread around the world by Western imperialism under the names of civilization, modernization, globalization, and the clash of civilizations, with only regulative modifications to its constitutive features (Dilworth 2010; Tully 2009). Although it is not possible to recreate a pre-1858 world, it is possible to learn from that world. It is possible to become aware of the predominance of the modernist worldview and the destructive social systems it has engendered, in which we are entangled, to free ourselves from them to some extent in thought and action, and to interact with each other and the living earth in the gift-reciprocity way. If I am not mistaken, in doing so, we are engaging in resurgence and reconciliation as they have been practised for millennia on the Northwest Coast and in other parts of Canada, as they are recommended in the Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial, and as they are continued today by the T’Sou-ke and other First Nations and their non-Indigenous partners. As we have seen, complementary ways of life are recommended by some of the leading earth and life scientists of our time. And Indigenous and non-Indigenous academics are working together to create community-based research in accordance with the gift-reciprocity way (Noble 2018; Starblanket and Stark 2018; Tully 2018a). These initiatives seem to constitute good reasons to expand gift-reciprocity activities and research projects, illustrated in this volume, that stand in relationships of reciprocal learning and support with their community-based partners. acknowledGMents My thanks to the following people for their assistance with this chapter: Michael Asch, E. Richard Atleo, John Borrows, Emma Feltes, Arthur Manual, Aaron Mills, Pamela Spalding, and Nancy J. Turner.

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references Adams, J. 2001. Old Square Toes and His Lady: The Life of James and Amelia Douglas. Vancouver: Horsdal and Schubart. Alfred, Taiaiake. 2009. Wasase: Indigenous Pathways of Action and Freedom. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Asch, M. 2014. On Being Here to Stay: Treaties and Aboriginal Rights in Canada. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Asch, M., J. Borrows, and J. Tully, eds. 2018. Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Atleo, E.R. (Umeek). 2004. Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2011. Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis. Vancouver: UBC Press. Barman, J. 2014. French Canadians, Furs, and Indigenous Women in the Making of the Pacific Northwest. Vancouver: UBC Press. Boas, F. 1911. The Mind of Primitive Man. Reprint, New York: MacMillan, 1922. – 1916. Tsimshian Mythology. Seattle: Government Printing Office. Borrows, J. 1998. “Wampum at Niagara: Canadian Legal History, Self-Government, and the Royal Proclamation.” In Aboriginal and Treaty Rights in Canada, ed. M. Asch, 152–72. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2010. Canada’s Indigenous Constitution. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2015. Freedom and Indigenous Constitutionalism. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2018. “Earth-Bound: Indigenous Law and Environmental Reconciliation.” In Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings, ed. M. Asch, J. Borrows, and J. Tully, 49–82. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. British Columbia. 1975. Papers Connected with the Indian Land Question 1850–1875. Victoria: Queen’s Printer. Cail, R.E. 1974. Land, Man and the Law: The Disposal of Crown Lands in British Columbia, 1871– 1913. Vancouver: UBC Press. Capra, F. 2002. The Hidden Connections: A Science for Sustainable Living. New York: Doubleday. Capra, F., and P.L. Luisi. 2015. The Systems View of Life. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Clayton, D. 2000. Islands of Truth: The Imperial Fashioning of Vancouver Island. Vancouver: UBC Press. Commoner, B. 1971. The Closing Circle: Nature, Man and Technology. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Davidson, R. 1992. Robert Davidson Exhibit: A Voice from Inside. Vancouver: Derek Simpson Gallery. – 2004. The Abstract Edge. Ed. K. Duffek. Vancouver: Museum of Anthropology, University of British Columbia. Dilworth, C. 2010. Too Smart for Our Own Good: The Ecological Predicament of Humankind. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Grossman, Z., and A. Parker, eds. 2012. Asserting Native Resilience: Indigenous Nations Face the Climate Crisis. Corvallis: Oregon State University Press. Harding, S. 2013. Animate Earth: Science, Intuition and Gaia. Cambridge, UK: UIT Green Books. Heinberg, R., and D. Lerch, eds. 2010. The Postcarbon Reader: Managing the 21st Century Sustainability Crisis. Santa Rosa, CA: Postcarbon Institute. Hénaff, M. 2010. The Price of Truth: Gift, Money and Philosophy. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press.

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Ignace, M., and R.E. Ignace. 2017. Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yeri7 re Stsq̓ey̓s-kucw. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Kimmerer, R.W. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teaching of Plants. Toronto: Milkweed. Margulis, L. 2001. The Symbiotic Planet. London: Basic Books. Mills, A. 2016. “Driving the Gift Home.” Windsor Year Book 33, no. 1: 167–86. – 2017. “What Is a Treaty? On Contract and Mutual Aid.” In The Right Relationship: Reimagining the Implementation of Historical Treaties, ed. J. Borrows and M. Coles, 237–41. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2018. “Rooted Constitutionalism: Growing Political Community.” In Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings, ed. M. Asch, J. Borrows, and J. Tully, 133–74. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Noble, B. 2018. “Treaty Ecologies: With Persons, Peoples, Animals and the Land.” In Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings, ed. M. Asch, J. Borrows, and J. Tully, 315–42. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Simpson, M. 2017. Personal correspondence with author. Starblanket, G., and H. Stark. 2018. “Toward a Relational Paradigm – Four Points for Consideration: Knowledge, Gender, Land and Modernity.” In Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings, ed. M. Asch, J. Borrows, and J. Tully, 175– 208. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Sterelny, K. 2012. The Evolved Apprentice: How Evolution Made Humans Unique. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Takeda, L. 2015. Islands’ Spirits Rising: Reclaiming the Forests of Haida Gwaii. Vancouver: UBC Press. Tetlenitsa, J., Chief, Chief P. Louis, and Chief J. Chilahitsa. 1910. Memorial to Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Premier of the Dominion of Canada. 25 August. http://www.kanakabarband.ca/ downloads/memorial-to-sir-wilfred-laurier.pdf. Trosper, R. 2009. Resilience, Reciprocity and Ecological Economics: Northwest Coast Sustainability. New York: Routledge. T’Sou-ke First Nation. 2017. www.tsoukenation.com. Tully, J. 2009. “Lineages of Contemporary Imperialism.” In Lineages of Empire: The Historical Roots of British Imperial Thought, ed. Duncan Kelly, 3–30. Oxford: Oxford University Press. – 2014. “What Is Consent?” Paper presented at the “Conference on Consent in Relation to Aboriginal Title and Reconciliation,” Thompson Rivers University, Kamloops, British Columbia, 21 November. – 2018a. “Reconciliation Here on Earth.” In Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings, ed. M. Asch, J. Borrows, and J. Tully, 83–123. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. – 2018b. “”Rediscovering the World of Franz Boas: Anthropology, Equality/Diversity, and World Peace.” In Indigenous Visions: Rediscovering the World of Franz Boas, ed. N. Blackhawk and I. Wilner, 111–46. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Turner, N.J. 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre; Seattle: University of Washington Press. Turner, N.J., and D. Mathews. 2019. “Serving Nature: Completing the Ecosystem Services Circle.” In Cultivating Ecovirtues, ed. H. Bai, D. Chang, and C. Scott. Regina, SK: University of Regina Press.

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24 Retrospective and Concluding Thoughts Nancy J. Turner with E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) and John Ralston Saul introduction The symposium on “Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future,” held at the University of Victoria in May 2017, brought together people from many disciplines and backgrounds, including the distinguished philosophers Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) and Dr John Ralston Saul. Dr Atleo has for many years reflected on the philosophical basis of his Nuu-chah-nulth First Nations heritage and leadership training in relation to the dominant Western culture in Canada and other parts of the world (Atleo 2004, 2011). Dr Saul, a leading thinker and visionary with a Western background, has studied and written about leadership, citizenship, and the resurgence of Indigenous cultures and their influence in Canada and beyond (Saul 2008, 2014). Both men made significant contributions to the development and realization of the symposium through advice, guidance, and presentations. Following the symposium, as they prepared to meet and deliberate on their experiences and perceptions regarding the topics we covered, I posed this question: Both of you have visions for the future of Canada that align with the themes of the symposium and this book. Could each of you please discuss your vision and how it might intercept with Indigenous peoples’ relationships to place and to plants, to the concepts of reciprocity and responsibility, and to Canada’s legal obligations to Indigenous peoples and environments? Their reflections on the symposium and the many perspectives it brought forward, as expressed in the chapters of this volume, serve as a brief retrospective both for the symposium and for the book itself.

The following section presents excerpts from their conversation about some of the key lessons and ideas that shaped and emerged from the symposium. In the rest of this chapter, the dominant themes and recommendations, as set out in this book, are summarized, with the hope that they will lead Canada into a more just, more sustainable relationship with Indigenous peoples and with the plants and environments on which all of us depend. a conversation on relationshiPs As emphasized in a number of the chapters, recent court decisions, provincially and nationally, are having a profound effect on many aspects of the relationships between First Peoples and the dominant Canadian society and its legal system. Court decisions, notably the Supreme Court of Canada’s ruling in the Tsilhqot’in case in June 2014,1 underlined and acknowledged the importance of plants and habitats as key elements in considering Indigenous peoples’ relationships to place and their rights to access and manage the resources of their homelands. This decision, consequently, became a focal point for the beginning of E. Richard Atleo’s and John Ralston Saul’s conversation.2 Dr Atleo reflected, My understanding of the recent Tsilhqot’in decision is its recognition of the significance of the connection between the land and the people, including the plants and the other lifeforms of the land. The Tsilhqot’in were able to demonstrate and show to the court’s satisfaction that – yes! – historically these people did have a significant relationship to the land and its lifeforms, plants, and animals. And therefore [the court] ruled in favour of the Tsilhqot’in people. You have a precedent-setting decision about this relationship between a people and plants: the significance of plants, the importance of plants. And so our own conference, about plants and their significance, related to this important legal precedent. This symposium, and the book chapters developed from it, had ample demonstrations about plants, of their uses by various peoples and the relationships of Indigenous peoples to the plants within their territories. But this has not been presented officially to the courts of Canada yet. Dr Saul added, Yes, and I think what’s really fascinating is that in the Tsilhqot’in decision, you could see it as the culmination of a whole series of decisions going back to the 1970s. First, there were a hundred years and a little more of the court denying all Indigenous rights. Then gradually, from the 1960s on, it began slowly to realize that it had to think more seriously about

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these questions, that it was somehow wrong, and didn’t understand the justice in question. Another important Supreme Court decision, this one preceding the Tsilhqot’in decision by seventeen years, was the court’s ruling in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia in 1997.3 This was the culmination of proceedings started in the BC Supreme Court in 1984 by the Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en Nations of the northern interior of the province, who claimed ownership and legal jurisdiction over 133 individual hereditary territories comprising 58,000 square kilometres of northwestern British Columbia, using their collective oral histories as principal evidence in the case. The Crown of British Columbia maintained that all First Nations’ land rights in the province had been extinguished by the time British Columbia joined Confederation in 1871. Furthermore, the judge, Chief Justice Allan McEachern, ruled that Aboriginal rights existed at the “pleasure of the Crown” and could thus be extinguished at any time by the Crown. He also rejected the legitimacy of oral traditions as historical evidence. Later, the Supreme Court of Canada made no decision on the land dispute, but in its summation, it confirmed that Aboriginal title was an existing ancestral right, protected by section 35(1) of the Constitution Act, 1982. It also laid out the requirements for an Indigenous nation to prove title to land, namely that it must establish that its ancestors occupied the land in question, sufficiently, continuously, and exclusively, from the time when sovereignty was asserted. It also ruled, notably, that in establishing occupancy, oral histories were just as important as written testimony (see chapters 8, 16, 18, and 19, this volume). John Ralston Saul pointed out the significance of the Delgamuukw decision: This decision honoured the Crown, and the importance of oral memory, and Delgamuukw, gradually working out a new legal language at the highest level of the Canadian state: a new legal language, which was not entirely a Western-based legal language. Nor was it entirely an Indigenous-based legal language. But somehow, gradually, they found out how to marry the two. I think that last line in Delgamuukw about, “We’re all here to stay so we’d better figure out how to live together,” convinced them to really start seriously figuring this out and to send messages . . . The court doesn’t order, and the court doesn’t have the ability to act. Rather, the court has the ability to declare what the law is, and acknowledge it, and to say something about it. E. Richard Atleo remarked on how these developments might lead to greater refinement of section 35 of the Canadian Constitution. This is the part of the

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Constitution Act, 1982 that recognizes and affirms Aboriginal title and rights (see also chapter 16, this volume), but it lacks the clear definition of the rights of the majority of Canadians in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms: What I see is the movement, legally, constitutionally, within Canada from the time that you just described, where Indigenous rights were not recognized or acknowledged, and were denied initially, to now, moving towards an acknowledgment. What this represents is a fundamental beginning of a lengthy process of defining, more specifically, section 35, which is still rather empty in comparison to a lot of aspects of constitutional law in Canada that apply to the Canadian majority, where their rights, their responsibilities are clearly defined in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Aboriginal rights in section 35(1) are not yet clearly defined. The symposium [and the papers that came from it] – about the significance of relationships between peoples and the land and the lifeforms within it – begins to make a substantial legal database, a precedent-setting form of database, that we might say began with the Tsilhqot’in case. It doesn’t really, because Tsilhqot’in is the endpoint of a lengthy previous process dating back to Delgamuukw in 1973. So, in my view, there are different ways, from an Aboriginal perspective, that the honour of the Crown has transformed itself. Dr Atleo also reflected on how, in Nuu-chah-nulth traditions, other species – both plants and animals – are included as sentient beings, with their own languages and cultures, who also have rights and responsibilities and who should rightfully be included in considerations of Indigenous rights (see also chapters 12 and 16, this volume): When we speak about the First Age of Being from a Nuu-chah-nulth perspective, about the history of existence within, we had the First Beings, who all spoke the same language, who were “one” in every conceivable way that we think about “one.” And then after this First Age came the transformation, where “people” were diversified, beings were diversified into the scientific classifications we understand today – plants, animals, and humans – which created a diversity of different languages and cultures. And this brought the challenge of understanding and developing protocols between those beings. And so the honour of the Crown, then, in that sense, is transformed from looking only at its English self to including “other” selves within this honour. And, at the same time, it maintains its identity of honour, legally, constitutionally.4 Continuing the conversation, Dr Saul concurred:

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Yes. I totally agree . . . We can say that the court moves from being either evil or indifferent in earlier times to realizing that there was something desperately wrong from the Canadian state point of view, the legal interpretive point of view. And it works its way over, from 18285 or 18676 to the early ’70s – “there can only be one sovereign power” – to Tsilhqot’in, . . . to a point where the Canadian state can actually understand at the highest legal level, and build into its way of legally imagining itself, that it is not true that there can only be one sovereignty but that you can have multiple sovereignties. And in fairness to the Supreme Court, it took them about a half-century to get to the idea of multiple sovereignties, which in the stream of things is quite fast. And so that moment in Delgamuukw was critical, when they realized, from the state’s point of view – not from the Indigenous point of view; that was always the case – that oral memory has equal, if not more, credibility than written law. This is a gigantic leap for a supreme court of European origin. And so now they’re somewhere else. And, as you say, we’ve come to the end of that first process. And I think that in the second process, this symposium is particularly interesting because, as you say, Richard, it precisely takes us back to the basics. There were all those plants on the stage! You know, between the land, the plants, and the people – and what is that relationship? That’s central to where we go next. E. Richard Atleo, in discussing the developing notions of the symposium, quickly recognized that native plants should be present and prominent “participants” at the event. Later, as presentations unfolded, he saw that the plants that were present on the stage had not yet been properly acknowledged or introduced to the other participants and audience. This omission was shortly rectified, as the plants were recognized and introduced, one by one: western redcedar, flowering currant, camas, cottonwood, Oregon grape, evergreen huckleberry, and others. Dr Atleo recalled, I spoke with Nancy Turner, the organizer of the event at the lunch break on the first day, and I said to Nancy, “You have introduced all of the players at this conference, except for the plants.” And then she introduced the plants that were present – the cedars, the cottonwoods, and the others . . . And this had a tremendous impact on the participants. Now the significance of that, legally, constitutionally, is that from an Indigenous perspective, plants and other lifeforms have always been participants: included in, not excluded, not taken as nonessential to the formation of a constitutional body of laws . . . So the acknowledgment, the introduction, of the plants as significant beings at the

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symposium is an Aboriginal, Indigenous form of law. It’s an Indigenous form of law! In the 1990s E. Richard Atleo was a co-chair of the Scientific Panel for Sustainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound, on Vancouver Island’s west coast, and Nancy J. Turner was a member of that panel. In his conversation with Dr Saul, Dr Atleo noted that throughout the panel’s work, plants and other lifeforms had been recognized as part of the wholeness of a healthy nation (Clayoquot Scientific Panel 1995). He spoke about the parallel between this traditional view and issues of multiculturalism and constitutional law in Canada and also about the role of this view in the relationships between people and other lifeforms. The Scientific Panel acknowledged that to degrade part of this wholeness of the nation, including all the lifeforms, is to degrade the nation itself. And so multiculturalism in Canada, and the diversity in Canada, is an issue today. It is of great concern because it affects the health of the nation. The way you include or divide and exclude, constitutionally by law, the rights of beings affects the health of the nation. And naturally, there’s a concern, a deep urgent concern, around that. It is exactly parallel in Indigenous law to have a concern for plants and animals, for the same reason. So, when the Salmon – the First Salmon – came, they were treated like visiting ambassadors from another nation. We treated them respectfully, right? And they made demands – protocol – that you do certain things to acknowledge their importance and significance. So you did ritual things with the first coming of the Salmon, for the Salmon [e.g., returning their bones to the water], and the same for the Deer, and the same for others. Dr Atleo recalled how Nuu-chah-nulth law has long encompassed protocols regarding relationships with plants: An elder on the Scientific Panel told a story of when he was a little boy. His grandfather took him out to take down a cedar tree for use, for necessities: building material for a canoe, for household implements. Before he approached the great cedar tree, he dealt first of all with the “little citizens”: the plants, the shrubbery around the tree. And he dealt with them in a sacred manner: he treated them respectfully, not as rubbish, or waste. No. Everything that was alive is of significance and treated in that way. That’s part of the law. And then, “Oh! The great cedar tree! Here is a personage in proportions of magnitude that is . . . just enormous! Enormous!” So that’s a demonstration, then, of a way of relating. Constitutionalism is also about relating. It’s about relationships, right? That’s one way of looking at it. And the relationships with plants, then, and as our conference

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indicated, is of this kind, from the side of the honour question – the honour that moved from exclusion to now including, in the Tsilhqot’in case. Dr Saul replied, Yes. So the Supreme Court took a half a century to get itself to a place where it could more or less digest the meaning and implications of Indigenous theory – Indigenous law – at the highest level of the court system. At the same time, the court is a place of intellectual thought. It can be a place of just looking at the details of law, but it is actually a place, at its best, of nine smart people trying to figure out what’s going on and how to talk about it – of bringing into the court’s decisions the concepts and language and so on of Indigenous people – [and that] is a very interesting and extraordinary moment. They are not yet finished. Dr Saul suggested that the Supreme Court justices still do not have a full understanding of the meaning of Indigenous law: “They built themselves up to it, but they don’t actually have a full understanding of the meaning of it. And they don’t have the right to give orders, either.” He noted that Dr Atleo’s frequent use of the word “acknowledgment” in the context of Indigenous law is extremely important. Dr Atleo responded with the explanation of the Nuuchah-nulth equivalent: “In my language, one of the words for ‘acknowledgment’ would be háamutshitl, which means ‘to unveil, to appear, to be presented,’ and often it is used in the same sense of a ‘coming out publicly,’ say for a young chiefly heir about to be publicly presented and installed into a chiefly seat. It means a personal thing.” He emphasized that this type of acknowledgment is given not only to people but also to other beings, other lifeforms, according to Nuu-chah-nulth protocol. Dr Saul then contrasted the legal recognition and acknowledgment of Indigenous rights through the courts with the movement by Indigenous peoples in Canada over the past century to reclaim and uphold their rights and their own laws, an undertaking in which not only other humans but also other beings and the land are players: The elders and the leaders . . . realized that they had to rethink how they were going to deal with the settlers. And we’re now at this very fascinating, interesting moment, which neither you nor I will ever be able to see the fulfilment of. This is the moment in which everybody, on both sides, actually understands and figures out how to live in honour, with respect, and not just for each other. It is a matter of the honour of everything. This is all about removing human beings from the European Platonist idea of “human beings above” into a relationship of acknowledgment – with each

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other but also with the land and the plants and animals. And that is something which is now in the air. The pieces are starting to come into place, and the symposium was an interesting step in that direction. Dr Atleo cautioned, “We need to emphasize that ‘acknowledgment’ in no way talks about or defines what to do or how to follow through with the acknowledgment.” He used the analogy of two people who are introduced and recognize each other, stating that what matters is how they develop their relationship following their introduction. He reminded us that there is still much work to be done in developing relationships and understandings between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples regarding Indigenous laws and protocols and between humans and their nonhuman relations as well. Dr Saul continued the conversation: So the Indigenous traditions lie in the relationship with plants, the understanding of plants. Even if many young people have lost it, there are lots of elders who are bringing it back in . . . There have always been Indigenous elders who have had clear ideas about the role of plants and their names and so on. At the other extreme, you have the vast majority of the Canadian population which now live in cities. Cities can be wonderful places, but one of the outcomes of the cities has been to accentuate the worst of the colonial relationship to place. People live in condos and in apartments. They have very little relationship to the land. They’re in favour of “environmentalism,” but they actually know little about the environment. Those new living conditions – a form of alienation – have accentuated a problem proper to the non-Indigenous in Canada. Some of them love going to national parks and saying, “Look at those trees! Aren’t they wonderful?” But they can’t name any of them. They don’t know anything about the properties of the trees. They can vaguely tell [you], “That something’s in the family of the maple. And that something is an evergreen.” That’s about it. They don’t know any of the names of the plants or the uses of the plants. A lot of Canadians fish, but they don’t know much about what happens under the water, how that functions. So, curiously enough . . . the country’s become much more capable of acknowledging the importance of everything Indigenous – and yet incapable of understanding the practicalities of it, the reality of it, part of which is that honour lies also in the plants and in the land . . . And that is a really big challenge for all of us. It is not about who is to blame. It is just that modern life is making people urban. It’s just where they are. There’s a risk, of course, that it turns their acknowledgment – their environmentalism, which is heartfelt, I think – into a kind of romanticism because they

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don’t have any meaningful access to the reality of those plants. So the person on the forty-fourth floor of a condo, who is pro-Indigenous, so to speak, actually is at the opposite end of the conference that we’ve been at, when it comes to plants and the relationship between place, plants, and people. Dr Atleo described the relationship some people have with plants as “the Linnaeus effect,” in which plants are named, catalogued, and studied from a scientific perspective, which is an important beginning: You can define, you can catalogue, and you can get a lot of knowledge, but it’s like a moment of time. It’s frozen. You’ve got a catalogue of plants, a catalogue of all kinds of things: information. You can put together a mathematical formula and so on, but now, in the context of existence itself, we need to look at it in the way in which existence exists, which is dynamic. Which is motion. It grows. It’s born. It grows and dies. There’s a cyclical element. And in the cyclical element, there’s always motion – small motions and large motions . . . And what, then, is always significant about the “nature of being” to Indigenous people? It’s relationships. It is the relationship to anything that is alive. Irrespective of its form – very important. And so, from the stories in my own language, in my own community, when the first people came in their ships to the West Coast from Europe, they were strange beings, but they were immediately included. They [the Nuu-chah-nulth] . . . immediately incorporated them into their reality – and this is very significant . . . because it’s completely opposite to the way in which Europeans were seeing reality. They said [of us Indigenous people], “These beings need to be exterminated.” And we said [of them], “No. They are included. They are part of us. They are part of our universe. Whatever is there is part of our being.” Dr Saul further contrasted Western approaches with Indigenous perspectives in terms of relationships to plants and nature, noting that Europeans tend to think more in utilitarian, “rational” terms and that they tend to divide things, take them apart, and think of fragments of the whole: If you rely on [from the] sixteenth century on – to pick a date arbitrarily – the European sense of itself, which includes the European anywhere in the world, is one of a rationality. In their minds, this means taking things apart – ideas, bodies, whatever – and putting them back together again in order to use them. Not to have a relationship but to use them. That is the link between rationality and utilitarianism . . .

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And so the crisis for the university today is that it’s busy taking everything apart, which is fine, except that this is not accompanied by a philosophy of putting things together, a philosophy of relationships. Instead, they are creating these smaller silos, between which nobody can communicate . . . They don’t know how to build a language that pulls everything together. So a conference like this – the Trudeau Foundation ethnoecology conference – is unusual because it is an attempt to bring things together, to bring plants and people together [in order to ask,] “What is a plant’s relationship to other plants? What is that larger understanding which allows you to get to its relationship with human beings, with rocks, and animals?” We don’t have any of that. On the other hand, Indigenous cultures – when they haven’t lost it – have got it! And that is a really powerful tool. And, in the debates on global warming and environmentalism around the world, the biggest failure in all of that is the extent to which it is driven by rational utilitarianism, without really much understanding of how all this functions together. So that, even if it looks like there is a link between Indigenous ideas and environmentalists, when you get to the levels of connections, they are divided because they’re coming at it from opposite directions. Dr Atleo concluded, It may be as simple as changing the lens. We look into reality, into existence, through our own personal lenses. You can use the lens as a metaphor. And, somehow, my people, as well as other Indigenous peoples, were able to sense – not so much in the way of the academy of scholarship where you observe something, and you gather data about it, do an experiment, and you actually come up with a conclusion that you can show and demonstrate to people . . . What I’m speaking to here is more something that you cannot show others unless they follow you and have the same kind of experience. It’s a sensed knowledge about reality that is beyond our cognitive capacity. How do we talk about it? We don’t really have a proper language for what I’m trying to convey right now. But it’s a sensing. And so my people had the sense of a Creator, right? Now, the sense that they had, the way of life that they had, was all based on an experiential sense of the nature of existence. There are good powers and bad powers. We participated with these powers. We went after the good powers. We went after the powers of health, of securing resources to feed your family . . . All of the words that are used in political science – “good government,” for example – those were desirable also for our people. But they didn’t talk about it critically and analytically but rather through their own

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ways of being, doing vision quests and so on. So what they perceived is a dominance in existence of light over dark – you could put it that way. . . . Beings are not the creators of existence but are created within it. My people interpreted existence as, “We have a choice of what part of existence to agree with and to participate, engage with. So we attach ourselves to powers that benefit us [in order] to help us to get food, help us to live well, and to live in a healthy manner.” Why? Because these powers are the dominant powers of creation. Now, it worked very well for my people until your people arrived and disrupted it. We can participate in creation. This is what existence teaches us. This is what plants teach us. This is what an engagement with animals will indicate to us, and did, in our stories. So what I’m saying is this: we knew about it, we engaged with it, we found that it works – not perfectly, but it worked for us, until the Europeans came . . . With the way we see existence work, every being and every nation has its part and its role, and no part is the whole. No part knows everything. And no part can go to another part and say, “We know the way. And you have to do what we say . . . because we’re stronger than you!” And . . . based on this view of existence, there’s hope there. Because existence is about growth. It’s about strength. It’s about wholeness. And that’s where we get hishuk ish tsawalk (“everything is one”) from. That’s where it comes from. We can’t prove it. There’s no proof for it. There’s no scientific evidence for it. But we have experiential evidence of it – a sense that can be demonstrated over and over, over thousands of years. Plants as “our relations” The concepts discussed by E. Richard Atleo and John Ralston Saul are both profound and fundamental as regards Indigenous peoples’ rights and their relationships to plants and the land. They mentioned some of the milestones in changing Indigenous-newcomer relationships in Canada and pointed out that these relationships are still evolving. One of the next steps is for mainstream Canadians to recognize and appreciate the knowledge held by Indigenous peoples – that animals and even plants are our close relatives and deserving of acknowledgment, just as other human beings deserve to be acknowledged (Turner 2005; see also chapter 23, this volume). The implications of this worldview are immense because these other beings therefore also have rights and responsibilities, which, as Drs Atleo and Saul point out, must be recognized and accommodated along with the rights of human beings. Our relationships with plants and animals – and with the natural world in general – are a key element of Indigenous law (Borrows 2006; Dolan 2011, 2016; Kimmerer 2013; Oshoshko Bineshiikwe et al. 2015; see also chapters 2, 4, 5, 8, and 16, this volume). As well as hishuk ish tsawalk (“everything is one”) from Dr Atleo’s

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Nuu-chah-nulth language, there are many words in other languages signifying our inextricable relationships: waskaawe siweno (“everything around you”) in Nehetho; mitakuye owasana (“all my relations – we are related”) in Dakota; and nikanisitook (“all my relatives in life”) in Anishinaabe (Oshoshko Bineshiikwe et al. 2015). These relationships are also widely reflected in people’s stories, songs, art, and ceremonies (see Benediction and Epilogue, this volume). If, as James Tully argues in the previous chapter, we consider that reconciliation with Indigenous peoples goes hand in hand with reconciliation with the environment and with the other lifeforms of the lands and waters of peoples’ homelands, we will be taking a giant step toward a more just society. knowinG and usinG Plants A step toward acknowledging and creating relationships with plants – and animals – and their habitats is learning more about them (see chapter 3, this volume). In our increasingly urbanized societies, as Dr Saul points out, it is ever more difficult to develop such relationships. Young people today are spending less and less time in natural surroundings and more and more time in the “built” world, with views of nature, if at all, through videos and television screens (Louv 2016). Learning the names of plants – in any language, whether English, French, or one of the over sixty Indigenous languages spoken in Canada – and getting to recognize them, just as one learns to recognize the faces of friends and neighbours, are a good beginning. Feeling a sense of gratitude toward them for their critical role in our well-being as basic sources of food, materials, medicines, and aesthetic beauty, not to mention life-giving oxygen, is perhaps the next step. This aligns well with the “ecosystem services” model that is widely applied now in evaluating nature and natural areas (Chan, Satterfield, and Goldstein 2012; Chan et al. 2016). Developing a feeling of care toward them and a sense of responsibility about meeting their needs as living beings would bring us into the realm of the perspectives of many Indigenous peoples. This relationship with plants does not mean that we cannot use them; in fact, many Indigenous plant experts would say that plants need to be used and that some of them indeed thrive with a certain level of tending, thinning, tilling of the soil, scattering of berries, selective harvesting, and pruning of branches (Turner, Deur, and Lepofsky 2013; see also chapters 6, 7, and 21, this volume). Thus our human relationship with plants is reciprocal or symbiotic; we look after each other. The understanding of this mutual support is generally embedded within Indigenous law (Brown and Brown 2009; Geniusz 2015; Kimmerer 2013; see also chapter 1, this volume), and it is therefore necessary for Canadian society at large to recognize and respect Indigenous law in order to meet the goals of reconciliation.

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These ideas, of course, apply in equal measure to animals, including mammals, birds, fish, and others, who are also a part of our relationships. Bears, caribou, salmon, and ravens – all of these animals have profound meaning for Indigenous peoples that goes far beyond just resources. As an elder testifying at the Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples said, “Does it confuse you when I refer to animals as people? In my language it is not confusing . . . We consider both animals and people to be living beings . . . [My people] address animals and people with equal respect” (in McIvor 2005, 12). Indeed, we humans are closely related to plants and animals; our genetic makeup is very similar. We are made up of the same molecules, the same basic stuff – “star stuff,” as the famous astronomer Carl Sagan was fond of reminding us. Our failure to honour and respect plants and animals in our mainstream cultures has, one could argue, led to the situation we find ourselves in today, with degraded ecosystems and declining biodiversity worldwide due to lifestyles of consumerism and efforts to control and dominate nature beyond its capacity to maintain itself (Millennium Ecosystem Assessment 2005). Concern for all species is a major aspect of Indigenous peoples’ relationships with their homelands, and finding ways to honour and address this concern is one of the ways that we can enact reconciliation (see chapter 23, this volume) and thereby enact the honour of the Crown. As Dr Atleo suggested in the previous conversation, “to degrade part of this wholeness of the [Indigenous] nation, including all the lifeforms, is to degrade the nation itself.” Furthermore, as he emphasizes elsewhere, recognizing and embracing Indigenous knowledge and approaches to policy and decision making on environmental issues can lead to more effective solutions to the problems we humans have created (Atleo 2004, 2011). “chanGinG the lens” Many positive steps have been taken in past decades to address the inequities faced by Indigenous peoples of Canada regarding their rights to use, and to care for, their lands and resources, including plants. The directions toward further improvement have been set through a series of court rulings, perhaps culminating in the Supreme Court of Canada’s decision in the Tsilhqot’in case, as well as the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2015). Acknowledging Indigenous peoples’ deep and special relationships with their homelands, and with the plants and animals that share these homelands, is perhaps the most important step of all along this pathway. This step also requires acknowledgment of the ancient stories, ceremonies, protocols, languages, names, and vocabulary pertaining to places, plants, and animals, as well as recognition of the practices related to them that tie people to these places and embody their cultural identity. Learning more about these aspects, in respectful ways, and

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embracing them as a meaningful part of Canadian history and existence will further the goals of reconciliation. Finding ways to support Indigenous peoples in their efforts to carry on, restore, and revitalize their traditional practices concerning plants and habitats within a contemporary context is another step to be taken. This goal can be achieved not only through the courts but also through our education systems and within the multiple, diverse social and political relationships that make up Canadian society. There are excellent examples of how this aim has been pursued both in Canada and internationally, including some of the accounts in this volume (see chapters 5, 8, 11, 12, 13, 14, 20, and 22, among others). Finding ways to support Indigenous peoples will require collaboration and attention, linking knowledge and practice at multiple scales of time and space, and recognizing the inextricable ties between social and ecological systems (see chapter 21, this volume). This undertaking does not always require returning exclusive decisionmaking powers to Indigenous peoples, although this can be a good and appropriate option. Rather, it means recognizing “multiple sovereignties,” as Dr Saul put it in the previous conversation: shared jurisdiction, decision making, and governance; collaboration; partnerships; and mutual consideration and concern, not only for each other as humans but also for the other species on which we depend and with which we share the lands and waters of what we call Canada. It means respectful consultation and accommodation around land-use planning and decision making. It means honouring in word and spirit the treaties that have been signed. We also need to give special attention and recognition to the rights of women and children, whose needs are often overlooked and ignored in land-use decisions. Women have special relationships with plants (see Howard 2003; chapters 10 and 21, this volume), and without their inclusion and without the participation of children and youth, our efforts for reconciliation will be incomplete and will not be sustained into the future. In particular, opportunities for land-based, experiential learning – travelling on the land, becoming familiar with our nonhuman relatives, and learning their names and their needs – are critically important (Beckwith, Halber, and Turner 2017; Borrows 2016). And such learning requires maintaining, not damaging, those special harvesting sites and “cultural keystone places” (Cuerrier et al. 2015). It requires moving beyond the utilitarian perspective of “how can we use this?” or “how can we make a financial profit from this?” to recognition of a perspective aligned with the ways that we value our friends and our families – our kin (see chapters 4 and 23, this volume). It requires taking a long-term perspective by considering the effects of our actions on the seventh generation and beyond. Law and policy are still vitally important in making these changes to society. The Canadian Constitution, including the Aboriginal rights set out in section

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35(1), serves to guide decisions and interpretations that need to be made through the courts. Observing the commitments of existing treaties, on the one hand, and making just interpretations of our laws – the honour of the Crown – on the other hand, are paramount. However, much can be accomplished outside of the courts through partnerships, mutual goodwill, and good citizenship. We need all of the knowledge, all of the ideas, and all of the solutions and approaches to governance that we can muster in order to face and reverse the immense and escalating environmental damage we have caused. Living up to the honour of the Crown in Canada’s relationship with Indigenous peoples is a positive step for all Canadians. Building capacity through training and research is one of the critical ways that we can enact our commitments. There is much work to be done and much knowledge that needs to be shared, built, and sustained. This work needs to take place, in ethical ways, in universities, through governments, and in the communities and on the homelands of Indigenous peoples (see chapters 15, 16, and 17, this volume). Place-based Indigenous knowledge systems were built up over countless generations, embedded within languages, and enacted through the decisions and guidance of elders, leaders, and specialists (Berkes 2012; Turner and Berkes 2006; Turner 2014). Because they are so linked to particular places and particular species, they cannot be maintained simply within classrooms or through conversations; they need intact land bases and continuous access to vital plant and animal populations for their existence. Thus, as Indigenous peoples were separated from their territories, as their territories were damaged and destroyed through development, as their children were removed to residential schools, and as their languages and ceremonies were suppressed and outlawed, their knowledge and practices regarding the environment were eroded (Asch, Borrows, and Tully 2018; Borrows 2014; Turner and Turner 2008). Many efforts, from many different directions, have been enacted to restore, revitalize, and “awaken” this precious knowledge, along with widespread efforts to restore damaged environments. This work needs to continue and needs both physical and moral support from all Canadians. If we can do this work together, our country and all of those who live here – human and nonhuman – will have a chance to thrive.

notes 1 Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, [2014] 2 SCR 257; see chapter 18, this volume. 2 The conversation between Drs Atleo and Saul was facilitated and recorded by Roberto E. Alvarez, executive assistant to John Ralston Saul. 3 Delgamuukw v. British Columbia, [1997] 3 SCR 1010.

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4 “The government’s duty to consult with Aboriginal peoples and accommodate their interests is grounded in the honour of the Crown. The honour of the Crown is always at stake in its dealings with Aboriginal peoples. It is not a mere incantation, but rather a core precept that finds its application in concrete practices” (Chief Justice McLaughlin, Haida Nation v. British Columbia, 2004 SCC 73, 16–19, emphasis added). 5 In 1828 a Commission of Inquiry into Indian Affairs in the Canadas determined that Indigenous peoples of Canada deserved protection but were inferior to European colonizers (Holmes 2002). 6 The year of Canadian Confederation and the Constitution Act was 1867.

references Asch, M., J. Borrows, and J. Tully, eds. 2018. Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Atleo, E.R. (Umeek). 2004. Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview. Vancouver: UBC Press. – 2011. Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis. Vancouver: UBC Press. Beckwith, B.R., T. Halber, and N.J. Turner. 2017. “‘You have to do it’: Creating Agency for Environmental Sustainability through Experiential Education, Transformative Living, and Kincentricity.” In Routledge Handbook of Environmental Anthropology, ed. H. Kopnina and E. Shoreman-Ouimet, 412–27. London and New York: Routledge. Berkes, F. 2012. Sacred Ecology: Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Resource Management. 3rd ed. Philadelphia: Taylor and Francis. Borrows, J. 2006. Indigenous Legal Traditions in Canada. Ottawa: Law Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.690689/publication.html. – 2014. “The Residential Schools Litigation and Settlement.” University of Toronto Law Journal 64, no. 4: 486–504. – 2016. “Outsider Education: Indigenous Law and Land-Based Learning.” Windsor Yearbook of Access to Justice 33, no. 1: 1–28. Brown, F., and K. Brown. 2009. Staying the Course, Staying Alive: Coastal First Nations Fundamental Truths. Victoria: Biodiversity BC. Chan, K.M.A., P. Balvanera, K. Benessaiah, M. Chapman, S. Díaz, E. Gómez-Baggethun, R. Gould, et al. 2016. “Opinion: Why Protect Nature? Rethinking Values and the Environment.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 113, no. 6, 1462–5. http://www.pnas.org/content/113/6/1462.full. Chan, K.M.A., T. Satterfield, and J. Goldstein. 2012. “Rethinking Ecosystem Services to Better Address and Navigate Cultural Values.” Ecological Economics 74: 8–18. Clayoquot Scientific Panel. 1995. First Nations’ Perspectives Relating to Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound. Victoria: Cortex Consulting. Cuerrier, A., N.J. Turner, T. Gomes, A. Garibaldi, and A. Downing. 2015. “Cultural Keystone Places: Conservation and Restoration in Cultural Landscapes.” Journal of Ethnobiology 35, no. 3: 427–48. Dolan, J.M. 2011. “Principles and Practices of Haudenosaunee Environmental Knowledge.” International Society of Ethnobiology Newsletter 3, no. 1: 14–16. http://www.ethnobiology. net/principles-practices-haudenosaunee-environmental-knowledge/. – 2016. “The Restorative Ecology of Peace: Haudenosaunee Environmental Knowledge and Philosophies of Stewardship.” PhD diss., McGill University.

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Geniusz, M.S. 2015. Plants Have So Much to Give Us, All We Have to Do Is Ask. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Holmes, J. 2002. “The Original Intentions of the Indian Act.” Paper presented at the Pacific Business and Law Institute Conference, Ottawa, 17–18 April. Howard, P. 2003. Women and Plants: Gender Relations in Biodiversity Management and Conservation. London: Zed Books. Kimmerer, R. 2013. Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants. Minneapolis: Milkweed. Louv, R. 2016. Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin Books. McIvor, O. 2005. “Building the Nests: Indigenous Language Revitalization in Canada through Early Childhood Immersion Programs.” MA thesis, University of Victoria. Millennium Ecosystem Assessment. 2005. Ecosystems and Human Well-Being: Synthesis. Washington, DC: Island. Oshoshko Bineshiikwe, F. Paynter, M. Maytwayashing, D. Courchene, H. Bone, W. Swain, D. White Bird, D’A. Linklater, and H. Skywater. 2015. Ogichi Tibakonigaywin, Kihche Othasowewin, Tako Wakan: The Great Binding Law. Sagkeeng First Nation, MB: Turtle Lodge. http://www.turtlelodge.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/ScrollBanner_ TheGreatBindingLaw_24x36-PROOFv03.pdf. Raymond, C.M., J.O. Kenter, T. Plieninger, N.J. Turner, and K. Alexander. 2014. “Comparing Instrumental and Deliberative Paradigms which Underpin the Assessment of Social Values for Cultural Ecosystem Services.” Ecological Economics 107: 145–56. Saul, J. Ralston. 2008. A Fair Country: Telling Truths about Canada. Toronto: Penguin. – 2014. The Comeback: How Aboriginals Are Reclaiming Power and Influence. Toronto: Penguin. Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. 2015. Honouring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future: Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada. http://publications.gc.ca/site/eng/9.800288/publication.html. Turner, N.J. 2005. The Earth’s Blanket: Traditional Teachings for Sustainable Living. Vancouver: Douglas and McIntyre; Seattle: University of Washington Press. – 2014. Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America. 2 vols. Montreal and Kingston: McGillQueen’s University Press. Turner, N.J., and F. Berkes. 2006. “Coming to Understanding: Developing Conservation through Incremental Learning.” In Developing Resource Management and Conservation, ed. F. Berkes and N.J. Turner. Special issue of Human Ecology 34, no. 4: 495–513. Turner, N.J., D. Deur, and D. Lepofsky. 2013. “Plant Management Systems of British Columbia’s First Peoples.” In Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, ed. N.J. Turner and D. Lepofsky. Special issue of BC Studies, no. 179: 107–33. Turner, N.J., and K.L. Turner. 2008. “‘Where Our Women Used to Get the Food’: Cumulative Effects and Loss of Ethnobotanical Knowledge and Practice; Case Study from Coastal British Columbia.” Botany 86, no. 2: 103–15.

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e P i lo G u e

Native Plants, Indigenous Societies, and the Land in Canada’s Future Douglas Deur (Moxmowisa), Nancy J. Turner (Galitsimġa),1 and Kim Recalma-Clutesi (Oqwilowgwa)

Canada stands at the brink of a transformation of historic proportions. After some four centuries of European resettlement of the land, the political and social institutions of Canada are now aligned to seriously consider the broad effects of this history on Indigenous peoples and to redress some of its more egregious effects. This movement is at once political, legal, economic, social, and environmental in scope. Although this re-evaluation has centred largely on the circumstances of the past, it is also forward-looking and draws momentum from a shared vision of a future Canada as a country that is more equitable, harmonious, and prosperous following the resolution of centuries-old disputes. The timing of this movement is remarkable. On the one hand, to begin the slow process of healing, Canada stands prepared to reassess the damages wrought by centuries of Indigenous displacement and attempted erasures of Indigenous peoples and voices from the land. This openness to Indigenous peoples’ knowledge, values, and concerns is in part the outcome of cultural change: significantly, the culture of settler societies has changed markedly in the past few generations, becoming more inclusive and more focused on matters of social equity across ethnic divides, which has opened this new window for reconciliation. On the other hand, in recent decades, Indigenous communities, too, have experienced riveting changes. Many have been positive: Indigenous scholars, political leaders, and others have achieved great prominence in Canadian society

and are able to articulate First Nations, Métis, and Inuit perspectives to the non-Native world while still being fully and meaningfully engaged in their own heritage and traditional forms of governance. Simultaneously, there have been negative changes and displacement at remarkable scales. Entire languages and ways of knowing have disappeared within the lifetimes of the modern elders who have contributed to the present volume. A jarring reminder of this reality is the fact that the opening speaker of the ethnoecology symposium that gave rise to this volume – Clan Chief Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick – passed away in the time between the symposium and the production of this book. Chief Adam was the last traditionally trained holder of the chiefly knowledge of his nation and the very last fluent speaker of the ceremonial language that his people have used since time immemorial to pray, to conduct sacred ceremonies, and to show respect to the many species on which life depends. His passing is a stark reminder of the speed with which elaborate traditions endemic to Canada and deeply nuanced “ways of knowing” have been receding quickly from the land. This erosion is not accidental but the direct outcome of over a century of Canadian policy advancing the interconnected goals of re-educating children within residential schools, supplanting Indigenous values, knowledge, ceremonial practices, and governance systems, and upending Indigenous title to the lands and resources. These policies have their effects even long after they have been reversed and continue to have devastating impacts even now in this time of relative opportunity and optimism. Yet the knowledge in the possession of Indigenous communities might still save us all. The practices of Indigenous communities, including their intimate relationships with and understandings of our shared environments, have allowed these many nations to persist for countless generations even through times of great change. By design, these communities have taken an approach to the natural world that extends notions of respect and reciprocity not only to other human communities but also to the living communities of plants, fish, and wildlife, and even to the habitats, waters, and landforms on which these other living communities depend. In all of the cultural contexts discussed within this volume, one can see a deep and abiding respect for all life, including all plant life, that is traditionally shared by Indigenous societies and has guided human harvesters as stewards of the natural world.2 The taking of nonhuman life is surely intrinsic to the human experience, but in these cultural traditions, taking is attenuated with significant demonstrations of respect, recognition, and appreciation, a nuanced understanding of cause and effect over deep time, and efforts to redress damage so that there is no loss of overall integrity to prey species and other species across generations. When taking from these communities of our nonhuman kin, the ancestors understood that they were incurring debts that demanded some form of repayment. When

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human consumption destabilized natural systems and living communities, the ancestors understood that the effects were likely to be felt, directly and often painfully, by their own families and communities over time. This awareness is shown in the meticulous care traditionally exerted in the management of culturally significant habitats and in the respect accorded to the natural world. In ways both material and intangible, the ancestors sought to express their respect to other species, to habitats, and to all the human and natural systems that made their communities’ lives bountiful. Done correctly, these acts maintained balance in human relationships with all those beings and habitats on which life depends. This perspective was integral to the teachings of Clan Chief Kwaxistalla Adam Dick and to his presentation of the Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) dance at the beginning of the 2017 symposium, as it is woven through the ancestral teachings of so many other Indigenous nations who are represented in this volume. In bringing this sacred dance cycle before the symposium attendees, Chief Adam sought to breathe these teachings about our obligatory relationships with the natural world, and their intrinsic power, into the room and indeed into the hearts and minds of those who would help to guide Canada’s future. This dance was no mere “performance” but an extended and fervent prayer for our shared success and our shared survival. Dancers and ceremonial participants received payment from Chief Adam for this solemn work. As members of the audience, many of the authors of this volume also received small gifts; by that token, they are considered by Kwakwaka’wakw custom to be duty-bound to remember, to embrace the fundamental truth of this message, and to carry it forward with good intent for our mutual benefit. The event is worthy of remembrance, even by those who were not fortunate enough to attend. Such perspectives are also manifested in the landscape’s many “anthropogenic environments,” where the imprint of core Indigenous values is inscribed clearly upon the land. Camas prairies, traditionally maintained berry patches, and so many other habitats are at once “natural” and artifacts of deep cultural investment in meaning. We see reference to these anthropogenic habitats in the accounts of elders from across Canada.3 These environmental ethics include a sense of reciprocal obligation to the communities of living beings on whom we all depend for survival and a longstanding, passionate investment in one’s home place. These things have contributed to the resiliency of Indigenous societies by ensuring the sustainability of their resources and lifeways over millennia in this land we now together call home. No doubt, by adopting some of the ancestors’ long-term vision and restraint, modern Canada has the potential to make itself similarly enduring. In this respect, all of us may benefit from what we might call the partial “Indigenization” of Canada. What might this term imply? The cultural traditions of

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settler societies, especially those of the Anglo-Canadian and Franco-Canadian realms, have been imposed on Indigenous peoples for generations – altering their values, practices, and traditions through mechanisms both inadvertent and systematic. Only in certain times and places, historically, have the values of Indigenous societies had the opportunity to transform the attitudes of the colonizers. Today, we see a new openness to Indigenous values within settler societies, and Indigenous communities increasingly have venues to transmit their knowledge, values, and perspectives back to the non-Native world. The time seems upon us for this gentler, more humane transmission of cultural inheritance in the opposite direction. At the discretion of Indigenous knowledge holders, it may be time to actively disseminate the values and knowledge of Indigenous societies, in respectful and appropriate ways, for the common good. We propose this undertaking not only because such information is intrinsically valuable and builds empathy for Indigenous communities across longstanding cultural, social, economic, and historical divides but also because these perspectives, emerging here from the First Peoples and the very soil of Canada, may truly help to sustain us – teaching all Canadians, and all people around the world, the mechanics of how to live well on the land and how to sustain the bounty of the lands and waters for countless generations to come. We see hope for this approach in the ways that this ancient knowledge has guided modern land-use decisions and in ongoing efforts to document, operationalize, and institutionalize traditional legal concepts.4 In the range of topics explored in this volume, we see the potential that Indigenous knowledge and Indigenous knowledge holders have to transform our shared fate for the better. In making this assertion, we acknowledge a central and often unspoken tension in the relationship between non-Native settler societies and the unique status of Indigenous lands and intellectual property rights. Settler society will surely endure over time. We must ask, then, how those without Indigenous ancestry or heritage are meant to live on this land? There remains a risk that by forcefully asserting the importance of Indigenous identity and linkages to place, we might somehow stultify non-Native engagement with, and personal investment in, the lands around them. Clearly, if Canada is to thrive for generations to come, settler society cannot remain aloof and detached from the land and the needs of the other species on which we rely. Historically, this lack of awareness of environmental cause and effect, associated with a sense of detachment from one’s home place among swaths of settler society, has surely been part of the problem – disrupting Indigenous peoples and Indigenous ecologies in the process. We see warnings of this phenomenon in the chapters of this book that discuss the newcomers’ desire for profit, their lack of deep local knowledge about the significant relationships that Indigenous peoples had with the prairies, forests, wetlands, and other ecosystems, and how externally driven

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industrial development has inexorably and at times with violence destroyed the berry patches, forests, rivers, estuaries, and other beloved habitats of Indigenous peoples’ homelands.5 Instead, Canada needs the members of its settler society to dig deep and forge their own profound attachments to place, albeit in a manner that honours, rather than usurps, the knowledge of Indigenous peoples. All of us must somehow, in a passionate and connected way, “find a home” in Canada. The core philosophical precepts of Indigenous cultures presented in this volume, which assert the intimate and immediate associations of humanity with our own home place and its fellow nonhuman denizens, might yet provide a compass point on that journey. We must ask readers to envision the future: once reconciliation has been accomplished, what does that look like? Among the large Western democracies of the world, Canada remains in a unique position to foster a truly multicultural vision that embraces Indigenous perspectives of the sort presented in this volume and conceives an identity that meaningfully incorporates Indigenous peoples’ values in education, policy, and governance. Certain other colonial nations provide us with inspiration. Yet there are abundant cautionary examples, including nations that have largely pushed Indigenous peoples and values into the shadows as well as nations where non-Native urban enclaves are surrounded by a vast largely Indigenous hinterland, each side lacking a sense of common interest and trust. For our national experiment to succeed, Canadians must cultivate a sense of nationhood and a sense of shared homeland as a meaningful whole, creating a Canada that is not divided into “selves and others” across the Indigenous-settler line but a nation that is unified by common interests and many common values. Canada must move forward with many “nations within the nation,” keeping its citizens’ core values, practices, and knowledge robust for generations to come while also working to maintain their meaningful engagement in Canada as parts of the larger national whole. From this foundation of mutual interest and mutual trust, many things are possible. Canada might systematically incorporate traditional land-use concepts of the sort presented in this volume into environmental management at federal, provincial, and local scales – such as in the creation and oversight of our national parks and other “protected areas,” to name one example. Canada might continue to expand its consultation with traditional Indigenous leaders in forming resource management policies that will surely affect long-term humanenvironment balances within Indigenous peoples’ areas of interest and that will surely guide them and their descendants for countless generations to come. Canada might incorporate cornerstone Indigenous values into education – on topics related to resource management and the natural world, to governance and decision making, and to building relationships – asserting the singularity and dignity of nonhuman life, especially those nonhuman lives on which our

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own lives depend, and the need to think and plan in terms of deeply mutigenerational time scales. In doing so, Canada might help to build a sense of community and commonality that links Indigenous and settler societies forever under one roof – connected by common interests and values that, in no small part, emanate from Indigenous traditions and perspectives. The land, the environment, and identity of Indigenous nations will all factor significantly in this national dialogue for many generations to come. We hope that the diverse perspectives brought forward in this book – not only from many parts of Canada but also from Sweden, Hawaii, New Zealand, the northwestern United States, and beyond – will provide scholars, policymakers, and the broader Canadian public with inspiration on this important and inexorable journey forward.

notes 1 Galitsimġa (Kwakwaka’wakw) is one of Nancy J. Turner’s adoptive names. She is proud to hold other such names, including Kii’iljuus NaanGa (Skidegate Haida), Sellemah (Songhees), Saga madzagaláyem lax yuup (Sm’algyax), and Jije Eghaden (Tahltan nickname). 2 We see aspects of these values in this volume, including in Jeannette Armstrong’s discussion of Syilx attachments to place (chapter 2), Linda Black Elk and Janelle Baker’s chapter celebrating berries (chapter 10), and Leigh Joseph’s chapter on Indigenous approaches to education (chapter 22). 3 The chapters in this volume make frequent reference to such places, too, including Arthur Adolph’s chapter on “Xáxli’p Survival Territory” (chapter 5), Douglas Deur and Justine James’s chapter on contested space in America’s national parks (chapter 13), and Monica Mulrennan and Véronique Bussières’s chapter on “Indigenous Environmental Stewardship” (chapter 17). 4 These efforts are highlighted in many of the chapters of this volume, including Marianne Ignace and Ronald E. Ignace’s chapter on “A Place Called Pípsell” (chapter 8), Deborah Curran and Val Napoleon’s chapter discussing “Ethnoecology and Indigenous Legal Traditions” (chapter 16), and Jeff Corntassel’s chapter on “Restorying Indigenous Landscapes” (chapter 20). 5 For example, see the chapters by John Lutz (chapter 7) and Linda Black Elk and Janelle Marie Baker (chapter 10).

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co n t r i b u to r s

arthur adolPh Stl’átl’imx Nation, Xaxli’p, near Lillooet, British Columbia

Arthur Adolph was raised, through custom adoption, by elders Chief Sam and Susan Mitchell. They chose not to have him attend residential school, and from an early age, he spent time with them and other elders, learning out on the land and participating in the activities of the Xaxli’p Survival Territory. He has over thirty years of experience in political leadership, having served as both a chief and council member of the Xáxli’p community, and he has been employed as a political advisor/policy analyst, negotiator, researcher, project coordinator (traditional use study), and research manager (land use and occupancy). chelsey Geralda arMstronG, Phd Department of Anthropology, National Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, District of Columbia

Chelsey Geralda Armstrong completed her doctorate in archaeology and ethnobiology at Simon Fraser University. Her research explores how contemporary landscapes have been formed by social-ecological palimpsests through centuries of interactions, with a focus on Tsimshianic forest gardens dotted across the Skeena River landscape. Using archaeological, genetic, paleoecological, and ethnobiological research methods, she is teaming up with Indigenous communities to continue to document forest gardens across the Pacific Northwest. Chelsey serves on the Board of Directors of the Society of Ethnobiology and teaches community-based ethnobotanical workshops in her spare time.

Jeannette arMstronG, Phd Canada Research Chair in Indigenous Studies, University of British Columbia Okanagan, Kelowna, British Columbia

Jeannette Armstrong is Syilx Okanagan, a fluent speaker of nsyilxcn, and a traditional knowledge keeper of the Okanagan Nation. She is a founder and research director of the En’owkin Centre, a Syilx Okanagan institute of higher learning dedicated to Syilx-language revitalization and the protection of Syilx cultural identity. She has published a wide variety of academic and literary articles and has received British Columbia’s Community Achievement Award (2012), the EcoTrust Buffett Award for Indigenous Leadership (2003), and the Language Hero Award from the organizers of the Celebrating Salish Conference (2015). e. richard atleo (uMeek), Phd Ahousaht First Nation, Associate Adjunct Professor, School of Environmental Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Hereditary chief of the Ahousaht First Nation, E. Richard Atleo was the first Aboriginal person in British Columbia to earn a doctoral degree. Committed to First Nations studies and education, he led the creation of the First Nations Studies Department at Malaspina University College (now Vancouver Island University) and served as co-chair of the Scientific Panel for Sustainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound. He is the author of Tsawalk: A Nuu-chah-nulth Worldview (2004) and Principles of Tsawalk: An Indigenous Approach to Global Crisis (2011), which introduce origin stories and draw on the ontological meaning of Indigenous culture. Recipient of honorary doctorate degrees from the University of Victoria and Ryerson University in Toronto, Dr Atleo was a major advisor in developing the symposium from which this book was developed. Marlene r. atleo ( ʔ eh ʔ eh nah tuu k wiss), bhe, Ma, Phd, Phec (Mb) House of Klaaq ish peethl, Ahousaht, British Columbia, and Department of Educational Administration, Foundations and Psychology, Faculty of Education, University of Manitoba, Winnipeg

Marlene R. Atleo is a senior scholar who identifies as a fisher and academic. She has taught Aboriginal education and cross-cultural education, and she coordinated the adult and postsecondary graduate program at the University of Manitoba. Her research and teaching support Indigenous and underserved students in postsecondary settings. With an infrastructure development focus, Marlene has taught over 300 graduate students, including national award winners. She lives in Sardis, British Columbia, with E. Richard Atleo (Umeek).

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Janelle Marie baker, Phd Assistant Professor, Department of Anthropology, Athabasca University

Janelle Baker’s research focuses on sakâwiyiniwak (Northern Bush Cree) experiences with wild food contamination in Alberta’s oil sands region. She has served as a traditional land-use consultant for First Nations in the region since 2006. She continues to work on community-based environmental monitoring projects with Bigstone Cree Nation and Fort McKay First Nation and is developing new research celebrating traditional foods and boreal forest identities. She is a prime investigator with Zoe Todd (Anthropology, Carleton University) on a project financed by the SSHRC New Frontiers in Research Fund, “Plural Perspectives on Bighorn Country: Restor(y)ing Land Use Governance and Bull Trout Population Health in Alberta.”  kelly bannister, Phd Co-Director, Polis Project on Ecological Governance, Centre for Global Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Kelly Bannister’s deep interest in the ethics of biocultural research began during her doctoral research with Secwépemc Nation communities in ethnobotany and phytochemistry in the 1990s. She is committed to community-based collaborative research and education, as well as the evolution of formal ethics policy to address power relations, justice, rights, and responsibilities in intercultural collaborations. Her work draws on the concept and practice of “ethical space” (originally offered by Willie Ermine), relational ethics, conflict resolution, intercultural communication, and embodied peacemaking. She was a leader in developing the International Society of Ethnobiology’s Code of Ethics (2006) and has served as an advisor to federal and university researchers on research ethics related to Indigenous peoples. Michael bendle Associate, Woodward & Company Lawyers llP , Victoria, British Columbia

Michael Bendle holds a degree in religious studies and philosophy from Carleton University and a law degree from the University of Victoria. He was called to the bar in British Columbia in 2016. He is part of the litigation team acting for the Cowichan Nation in its Aboriginal title litigation. His other work includes providing negotiation support to the Tsilhqot’in Nation in the implementation of its Aboriginal title declaration. While a law student, he worked as a research assistant on Jeremy Webber’s book The Constitution of Canada: A Contextual Analysis (2015).

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inGela berGMan, Phd Associate Professor in Archaeology, Director of Silvermuseet/insarc , Sweden

Ingela Bergman has been the leader of a number of interdisciplinary research projects involving archaeologists, historians, forest historians, ecologists, and soil scientists. In her research, she has focused on Sami cultural landscapes and how people have interacted with, and influenced the long-term development of, subarctic ecosystems.  linda black elk, Phd(c) Catawba Nation, Department of Natural Resources, Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, Minnesota

Linda Black Elk is an ethnobotanist specializing in education about and conservation of culturally important plants and their uses as food and medicine. Linda works to protect and promote food sovereignty, traditional plant knowledge, and environmental quality as an extension of the fight against hydraulic fracturing (“fracking”) and the fossil fuels industry. She has written for numerous publications and is the author of Watoto Unyutapi (2014), a field guide to edible wild plants of the Dakota people. Linda is the mother to three Lakota boys and serves as the ethnobotanist for the Mille Lacs Band of Ojibwe, Minnesota. Malin brännstrÖM, Phd Umeå University and insarc , Sweden

Malin Brännström is employed in a postdoctoral position in the Department of Law, Umeå University, and engaged as a researcher at the Silvermuseet/INSARC . Her research is related to environmental law and property law with a focus on Sami land rights and land ownership. véroniQue bussières PhD Candidate, Department of Geography, Planning and Environment, Concordia University, Montreal, Quebec

Since 2003, Véronique has been working on conservation issues in Indigenous coastal contexts, including a close research partnership with the Cree Nation of Wemindji (Northern Quebec). Her recent publications include “SocialEcological Resilience in Indigenous Coastal Edge Contexts,” with Monica E. Mulrennan, in Ecology and Society 23, no. 3, art. 18 (2018), and “Cultural Connections: The Wemindji Eeyouch and the James Bay Coast,” in Caring for Eeyou Istchee:

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Protected Area Creation in Wemindji Cree Territory (2019). She currently holds a position with the Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (SNAP Québec). Jeff corntassel, Phd Indigenous Studies, Acting Director, Centre for Indigenous Research and Community-Led Engagement (circle ), University of Victoria, British Columbia

Jeff Corntassel is a writer, teacher, and father from the Cherokee Nation. His research and teaching interests focus on the intersections between sustainable self-determination, Indigenous resurgence, climate change, and community well-being. His research has been published in Alternatives, Decolonization, Human Rights Quarterly, and Social Science Journal. Jeff’s most recent book, Everyday Acts of Resurgence: People, Places, Practices (2018), is an edited volume in collaboration with Kanaka Maoli professors in Indigenous politics at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa. He is currently completing work for his forthcoming book on Indigenous sustainability, climate action, and community resurgence. alain cuerrier, Msc, Phd Adjunct Professor, Department of Biological Sciences, Université de Montréal, and Botanist and Researcher, Montreal Botanical Garden

Alain Cuerrier worked at Harvard University during his doctoral research, which helped him to achieve his current positions. Alain is also a writer and poet. He has undertaken research collaborations with Canadian First Nations, authored a number of publications on ethnobotany, and recently contributed to a book on medicinal plants thriving in the Arctic. He has also published a book of poetry in French. deborah curran, ba, llb, llM Associate Professor, Faculty of Law and School of Environmental Studies, and Executive Director, Environmental Law Centre, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Deborah Curran is recognized nationally for her work in environmental law reform, research, and education, particularly in freshwater governance and sustainable land use. She investigates how legal and policy structures either facilitate or impede adaptation to changing ecological conditions. Her research focuses on the foundational role of different governance processes and legal systems – both colonial and Indigenous – in determining how well any watershed community responds to specific events over time. Using different

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methodologies, she has taught an Environmental Law Clinic course for over ten years and also teaches an interdisciplinary field course with law and environmental studies students. In 2016 she was named “Land Champion” by the Real Estate Foundation of British Columbia. douGlas deur (MoxMowisa), Phd Associate Research Professor, Department of Anthropology, Portland State University, Portland, Oregon, and Adjunct Professor in Environmental Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Douglas Deur specializes in Indigenous North American  ethnoecology, the meaning and contestation of sacred sites, and Indigenous communities’ enduring attachments to landscapes and resources in parks and other public lands. For over two decades, he has been the primary third-party researcher assisting Native American tribes and the US National Park Service in documenting Indigenous peoples’ past and current connections to lands and resources in Western national parks. Adopted by Clan Chief  Kwaxsistalla  Adam Dick and given the name Moxmowisa by him, Douglas remains active in cultural and academic efforts in the Kwakwaka’wakw world. He is currently collaborating with Nancy J. Turner and Kim Recalma-Clutesi on a book-length overview of Chief Kwaxsistalla’s ethnobotanical teachings. sPencer GreeninG, Ma Gitga’at First Nation, 2018 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation Scholar, Doctoral Student, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia

Spencer Greening holds a master’s degree in anthropology from the University of Northern British Columbia. His research interests include Indigenous knowledge systems, language, identity, traditional Indigenous law, and decolonization. He is deeply connected to his home community, elders, and territories. His personal connection to his homeland is very important; when he is not engaging with it professionally, he spends as much time as he can hunting, fishing, and speaking his language with elders.  Marianne iGnace, Phd Professor, Linguistics and First Nations Studies, and Director, First Nations Language Centre, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia

Marianne Ignace is a linguistic anthropologist specializing in Indigenous language revitalization, ethnography, oratory and stories, ethnohistory, ethnobotany and ethnoecology, and youth hip-hop culture. Her publications include The

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Curtain Within: Haida Social and Symbolic Discourse (1989), Handbook on Aboriginal Language Program Planning (1998), a practical grammar of Ts’msyen Sm’algyax, Visible Grammar: Twenty User-Friendly Modules on Key Ts’msyen Sm’algyax Structures, co-authored with Margaret Anderson (2008), First Nations Language Curriculum Building Guide (2016), Secwepemc People and Plants: Research Papers in Shuswap Ethnobotany, co-edited with Nancy J. Turner and Sandra Peacock (2016), and Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yeri7 re stsq̓ey̓s-kucw (2017), co-authored with Ronald E. Ignace, as well as many articles and book chapters. She presently directs a SSHRC Partnership Grant (2013–20) focused on First Nations’ language documentation and renewal, and in May 2019 she and Chief Ronald E. Ignace were recognized for their work in Indigenous language revitalization and its connection to culture and traditional ecological knowledge with a Governor General’s Innovation Award. chief ronald e. iGnace, Ma (socioloGy), Phd (anthroPoloGy) Skeetchestn Indian Band, Secwépemc (Shuswap) Nation, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia

Dr Ronald E. Ignace has been the elected chief of the Skeetchestn Band for more than twenty-six years. Having grown up with stories and teachings in the Secwépemc language, he has lifelong experience in traditional food gathering and cultural practices. He served as chairman of the Shuswap Nation Tribal Council in the 1990s and was co-chair of a partnership program with Simon Fraser University in Kamloops, where he also taught First Nations studies and the Secwépemc language. In 2003–05 he was chair of the Federal Task Force on Aboriginal Languages and Cultures and has championed the 2016–19 initiative for federal legislation to protect Indigenous languages in Canada. He has published and co-published (with Marianne Ignace) several articles and book chapters on Secwépemc history, ethnobotany, language, and culture, including Secwépemc People, Land, and Laws / Yeri7 re stsq̓ey̓s-kucw (2017), winner of the 2018 Basil Stuart-Stubbs Prize. Chief Ronald E. Ignace and Marianne Ignace were recognized with a Governor General’s Innovation Award in May 2019 for their work in Indigenous language revitalization and its connection to culture and traditional ecological knowledge. Justine e. JaMes Cultural Resource Specialist, Division of Natural Resources, Quinault Indian Nation, Taholah, Washington

Justine E. James Jr is both an enrollee and employee of Quinault Indian Nation and works with elders to record and apply traditional ecological knowledge

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pertaining to forests, fisheries, and other natural resources. He has contributed to numerous studies, books, and scientific papers in the fields of archaeology, the ethnobiology of forests and fisheries, culturally informed natural resource restoration, and tribal history. For his work on these themes, he received a lifetime award for Outstanding Achievement in Historic Preservation from Washington State in 2018. leiGh JosePh (styawat), Msc Skwxwú7mesh (Squamish) First Nation, PhD Candidate, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Leigh Joseph is particularly interested in linkages between Indigenous plant relationships, land-based practices, and health. Her doctoral research focuses on how the type 2 diabetes crisis in two Indigenous communities can be addressed through increased access to Indigenous foods, plant medicines, and culturally related exercise. She deeply values land-based experiential learning about culturally important plants and how they connect us to place, and she is motivated to share this aspect of her own learning with the Indigenous communities she works with. dana lePofsky, Phd Professor, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia

Dana Lepofsky is an archaeologist and archaeobotanist whose strongly multidisciplinary research ranges from individual species to entire landscapes. Working closely with many First Nations of coastal British Columbia and Washington State, she often coordinates research teams that seek to blend local ecological and historical knowledge with archaeological data in order to understand Northwest peoples’ interactions with their biological worlds. She is a co-editor of the Journal of Ethnobiology and has published numerous peer-reviewed papers and book chapters. She has also edited special issues of journals, including Ethnobotany in British Columbia: Plants and People in a Changing World, BC Studies, no. 179 (2013), with Nancy J. Turner. A project she led in collaboration with the Heiltsuk Nation, Húy̓at: Our Voices, Our Land, is online at www.hauyat.ca. John sutton lutz, Phd Professor of History, University of Victoria, British Columbia

With research focusing on the Pacific Northwest, John Lutz studies histories of race, labour, and Indigenous-settler relations from the time of first contact

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between Indigenous peoples and Europeans in the 1770s. A co-director of the Great Unsolved Mysteries in Canadian History Project, he has a keen interest in the impact of digital technologies on research and in the teaching and dissemination of history. Author of many articles and book chapters, he is the editor or a co-editor of four books, including Towards a New Ethnohistory: Community-Engaged Scholarship among the People of the River (2018) and Myth and Memory: Stories of Indigenous-European Contact (2007), and he is the author of Makúk: A New History of Aboriginal-White Relations (2008), winner of the 2010 Harold Adams Innis Prize for the best book in the social sciences in Canada. darcy Mathews, Phd Assistant Professor, School of Environmental Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Darcy Mathews is an ethnoecologist and archaeologist who researches the deep history of Indigenous peoples of western North America. Working in collaboration with the Songhees, W̱ SÁNEĆ, Heiltsuk, and other First Nations, he has documented the antiquity and characteristics of a range of traditional management approaches, including estuarine root gardens, tidal-pulse fish traps, clam gardens, landscape-burning regimes, and the long-term use and management of tree bark and wood through the study of culturally modified trees. Darcy has recently begun a collaborative research project, with Songhees elder Joan Morris (Sellemah) as advisor, at an archipelago near Oak Bay, Victoria, called Tl’ches, the ancestral home of Joan and her family. letitia M. M c cune, Msc, Phd Principal Consultant, BotanyDoc, llc , Consulting Services in Plant Sciences and Nutrition, Tucson, Arizona

Letitia M. McCune has degrees in plant science and postdoctoral experience in nutritional sciences. She has worked with the San Carlos Apache Tribe Forest Resources Department, the Skeetchestn Natural Resources Corporation, the Centre for Indigenous Peoples’ Nutrition and Environment at McGill University, and the seed-conservation organization Native Seeds/SEARCH . Her consulting work through her company, BotanyDoc, LLC (www.botanydoc.com), has focused on Indigenous peoples’ intellectual property rights to their seeds, foods, and medicines. Projects have included analyzing the nutritional benefits of traditional diets, documenting the benefits of copper soils to traditional medicines (versus copper extraction through mining), and producing associated presentations and publications.

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aaron Mills, Jd, llM Bear Clan, Member of Couchiching First Nation (Anishinaabe), Treaty No. 3 Territory, Resident of North Bay, Robinson-Huron Treaty Territory, Canada Research Chair (Tier 2) in Indigenous Constitutionalism and Philosophy, Faculty of Law, McGill University

Aaron Mills studies Indigenous systems of law, especially that used by his own Anishinaabe Nation, including how they function and how they might assist in both identifying and changing the violent dynamics of Indigenous-settler relationships and of human-earth relationships on Turtle Island today. His core political project is Indigenous constitutional revitalization, which places the earth at the centre of law. He sat on the Indigenous Bar Association’s board of directors from 2013 to 2016. His graduate work on Anishinaabe constitutionalism has garnered numerous academic awards, including a SSHRC Talent Award and appointments as a Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation Scholar, Vanier Canada Scholar, and Fulbright Scholar.   Monica MontGoMery, Msc Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Management, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa

Monica Montgomery is from the Puget Sound area of Washington State. She recently graduated from the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa with a master’s degree in natural resources and environmental management. Her current work with the Kū‘oko‘a Initiative is focused on connecting university and community more closely in order to strengthen community capacity to govern the use and care of natural resources throughout Hawaiʻi. Monica e. Mulrennan, Phd Associate Professor, Department of Geography, Planning and Environment, and Associate Vice-President of Research and Graduate Studies, Concordia University, Montreal, Quebec

Monica E. Mulrennan is a founding member of the Centre for Indigenous Conservation and Development Alternatives at McGill University and an honorary member of the ICCA (Indigenous Peoples’ and Community Conserved Areas and Territories) Consortium. Born and raised in Ireland, she undertook postdoctoral work in Australia before moving to Canada. A physical geographer by training, Monica’s research interests focus on Indigenous peoples and their knowledge, use, and stewardship of coastal/marine environments, including communitydriven strategies of environmental protection that draw upon Indigenous insti-

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tutions of knowledge and practice. She is a co-editor of Caring for Eeyou Istchee: Protected Area Creation in Wemindji Cree Territory (2019). val naPoleon, Phd, iPc Law Foundation Chair of Aboriginal Justice and Governance and Founding Director of the Indigenous Law Research Unit and the Joint Degree Program in Canadian Common Law and Indigenous Legal Orders, Faculty of Law, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Val Napoleon is from Saulteau First Nation (Treaty 8) and is an adopted member of the Gitanyow (northern Gitxsan) House of Luuxhon, Ganada (Frog) Clan. Her research focuses on Indigenous legal traditions, legal theories, feminisms, citizenship, self-determination, human rights, and governance. She partners with Indigenous communities across Canada on Indigenous law research related to issues such as water, harms and injuries, gender, and lands and resources, as well as on national and international research. She teaches Indigenous feminist legal studies, property law (common, Gitxsan, and transsystemic), and Indigenous legal theories and methodologies. lars Östlund Professor, Department of Forest Ecology and Management, Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences, Umeå, Sweden

Lars Östlund is a forest ecologist specializing in forest history in northern regions. His current research, often in collaboration with Sami and other Indigenous communities, is focused on fire history, Indigenous ethnoecology, and forest landscape transformations in northern Scandinavia and southern Patagonia. Recently, he was an expert witness in the court case between the Swedish state and the Girjas Sami village in northernmost Sweden. kiM recalMa-clutesi (oQwilowGwa) Qualicum First Nation, Qualicum Beach, British Columbia

A lifetime member of the Qualicum First Nation, with both Northern Coast Salish and Kwakwaka’wakw ancestry, Kim Recalma-Clutesi has been immersed in First Nations political and cultural life from early childhood. Well trained in the cultural knowledge and traditions of her nation, she is a recognized expert in organizing meetings, feasts, and potlatches, as well as in food traditions, ethnobotany and ethnoecology, oral history, cultural and ceremonial protocols, and visual documentation of cultural practices. She has dedicated her life to supporting and working for traditional leaders, including her longtime partner,

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Clan Chief Adam Dick (Kwaxsistalla wath’thla). A leader in her own right, she has been a constant and unfailing advocate for Indigenous rights, ethical politics, and environmental integrity.  david M. robbins Partner, Woodward & Company Lawyers llP , Victoria, British Columbia

David Robbins’s core law practice is focused on finding remedies for historic and ongoing Crown interferences with Aboriginal occupation and use of lands and resources. With degrees in law (University of Victoria) and philosophy (University of British Columbia), he has advocated successfully for First Nations at all levels of court. His work has contributed to securing multiple victories for the Tsilhqot’in Nation, including the Supreme Court of Canada’s landmark judgment of 26 June 2014 declaring Aboriginal title for the first time in Canada. Currently, he acts as counsel to the Cowichan Nation in its Aboriginal title litigation in British Columbia. David is the author of “Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia: A Decade after Delgamuukw,” in Aboriginal Law since Delgamukw (2009).  Jacinta ruru, Phd, frsnz (raukawa, nGāti ranGinui) Co-Director, Nga Pae O Te Maramatanga / New Zealand’s Māori Centre of Research Excellence, and Professor, Faculty of Law, University of Otago, Dunedin, Aotearoa New Zealand

Jacinta Ruru’s extensive research considers Indigenous peoples’ rights, interests, and responsibilities to own and care for lands and waters, particularly in Aotearoa New Zealand and Canada. A fellow of the Royal Society of Te Apārangi and  recipient of the Prime Minister’s Supreme Award for Excellence in Tertiary Teaching, she has published widely, including as a co-author of Discovering Indigenous Lands: The Doctrine of Discovery in the English Colonies  (2010). Jacinta teaches first-year law and upper-level courses in Māori land law and in law and Indigenous peoples. stuart rush, Qc Retired Member of the bc Law Society and Former Partner of Rush Crane Guenther Lawyers

Stuart Rush was called to the bar in British Columbia in 1971 and appointed Queen’s Counsel in 1992. Over that time, he has practised in British Columbia in the areas of criminal, civil, labour, and Aboriginal law and has written extensively on Aboriginal title and rights and the use of oral history as evidence. He has appeared before the BC Court of Appeal, Supreme Court of British Columbia,

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Federal Court of Appeal, and Supreme Court of Canada, and he has represented Indigenous organizations in Aboriginal litigation throughout Canada. Leading cases he has worked on include Delgamuukw (on which he acted as lead counsel), Guerin, Van der Peet, NTC Smokehouse, Gladstone, and Haida Nation. caMilla sandstrÖM Professor in Political Science, Umeå University, Sweden

Camilla Sandström’s main research interests relate to environmental governance and natural resource management, with a particular focus on forest policy, wildlife management, and climate change mitigation and adaptation.  John ralston saul, cc, oont. John Ralston Saul is an award-winning Canadian political philosopher, writer, novelist, and essayist who was named a Companion of the Order of Canada in 1999. He is best known for his thought-provoking writings on citizenship and the public good. Because of his inspiring futuristic thinking, he has been called “a prophet” by Time magazine and was included in the Utne Reader’s list of the world’s leading thinkers and visionaries. He is the author of many best-selling books; his works have been translated into at least twenty-five languages in thirty-six countries. His book The Comeback: How Aboriginals Are Reclaiming Power and Influence  (2014) was an inspiration for the symposium upon which the present volume is based, and his conversation with Dr E. Richard Atleo (Umeek) in chapter 24 comprises a key retrospective on the symposium. PaMela sPaldinG Doctoral Candidate, School of Environmental Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia

Pamela Spalding’s research asks, If Indigenous peoples’ access to culturally significant plant species represents a form of Aboriginal rights, how can these rights be affirmed and exercised through long-term, sustainable co-management arrangements between First Nations and state governments? Pamela has extensive academic and professional experience in analyzing the challenges in using traditional ecological knowledge when applied to issues of government, land-use planning, treaty negotiations, and Aboriginal rights in British Columbia. She is currently working closely with the T’Sou-ke Nation of Vancouver Island to document its people’s past and potential relationships with their traditional territory and its plant resources.

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JaMes tully, Phd, frsc Distinguished Professor Emeritus, Faculty of Political Science, Law, and Philosophy, University of Victoria, British Columbia, and Emeritus Fellow, Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation

James Tully is a leading political and legal theorist and philosopher who has lectured and published widely on topics such as public philosophy, freedom, constitutionalism, nonviolence, civic engagement, and Indigenous-settler relations. He has published eleven authored and edited volumes and over ninety chapters and articles. His two-volume work, Public Philosophy in a New Key (2008), was awarded the C.B. Macpherson Prize by the Canadian Political Science Association for best book in political theory for that year. He is author of On Global Citizenship (2014), editor of Richard Gregg’s The Power of Nonviolence (2018), and co-editor of Resurgence and Reconciliation: Indigenous-Settler Relations and Earth Teachings (2018). nancy J. turner, cM, obc, Phd, fls, frsc Distinguished Professor Emeritus, School of Environmental Studies, University of Victoria, British Columbia, and 2015 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation Fellow

Nancy J. Turner is an ethnobotanist and ethnoecologist who has worked with Indigenous elders and knowledge holders of northwestern North America for over fifty years to document their complex knowledge of plants and environments, including traditional food systems and Indigenous management of lands and resources. She has authored and co-authored over 100 papers and book chapters, as well as over twenty books. Her two-volume book Ancient Pathways, Ancestral Knowledge: Ethnobotany and Ecological Wisdom of Indigenous Peoples of Northwestern North America (2014) received the Canada Prize in Social Sciences, among other awards. She has a longstanding interest in Indigenous peoples’ land and resource rights, and she served as an expert witness regarding Tsilhqot’in and Xeni Gwet’in plant use and occupancy in Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia, a land rights trial held in the Supreme Court of British Columbia. Mehana blaich vauGhan Professor, Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Management, University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa

Mehana Blaich Vaughan is a Native Hawaiian from Halele‘a and Kilauea, Kaua‘i. She is a faculty member in the Department of Natural Resources and Environmental Management at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa. In her research and teaching, she aims to enhance community capacity to cultivate, care for, and

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govern natural resources at the local level. Mehana is a lei maker and mother of three children. She recently published her first book, Kaiāulu: Gathering Tides (2018).  williaM white (kasalid/xeliMulh) Snuneymuxw First Nation, British Columbia

William White has worked with traditionally trained sulsalewh (elders) since the mid-1970s. For twenty-five years, he has collaborated with Kim Recalma-Clutesi and Clan Chief Adam Dick (Kwaxsistalla wath-thla) on a number of films, and he served as one of Kwaxsistalla’s speakers when travelling with Kwaxsistalla’s mask complex. For the same period, he has collaborated with Dr Philip Cook of the International Institute for Child Rights to document traditional teachings. They both worked closely with the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child. Together, they published three articles and travelled to South Africa twice to establish traditional training centres for urban youth and to train professionals.

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index

Italicized page numbers indicate figures and tables. Aboriginal Diabetes Initiative, 152 Aboriginal rights and title: and agriculture, 14, 17, 320–2; dismissive view of colonizers, 16; and Indigenous law, 276–8, 333; for Pípsell by SSN , 133–4; and politics of distraction, 21; as pre-existing legal rights and laws, 333; recognition, 5–6; for Xáxli’p, 75–7. See also rights; title academia and academics: activism and resistance, 183–4; and cultural education, 387, 389–91, 399; and Indigenous knowledge, 386–8 acknowledgment, importance and role, 425–7, 429–30, 431 activism, 183–4. See also resistance and protests Adams, Primrose, 335 adaptive co-management, 373 Afton Mine, 137 agriculture: and assimilation, 73–4; camas cultivation, 96, 97, 98, 115–20, 229, 357–60; and education, 391; farms and soils near Fort Victoria, 121–3, 122; impact at Pípsell, 136–7; Indigenous practices, 14, 43, 320–2; Lekwungen as workers, 124; and occupation of territories, 320–2, 324; potential at Fort Victoria, 109, 120–1, 125; restrictions on Indigenous peoples, 74;

rights and title, 320–2; rights and title for colonizers, 14, 17 Ahousaht First Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) (2014 and 2015), 272–3 Ahousaht First Nation, 52 ahupuaʻa, fisheries and resources management, 238, 239–40, 241, 242, 249 Ainsworth Lumber Company, 74–5 Ajax Mine: denial of consent by SSN , 132, 145, 148n15, 276–7; development at Pípsell, 132; impact, 132, 143–4 Akaitcho First Nations, 390 akule (bigeye scad), 239, 243 Alaska, policy on plant gathering, 230 Alaska National Interest Land Conservation Act (1980), 230 Alaska yellow cedar, 95–6 Albanel-Témiscamie-Otish Park, 162 Alberta, oil and gas industry, 176, 177 Alfred, T., 366 altitude: and harvesting, 39, 40; and potency of plants, 153, 227–8 Anicinapek community, ecosystem services, 294 animals: acknowledgment, 425, 429–30, 431; ceremonies and gratitude for, 41–2; and harvesting, 40–1; and plants, 356; relationships with, 431; and Secwépemc, 132, 136, 138 Anishinaabe, learning from the land, 65–9 Anishinaabe inaakonigewin (law), 65, 69

anthropologists, as expert witnesses, 326–7 antioxidants, in plants as medicine, 153, 154–7, 161, 162 Aoraki/Mount Cook (Aotearoa NZ ), 210 Aotearoa New Zealand: biodiversity crisis, 205; conservation examples today, 209–16; creation narrative and arrival of Māori, 203–4; flora (see Tāne’s children); impact of settlers, 204–5; land claims, 208, 209–10, 212; law and plants, 205, 207–9, 210; law and protected areas, 205–7, 209–16; park management with Māori, 210–16; and reconciliation, 207–9, 210–11; rights of Nature, 296, 298; treaty and laws, 204–5, 207–10 Applegate, O.C., 227 archaeobotany, examples in coastal BC , 91–100 archaeological sites: definition and designation in BC , 88–9; educational value, 101; and material remains, 87; protection in BC, 88, 90–1, 94–5, 101, 102 archaeology: definition, 87; and material remains, 87, 88, 91 archaeology of Indigenous peoples: authors’ work, 87–8; and descendant communities, 86, 87; documentation of plant-people relationships, 91–100; 1846 cutoff, 88, 93, 95, 96; expansive and integrative version, 100–2; and heritage laws, 87, 88–91; integration of local knowledge, 86–7, 91; new awareness, 86, 88, 100–1; and physical evidence, 90; at Pípsell, 136; plants and plant use, 88, 90, 91; role, 88 Arctic region, role and use of plants, 11 Armstrong, Christine, 43 Armstrong, Jeannette (Aunt), 46–7 Arundinaria gigantea, 361 ash, mountain. See mountain ash Assinica Park, 162 Atla’gimma (“Spirits of the Forest”) Dance cycle: description and origin, xix, xxi, xxii–xxiii, xxvi, xxxii n2; message of respect and obligation, 438; presentation at symposium, xvii–xix, xxi–xxiii, xxii, xxiii, xxvi; and sustainability, xxi, 403; and unsustainable relationships, 404, 405, 407 Atleo, E. Richard (Umeek) (Chief): on acknowledgment, 425, 426; on court decisions, 420, 422; on experiential knowledge, 428–9; marriage, 52; on non-Indigenous attitudes to land, 18; on

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oneness, 55; plants as beings, 423–5, 427; Raven story, 51; on relationships, 405, 420, 421–2, 423–5, 426, 427, 428–9, 431; on rights, 421–2; and symposium, xxv, xxviii, 419–20, 423; as teacher, 403; work, 419 Atleo, George (Shamuck George) (Chief), 53–4 Atleo, Marlene, 53 Atleo, Nan (Grace) Margaret, 52, 53, 53–4 Atleo lineage and houses, 52–4, 55, 60 Atl-iu (Atleo) group, 60 atl-iu technology, 60–1 Australia, ecosystem services, 293–4 Aycock, S.L., 74 Bagelman, J., 361 Bailie, A., and colleagues, 160 Baka people of Cameroon, 163 bark: for diabetes, 156–7, 158–9; and Haida, 339; peeling by Sami, 195, 196 basketry: Haida, 334, 336–7; Nuučaan̓uł, 54 Bavikatte, K., 286, 301 Baxley, Willis, 223 Bayley, Charles, 123 BC Treaty Commission, and co-management, 367–8, 376, 378 Beacon Hill Park (Meeqan), and camas, 120, 360 beargrass, 229 bear tooth (Ɂesghunsh), 317, 319 Beckley Farm, 123 belief systems, and plant management, 9 Bell, Marcus, 116 Berkes, F., 151; and colleagues, 372–3 berries and berry plants: in annual cycle, 58–9; care and resistance for, 174, 175–6, 185; contamination by industry, 176; cultural knowledge and practices, 179–81; in Fort McKay area, 177–8; Haida Gwaii, 340; for Lekwungen, 120; picking as research, 178, 181; practices and management in national parks, 226–7, 228; respect for, 174, 177; usufruct rights, 228. See also specific berries Betula pubescens, 194, 194, 196 Betula pubescens ssp. tortuosa, 194, 194 Bhopalsingh, L.A., 74 Bigstone Cree Nation, wild food contamination, 176, 177 biocultural community protocols (BCP s), 287 biocultural rights, 286–7, 289–90 biodiversity conservation: and Aboriginalstate relations in Canada, 290–2; agency

in (see space for Indigenous agency in biodiversity conservation); and cultural diversity, 282–3, 299; definition and concept, 283, 299; discourse changes, 283; international legal and policy instruments, 283–7, 299–300; mechanisms, 283–98, 300–1; payments for ecosystem services, 284, 292–4, 300; protected areas/ICCA s, 284, 287–92, 300; rights of Nature, 284, 294–8, 300; and traditional knowledge, 282–3 biological appropriation, 256 biomimicry, 406 birch, 194, 194, 196 birch, mountain, 194, 194 birds, in Secwépemc territory, 138 bison, 49, 355–7 Black Elk, Linda, 173 Blackfoot homelands, restorying and resurgence, 355–7 black huckleberry. See huckleberry, black Black Raven boat, xix black spruce. See spruce, black blueberry, velvet-leaf, 177 blue elderberry. See elderberry, blue Boas, Franz, 411, 415 Bolivia, rights of Pachamama, 295–6, 297 boreal forest, antioxidants in plants, 154–7 Borrows, John, 366 Bouchard, Randy, 39, 42, 72, 77, 396 boundaries, meaning, 101 Boyd, David, 295 bracken fern. See fern, bracken Brant Castellano, Marlene, 261–2, 263–4 Briggs, M.C., 225 British Columbia: archaeological sites, 88–9, 90–1, 94–5, 101, 102; co-management examples, 374–8; court cases for harvesting, 44–5; curbing of Crown role in land use, 274–5; denial of consent to Ajax Mine/KGHM , 145, 148n15; ecosystem services, 293; 1846 cutoff, 315, 332–3, 368; expert witnesses, 326; final agreements, 376–7; forests ownership, 372; geographic diversity, 12; heritage laws (see heritage laws in BC ); JSA and JRAC with Xáxli’p, 76; land rights cases, 420–1; land use and law, 269–70, 277–8; laws over Indigenous lands, 16, 73; reserve lands reduction, 16; sovereignty over lands, 368; treaty attitudes of colonizers, 15–16; tribal parks, 290; union with Canada, 72–3; water use

and Indigenous law, 269–70, 276, 277–8. See also specific topics and cases British Columbia Court of Appeal, 323–4 British Columbia Supreme Court civil rules, 326 British Columbia Terms of Union (1871), 72–3 British Crown: in Aotearoa NZ , 204–5; 1846 sovereignty cutoff in BC , 315, 332–3; law in colonial era, 332; policy of land acquisition, 15 British North America Act, extinguishment of rights, 45 Brown, Lucy, 393 Brown, Robert, 116–17 Brundtland Report (UN , 1987), 282 Bryce, Cheryl, 357, 359–60 “buen vivir” (sumak kawsay), 295 buffaloberries, 178 buffaloberries, silver, 183 Buffalo Treaty, 356–7 bulbs, digging practices, 224–5 bull kelp. See kelp, bull “bundles of rights” concept, 257–8 burial cairns of Lekwungen, 96–7 burning: for camas, 118–19, 228–9; documentation, 97–8; as ecosystem services, 293–4; Fort Victoria records, 118, 119; by Lekwungen, 117–20, 118; in national parks of US, 222–3, 225, 226–7, 228–9; by Secwépemc, 136; by Syilx, 43; use and role, 97–8; of wetlands, 228–9 Butler, C., 368 Cadboro Bay (BC ), as ritual landscape, 96–7 Calder v. Attorney-General of British Columbia (1973), 324 California black oak acorns. See oak, California black “Calls to Action” of TRC , 6, 269 camas (qʷɫaɁəl or qwlháal): bulbs, 116, 359; burning practices, 118–19, 228–9; cultivation and harvest, 96, 97, 98, 115–20, 229, 357–60; flower, 116, 358; as food, 115–16, 117, 357, 358–9; impact of nonIndigenous people, 123, 370–1; importance, 115, 357; management, 96–7; in restorying and resurgence, 357–60; trade, 117 camas, death, 116, 363n1, 371 Camassia leichtlinii and C. quamash. See camas cambium, 195 “Camosack,” 109 Canada National Parks Act, 376

Index | 461

Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, 152, 422 cane, river (lhiya), 361 care and caring, 174, 185, 430 Caring for Country prescribed-burning projects, 293–4 Carroll, C., 20 Carter, Paul, 111 cedar: in oral history of Haida, 342; use by Haida, 334, 339, 340; western redcedar (see redcedar, western); yellow, 95–6 “ceremonial or religious purposes” plant harvesting, 230, 231 ceremonies: first-fruit ceremonies, 226; for life harvested, 41–2; Syilx, 41–2, 46, 48 Chamaecyparis nootkatensis, 95–6 Chance, D.H., 42 character formation (ethos), of settlers as guests, 413, 414–15 Charlie, Dawn (Sts’ailes), 94 Charlie, Jimmy, 88 Charter of Conquest, 71 Charter of Rights and Freedoms, 152, 422 charts of explorers, 112 Cherokee: knowledge transmission, 20; leadership by example, 363; restorying and resurgence, 361–2; seed banks, 361–2; stories, 352, 353 Cherokee Nation Heirloom Seed Bank, 361 Chilahitsa, John (Chief), 409 children and youth, in reconciliation, 432 Christie, G., 366 Churchill, Delores, 336–7, 345 cities, and plants, 426–7, 430 Cittadino, F., 285 civilization of Europe, dismissal of Indigenous peoples, 13–14, 17, 411, 415–16 claims (land claims): in Aotearoa NZ , 208, 209–10, 212; cash settlement, 4; dismissal by colonizers, 16, 17; and IPCAs, 291 clam gardens, restoration, 101 Claxton, E., Sr (YELḰÁTŦE), 17–18 Clayoquot region, co-management, 378 Clayoquot Sound, symposium at, xxviii Claytonia lanceolata, 317, 318 Clifford, Robert YELḰÁTŦE, 270 Clifton, Justin, Jr, 99 Clupea pallasii roe fisheries, 271, 272–5 CMTs. See culturally modified trees Coastal GasLink (CGL ), in Wet’suwet’en homelands, 351 Cochrane, C., 75

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Code of Federal Regulations (US, 1983), and plant gathering, 230–1 Colombia, rights of Nature, 298 colonialism and colonization: and Indigenous law, 271, 278; invisible losses from, 353; law applied, 332; and resurgence, 352–3, 354; and virtuous vs vicious relationships, 405 colonial powers: law applied, 332; logic of expansion, 14–17, 73–4 colonizers (pre-settlement and first settlers): dismissal of Indigenous management, 16–18; and empire expansion, 107–8; erasure of humans, 111–12; flora protection in Aotearoa NZ , 204–7; miners’ impact, 72; “real whites” vs “other whites” in Laurier Memorial, 409–10, 412–15; seeking site for new headquarters, 108–10; views on lands, 14–18, 71; “wilderness” concept, 14–15, 371. See also non-Indigenous people coltsfoot, palmate, 227–8 Columbia River, 108 co-management: agreement examples in BC , 374–8; as arrangement, 22, 367, 373, 378, 379; concept and models, 373–4, 375; and corporations, 377–8; in final agreements, 376–7; plant management and harvesting, 373–7, 378; and rights, 367, 374–5; and sovereignty, 367–8, 377 Commoner, Barry, 403 common law, 332–3, 337; test for possession, 345n11 commons, 371–3 Community-Based Subsistence Fishing Area (CBSFA ) in Hawaiʻi, 247–8, 248 Community Forest Tenure Agreement, 375 Confederation, impact, 72–3 Conference of the Parties, 285 consent: denial for Ajax Mine, 145, 148n15, 276–7; “free, prior and informed consent,” 286, 291 conservancies in BC , 274, 275 conservation: best practices, 42–3; biocentric focus, 299; definition in Aotearoa NZ , 206; examples in Aotearoa NZ 209–16. See also biodiversity conservation Conservation Act (Aotearoa NZ , 1987), 206, 207 Constitution Act, 1982. See section 35 of Constitution Act, 1982 contamination of wild foods, 176, 177 Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD) (UN ), 284–5, 286–7

copper, and plants as medicine, 161–2 Corntassel, J., 38, 366 corporations and corporate interests: and comanagement, 377–8; government policies for, 75, 79n9; land use and resources, 37, 74–5, 372, 377; right of exploitation, 75 Cosgrove, Denis, 111 Couchiching First Nation and lands, 65, 66 Courchene, George, 262 court cases and decisions: on Aboriginal and treaty rights, 271; challenges, 6, 272–5; evolution in rights cases, 420–1, 422–3, 425; and government-to-government agreements, 271–4, 275; on harvesting, 44–5; impact on Indigenous peoples, 6, 420–2. See also Supreme Court of Canada; specific cases courts: and expert witnesses, 326–7; oral history and evidence, 198–9, 421, 423 cranberries, low-bush, 177 Crater Lake National Park, 226–7 Cree: diabetes, 155, 157–8; plants as medicine, 155, 157–60, 159, 162–3; protected areas, 291; wild food contamination, 176, 177 Creek Women/Creek Woman stories, 342–3 Crown. See British Crown; governments in Canada Cruikshank, J., 375 Cuerrier, A., and colleagues, 133 cultivation. See agriculture cultural appropriation, 256 cultural diversity, and biodiversity conservation, 282–3, 299 cultural keystone places: at Pípsell, 133, 134, 145, 146; and plants as medicine, 151 cultural keystone species: berries in Fort McKay area, 177; bison, 355–6; and burning, 228; definition and concept, 137, 355–6; and ecosystem services, 294; at Pípsell, 137–8 cultural knowledge: and education, 386–7, 389–92, 399; introduction protocol and ancestors, 389; and plants, 179–81, 393–4, 395, 397–8; revitalization and renewal, 387, 391–2 cultural landscapes, and documentation of plant-people relationships, 98–100 culturally modified trees (CMT s): Haida Gwaii, 339; and heritage laws, 91, 95–6; in plantpeople relationships, 95–6, 100; Sami in Sweden, 194–5, 196 culture areas of Indigenous peoples in Canada, 11; role and use of plants, 10–13

Daigle, Michelle, 361 Dakota Access, LLC , 182–3 Dakota Access Pipeline: description, 182–3; destruction of land and resources, 175, 183, 184; plants pre-destruction, 183; protests, 181–2, 183, 184 Daly, Herman, 36 damage and destruction: in Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxi–xxii; Dakota Access Pipeline, 175, 183, 184; and economy, 18–19, 36; and food, 37; impact and accumulation, 18–19; and knowledge transmission, 19–20; of land and resource systems, 17–20, 21, 37, 370–1; and modernist worldview, 415–16; nature and humans, 36, 37; and plant-people relationships, 370–1; restoration, 21–2; as trauma, 19 Dasiqox Tribal Park, 290 Davidson, Robert, 338, 404, 409 Davidson-Hunt, I., 151 Dawson, George M., 139, 142, 338 death camas. See camas, death Dechinta Centre for Research and Learning, 390–1 Declaration of Belém (ISE , 1988), 257, 259, 282 Declaration of the Lillooet Tribe, 75–6 decolonization, 21, 353–4, 368 Delgamuukw v. British Columbia (1997): expert witnesses, 326–7; importance and impact, xxix, 421, 423; and legal test for title, 315, 336; and management by Indigenous peoples, 17 Department of Fisheries and Oceans, 75, 272–3 Derriksan, Noel, 44 descendant communities, 86, 87 De Smet, Pierre-Jean, 115 diabetes: and antioxidants, 154–5; in Indigenous peoples, 156; and plants as medicine, 154–60, 161–2 Dick, Adam. See Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick Dickson, Brian, 44 “diffusion thesis,” 411 Diver, Sibyl, 373 Doctrine of Discovery, 71–2 Donaldson, Dan, 74 Douglas, David, 117 Douglas, James: flora description, 119–20; at Fort Vancouver, 107; as good guest in gift-reciprocity system, 414; on Indigenous peoples, 8, 124; land acquisition, 15; on lands and farming potential, 109, 120–1, 122, 125; on location for Victoria, 107,

Index | 463

109–10; mention of inhabitants, 112; native plant communities survey, 112–14, 113; plans for establishment, 113 Douglas Trail, 71 Douglas Treaties of Vancouver Island, 15, 16, 357, 402, 414 Downing, A., and colleagues, 158 Draney, Charles, 140 Durban Accord, 288, 289 Dutfield, Graham, 257–8 duty to consult, as right, 271 Dyck, R., 75 earth and living earth: protection and rights, 295–6, 297; and regeneration, 406; and relationship between non-Indigenous and Indigenous, 408–9, 411–14; and virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404–6 Earth Summit (1992), 284 earthway: Anishinaabe view, 66–9; in relationship between non-Indigenous and Indigenous, 410, 411–13 eastern hardwood forests region, 12 Ebey’s Prairie (US), prescribed fires, 98 ecological legacies, and plant-people relationships, 91–5 ecological succession, 406 economy: damage and destruction for, 18–19, 36; and gift-reciprocity system, 408; Indigenous peoples in, 18, 19, 21, 373; nature in, 36, 37; and privatization, 371–2; profit as goal, 18, 371–2 ecosystem damage, 370–1 ecosystem services, 292, 293–4. See also payments for ecosystem services Ecosystem Services Toolkit, 294 Ecuador, protection of Pachamama, 295, 296, 297 Eddie, Anakala, 240 edible inner bark, 195 education: cultural and academic collaboration, 387, 389–92, 399; emotions in, 391–2; importance, xxviii; and Indigenous knowledge, 46–7, 386–7, 389, 391–2; from nature, 406 Eeyou Istchee Cree Nation, 155, 157–8 1846 cutoff: in archaeology, 88, 93, 95, 96; sovereignty of BC , 315, 332–3, 368 Ekuanitshit Innu Nation, 295 elderberry, blue, 94 Eldridge, Morley, 317 Elliott, Dave, Sr, 3

464 | Index

Elliott, J., Sr (STOLȻEȽ), 17–18 Enns, Eli, 255 En’owkin Centre (Penticton), 47 environment, reconciliation with, 37–8, 430 environmental destruction. See damage and destruction environmental governance: court challenges of government decisions, 272–4; curbing of Crown role, 274–5; Indigenous law and management, 276–7 environmental impact assessments, 134, 144–5, 146 environmental stewardship, 284, 286–7, 301 epidemics, 72 Ermine, Willie, 262–3, 264 Erythronium grandiflorum, 317, 319 Esquimalt First Nation, 357. See also Lekwungen Coast Salish estuarine “garden” sites, 92, 93; as ecological legacies, 91–3; and heritage laws, 92–3; loss through treaty, 16; restoration, 101, 398 Etapp, Charlie, 158 ethics: code of ISE , 259–61, 262; concerns in land rights and responsibilities, 256, 264–5; definition, 258–9; and ethical space, 262–4; and expert witnesses, 326–7; Indigenous peoples’ contribution, 261–5; relational ethics, 263–4; in research, 259, 260–5; Secwépemc, 143, 144, 146; Syilx, 38, 45, 47; TCPS chapter 9, 260–2 ethnobiology and ethnobiologists: as allies for community studied, 183, 256; appropriation concerns, 256; ethics, 259–61, 262, 264–5; rights-based discourse, 256–8 ethnobotany: in BC , xx–xxi; definition, description, and role, 6–7; evidence in Girjas case, 192–9; expert opinion in trials, 313–14, 316–17, 319–21, 323, 324, 325–6; land rights and responsibilities, 256, 264–5; in paleoethnobotany, 91 ethnoecology: berry picking as research, 178, 181; definition, description, and role, 6–7, 270; evidence in Girjas case, 192–9; expert opinion in trials, 313–14, 316–17, 319–21, 323, 324, 325–6; and Indigenous law, 269– 72, 278; land rights and responsibilities, 256, 264–5; and paleoethnobotany, 91; wild food contamination, 176 evergreen huckleberry. See huckleberry, evergreen everyday life, and resurgence, 354–5, 360–1, 362–3

expert witnesses: role and rule in courts, 326–7; in Tsilhqot’in title cases, 313–14, 316–17, 319–21, 323, 324, 325–6 federal government in Canada: commercial herring harvest, 271, 272–4; denial of consent to Ajax Mine/KGHM , 145; extinguishment of rights, 45; and government-to-government agreements, 271–4, 276; IPCAs and land claims, 290–1; policies for Indigenous peoples, xix–xx. See also governments in Canada federalism, as model, 366 Federal Register (US), plant gathering in national parks, 232 fern, bracken (šiƛmapt), 56, 57, 58 fern, licorice (hihit’a), 60 final agreements, and co-management, 376–7 Finlayson, Duncan, 109 Finlayson, Roderick, 123–4 fire. See burning first-fruit ceremonies, 226 First Nations: alliances in Buffalo Treaty, 356–7; duty to consult by Crown, 271; and government-to-government agreements, 272–7; plant knowledge, 5; relationship with plants, 4, 5, 20. See also Indigenous peoples; specific nations and groups fish and fishing: ceremonies and gratitude for, 41–2; and environmental flow needs, 276, 277–8; at Pípsell, 138; relationship with in Hawaiʻi, 242–3; and rights, 44, 75, 192–3; technology of Haida, 339–40. See also salmon fisheries: management in Hawaiʻi, 238–49; Pacific herring, 271, 272–5 fish knife, D-shaped (č’it’aqƛ), 57, 58 fish traps, mapping, 99 Foam Woman story, 343 food: ceremonies and recognition for, 41–2; contamination by industry, 176, 177; hygiene in processing, 56–8; precontact, 369; revitalization and renewal, 46, 101, 393–4, 397–8; rights of lifeforms, 41; trading of camas, 117. See also plants as food food security: camas for Lekwungen, 358–9; definition and concept, 37; education, 391; importance, 37; and reconciliation, 38, 48; as right, 45; Syilx, 38, 45, 46, 47, 48 food sovereignty, 37, 38, 48–9; Syilx, 44–5, 46–9 Forest and Range Agreements, 374–5

forest gardens, 93–5, 94 forestry and logging: blockades by Xáxli’p, 76; co-management, 374–5, 378; and ecosystem services, 294; forests as Crown lands, 372; impact, 19, 74–5 forests, 197, 406; antioxidants in plants, 154–7 Fort McKay (AB ), 176, 177–8 Fort Vancouver (BC ), 107, 108, 109 Fort Victoria (BC ): agricultural potential, 109, 120–1, 125; appeal as site, 107, 109–10; burning records, 118, 119; conflict over lands and resources, 123–5; as “English” landscape and village, 110, 124, 125, 126; Indigenous peoples in area, 114–15; native plant communities, 112–14, 113; resources and land management, 8; soils for farming, 121–3, 122 Fountain Flats, 71 fragmentation of lands, 18–19, 102 “free, prior and informed consent” (FPIC ), 286, 291 Fritillaria camschatcensis. See riceroot, northern Ganga River (India), 296, 298 Gannyaa (Chief), 331, 333 Garibaldi, A., 137 Garry oak. See oak, Garry gathering. See harvesting gendered relationships, 355 George, Char, 389 George, Earl Maquinna (Chief), 19 George, Edna, 359 George, Teddy (Chief), 52, 57 Ghandl (Walter McGregor), 342 giant kelp. See kelp, giant Gidumt’en checkpoint, 351 gift-reciprocity (gift-gratitude-reciprocity) system: and nonreciprocity, 404, 406, 407, 408, 409, 412–13, 416; and reconciliation, 403–4, 408–9, 416; and regeneration, 406–7; as way of life, 408–9; as way of transformation, 403–4, 405–9 Girjas case (Sweden): description, 191–3; ethnobotanical and ethnoecological evidence, 192–9; oral history, 198–9 Girjas Sami Reindeer Herding Community: CMTs, 195; description, 188, 191, 194; hunting and fishing rights, 192 Gitga’ata people, documentation of plantpeople relationships, 98–100 Gitwilgyoots (Tsimshian), 91 globalization, 372–3

Index | 465

Global Pact for the Environment (IUCN ), 295 Goeman, Mishuana, 360 gold rush miners, impact, 72, 412, 414 Goodyear-Ka’ōpua, Noelani, 351 Gordon, William, 110 governance in Canada, 272–7, 366, 367–8, 370. See also co-management governments in Canada (all levels): biodiversity conservation, 290–2; and co-management, 373–4; and consent, 291; court challenges of environmental governance decisions, 272–4; duty to consult, 271; economy and resource extraction, 371–2; and ecosystem services, 294; and government-to-government agreements, 271–7; honour of the Crown, 422, 425, 431, 433, 434n4; and Indigenous agency, 302; Indigenous law for land and water use, 269–70; Indigenousstate relations, 290–2, 378–9; IPCAs and protected areas, 290–2; land-use consultation, 6; obligations toward rights, 366–7; ownership of land, 73, 371–2; policy for Indigenous peoples, 74, 369–70, 437; pro-business policies, 75, 79n9; sovereignty issues (see sovereignty). See also federal government in Canada; provinces government-to-government agreements, 271–7 Grace Islet ancient cemetery, 90 Grandbois, Brian, 102 Grant, Walter Colquhoun, 117, 118–19, 122, 124 Great Bear Rainforest, 274–5 Great Bear Rainforest Agreements, 274–5 Great Britain: appropriation of land, 108; empire expansion, 107–8; picturesque landscapes, 110–11; seeking site for new headquarters, 108–10. See also British Crown Great Smoky Mountain National Park (US), 222 Greening, Spencer, 99 Ground Plan of Portion of Vancouvers Island Selected for New Establishment, 113 guests: character formation, 413, 414–15; nonIndigenous people as, 410–15; protocols, 402 Guillod, Henry, 126 Gunther, Erna, 117 Gwaii Haanas Agreement (1993), 274, 376 Gwaii Haanas Marine Agreement (2010), 274 Gwin, Pat, 361, 362

466 | Index

Hāʻena community and fishing governance, 247–8, 248 ha’huulthii, 255 Haida First Nation and Haida Gwaii: canoes, 332, 334, 337, 338, 339–40; challenge to herring roe fishery, 273–4; co-management, 376, 378; description and history, 330–1, 335–6, 344–5; elders and evidence, 336; first contact with Europeans, 331–2; first encounter documents and items, 332, 333–4, 337, 340; fishing technology, 339–40; hat of Sitka spruce roots given to Perez, 330, 334–5, 335, 336–7, 344–5; law and plants, 340–1, 343–4; maritime aspects, 331, 337, 339–40; narratives, 330, 341–4; oral histories, 330, 341–3, 344; plants, plant use, and plant names, 334–5, 336–41, 342, 343–5; postcontact period, 335–8; precontact period, 330, 331, 332, 337; products made from resources, 333, 334; supernatural beings and events, 342–3; title denial and case, 335–6, 343–5; weaving and basketry, 334, 336–7 Haida Nation v. Canada (Fisheries and Oceans) (2015), 273–4 Haleleʻa moku, fisheries/local-level management, 239–40, 244–6 halibut hooks, 339 Hall, Marilyn, 226 Hammond, Herb, 77 Hargrave, James, 109 Härjedalen province (Sweden), 190 harpoons for whaling, 60–1 Harris, C., 74 Harris, Heather, 341–2 harvesting: and altitude, 39, 40; best practices by community, 42–3; and co-management, 376–7, 378; court cases, 44–5; as journey, 151; in national parks in US, 225, 227–8, 229, 230–5; in parks and park reserves, 376–7; practices of Syilx, 38–44, 46; protocols, 397; rights, 20, 44–5, 271, 357–8, 359; settlers and Lekwungen, 357–8, 359. See also specific plants hat of spruce roots given to Perez, 330, 334–5, 335, 336–7, 344–5 hau (Hibiscus tiliaceus), 242 Haudenosaunee, 263–4 Hawaiʻi: family relationships to resources, 240–1; federal management impact, 239, 241, 242, 245; fisheries management at

local level, 238–49; governance, 247–9, 248; land and sea rights, 241; land-sea connection, 242; mixed-methods approach, 240; resources management for survival, 238; rights reclaiming by Indigenous peoples, 239; traditional fishing, 244 Hawaiʻi State Division of Aquatic Resources, 245 Hayden, Brian, 78 healing: and Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxii– xxiii; definition in context, 392; and plants, 392–4, 399 health of Indigenous peoples: and plants as food, 393–4, 397, 398; responsibility for, 152 Heiltsuk territory, berries and gardens, 92 hemlock (qʷiƛ’aqmapt), 56 Henry VII of England, 71 Herbert, D.M., 74 Heritage Conservation Act (BC , 1996), 88, 89–90, 92–3, 96 heritage laws in BC : and archaeology of Indigenous peoples, 87, 88–91; and CMT s, 91, 95–6; and educational value of sites, 101; 1846 cutoff, 88, 93, 95, 96; and estuarine gardens, 92–3; failure and issues, 87, 88–91, 92–3, 94–5; and oil and gas exploration, 90–1; and physical evidence, 90; for plants, 90; protection of archaeological sites, 88, 90–1, 94–5, 101, 102 heritage of Indigenous peoples, 88 herring (ƛusmit), 56 herring roe fisheries. See Pacific herring roe fisheries herring roe on kelp, 272, 273 herring spawn (k’ʷaqmis), 56 Hibiscus tiliaceus, 242 Hobbes, Thomas, 368 Hokowhitu, Brendan J., 354 Holmes, Cindy, 354 honour of the Crown, 422, 425, 431, 433, 434n4 Huchsduwachsdu Nuyem Jees, 275 huckleberry, black (st’xałq), 41, 44–5, 226, 228 huckleberry, evergreen (siinamuxsɁits), 59, 59 huckleberry harvesting, 20, 226–7 Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC ), 15, 107–8, 122, 122–3, 136 hukilau, 242, 243, 246 human-plant interactions. See plant-people relationships humans: detachment from nature, 36, 37; erasure by colonizers, 111–12; giftreciprocity reconciliation, 403–4; and

regeneration, 406–7; virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404–5, 407 humiis (western redcedar) for Nuu-chahnulth: in annual cycle, 55–8; role and uses, 55–6, 57, 60 Humseet (Chief), 16 Hunt, George, 411 Hunt, Sarah, 354 “hunter-gatherer” lifestyles, 8 hunting: and Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxi; in national parks in US, 226, 227, 228; rights, 44, 192–3 Huson, Frida, 350 Húy̓at landscape (Heiltsuk territory), 92 hypsithermal period, climate, 131

ICCAs (“Indigenous peoples’ and community conserved territories and areas”), 287–90, 291, 300; in Canada, 290 iiniiwa (bison), 355–7 Iisaak Forest Resources, 378 India, rights of Nature, 296, 298 Indian Act, 73, 74 Indian and Northern Affairs Canada, 13–14, 73–4, 79n8 “Indigenization” of Canada, and knowledge, 438–41 Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention (International Labour Organization, 1989), 190 Indigenous Circle of Experts (ICE ), ICCA s and IPCAs, 290, 291 Indigenous law and legal traditions: Anishinaabe inaakonigewin, 65, 69; and colonialism, 271, 278; definition and description, 252, 270, 279n1; earthwayas-law, 66–9; and ethnoecology, 269–72, 278; and government-to-government agreements, 271–2, 276–7; for land use, 269–70, 277–8; and mutual support, 430; and oral history, 342; and Pacific herring fishery, 272–3; plants and Haida, 340–1, 343–4; relationships as key element, 426, 429–30; resurgence, 269–70; in rights and title, 276–8, 333; in SCC , 425; Secwépemc law, 131, 133, 143, 144, 146; and water use, 269–70, 276, 277–8; for W̱ SÁNEĆ, 270. See also law Indigenous peoples: ancestors in natural spaces, 388–9; archaeology in BC (see archaeology of Indigenous peoples); assimilation, 15–16, 73–4; changes recently,

Index | 467

436–7; culture areas in Canada, 11; diversity in Canada, 10; double exclusion, 375; erasure from landscapes, 111–12; ethnobiologists as allies, 183; evidence on West Coast, 61, 72; familial ownership, 177; inclusion of perspectives in Canada, 438–41; intergenerational impacts, 387–8, 392; introduction protocol, 388–9; invisible losses, 353; marginalization, 74, 369; and partnerships, xxviii; relational accountability, 142–3; stereotypes in documents, 285; transportability of practices, 134, 144; values for nonIndigenous people, 439; viewed as inferior, 13–14, 71–2, 353, 411, 415–16; welcoming practices, 411. See also First Nations; nonIndigenous people; specific nations and groups; specific topics “Indigenous peoples’ and community conserved territories and areas.” See ICCA s “Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future.” See symposium Indigenous Peoples’ Working Group on Climate Change, 403 Indigenous protected and conserved areas. See IPCAs industry: damage and destruction, 18–19, 177, 185; vs plant-people relationships, 173–4; right of exploitation of resources, 74–5 Integrated Resource Management Strategy, for Xáxli’p lands and resources, 76 intellectual property rights, 256–8, 259 “Intellectual Property Rights: What Is the Position of Ethnobiology?” (Posey, 1990), 256–7 intergenerational trauma, 387–8, 392 International Indigenous Forum on Biodiversity, 286 international legal and policy instruments: biodiversity conservation and Indigenous peoples, 283–7, 300; description as mechanism, 283–4, 299–300 International Society of Ethnobiology (ISE ), 257, 259, 282; code of ethics, 259–61, 262 International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN ), and ICCA s, 288 intimate spaces, and resurgence, 354, 355 invasive species, 359–60, 370–1 IPCAs (Indigenous protected and conserved areas), 290, 300

468 | Index

ISE Code of Ethics (2006), 259–61, 262 Iwama, M., and colleagues, 265 Iwamkani (“huckleberry mountain”) (US), 226 Jacko, Alex, and son, 136 Jacko Creek, 136 Jacko Lake. See Pípsell Jackson, S., 293 Jackson, Slim, 72 James, Justine E. (“Butch”), Sr, 227–8, 229–30 James Bay Cree, protected areas, 291 Jesup North Pacific Expedition, 341 Johns, T., 154 Joint Resource Advisory Council (JRAC ), Xáxli’p and BC , 76 Joint Stewardship Agreement (JSA ), Xáxli’p and BC , 76 Joseph, Floyd (Skwatatxwamkin siýam) (Chief), 387–8, 397 Journal of Ethnobiology, rights concerns for Indigenous peoples, 256–8 Joy (Auntie) (Siyál Tenaat), 389 Kahana ahupuaʻa, fisheries/local-level management, 239–40, 242–4, 245–6 kaitiakitanga and kaitiaki, 208, 211–12 Kamloops (BC ), 132 Kane, Paul, 120 Kauaʻi Island (Hawaiʻi), 239, 242 Kauffman, C.M., 295 kauri trees protection, 215–16 Kayapó Indigenous communities, 256 kelp, bull (husmin), 60 kelp, giant, 272, 273 Kennedy, Dorothy, 39, 42, 72, 77 KGMH mining company: Ajax Mine development, 132; denial of consent, 145, 148n15; impact of mine, 143–4; at SSN panel, 144–5 Kimmerer, Robin, 352 kincentric concept and connection, 71 Kingcome Village, xix kīpuka, 239–40, 249 Kitlope Heritage Conservancy, 275 Kiusta (K’yuusda) village, 331–2 Klamath Tribes and people, 226–7, 228 knowledge: and academia, 386–8; appropriation concerns, 256–8; and biodiversity conservation, 282–3; complementarity (see knowledge complementarity); cultural (see cultural

knowledge); dismissal by non-Indigenous people, 13, 16; and education, 46–7, 386–7, 389, 391–2; experiential knowledge, 428–9; in formal institutions, 386–7; importance, 386, 387, 433, 437; and “Indigenization” of Canada, 438–41; Indigenous vs nonIndigenous, 13; integration in archaeology, 86–7, 91; and law, 20–1; in narratives, 142; of plants (see plant knowledge); preservation and documentation for Xáxli’p, 70–1, 77–8; protection through CBD, 284; revitalization and renewal, 46, 61, 386–7, 391–2, 433; and rights, 284–7, 300, 301; and sovereignty, 368 knowledge complementarity: in documentation of plant-people relationships, 91–100; and education, 387, 389–92, 399; and ethics in research, 262–3, 265; and plants as medicine, 151, 160, 163; “Two-Eyed Seeing” perspective, 265; Xáxli’p document, 78 knowledge transmission: and destruction, 19–20; and Indigenous peoples, xix, xx; plant knowledge and practices, 9–10, 19–20; and symposium, xxiii–xxiv konohiki, fisheries and resources management, 238, 239, 241, 242–5, 249 Kruger, Jacob, 44 Kruger v. Regina (1978), 44 Kuaʻāina Ulu ʻAuamo, 246 Kuhn, T., 55 Kuipers, Aert, 140–1 kuleana, 240, 245–6, 249 Kwakwaka’wakw, xix, xx, 16 Kwaxsistalla: chiefly box and belongings, xix; name and passing of name, xvii, xxxii n1 Kwaxsistalla Adam Dick (Chief), xviii, xxx; acknowledgment of N.J. Turner, xvii; chiefly box and belongings, xix, xxii–xxiii, xxxii n2; and ethnobotany, xx–xxi; life of, xix–xxi, xxiv n2; passing away, 437; respect and obligation toward lifeforms, 438; symposium opening and Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xvii–xix, xxi–xxiii, xxvi; and traditional knowledge, xx–xxi labour and labourers, Lekwungen in Fort Victoria, 124–5 Labrador tea, 158, 159, 159–60 land-centred literacy, 351 land claims. See claims

land management (Indigenous): dismissal by non-Indigenous people, 9–10, 16–18; documentation, 9–10, 77–8; ethos, 9; examples, 8–9; law and legal traditions, 22; by Lekwungen, 93, 96–7, 117–21, 125; restoration of sites, 101–2. See also co-management land rights: conception by Indigenous peoples, 254; in courts, 420–1; ethical concerns, 256, 264–5; and ownership, 255–6; and right relationships, 264–5; rights and responsibilities to land, 254–6, 264–5; Sami people, 189–90, 192, 198; and Western tradition, 254, 255 landscapes: and agency, 112; cultural landscapes, 98–100; erasure of humans by colonizers, 111–12; and language, 389; “making” by Lekwungen, 93, 96–7, 117–21, 125; restorying, 351, 354; ritual landscapes, 96–7; and “the picturesque,” 110–11, 120 lands of Indigenous peoples: access equality, 411–12; acquisition by British Crown, 15; attachment to by non-Indigenous people, 439–40; basic occupation, 315–19; colonizers’ view, 14–18, 71; conflict in Fort Victoria, 123–5; cultivation and residence, 320–2, 324; damage and destruction by non-Indigenous people, 17–20, 21, 37, 370–1; dispossession and privatization, 371–2; exploitation by industry, 74–5, 372–3; fragmentation, 18–19, 102; impact of treaties, 15, 16; importance to Indigenous peoples, 329; land-centred literacy, 351; and law, 16, 17, 73, 329; learning from example, 65–9; management (see land management); monetization and profit, 4, 18, 371–2; regular vs occasional use, 315–16, 320; relationship with, 329, 351; reoccupation and reconnection, 350, 409; resources extraction, 17, 174, 276, 371–3, 408; respect for, 143; restorying, 351; rights (see land rights); sovereignty, 6, 368; spiritual connection, 329; sufficient occupation, 315, 316, 319–26; and title (see title) land use: consultation by governments lacking, 6; of corporations, 37, 74–5, 372, 377; curbing of Crown role, 274–5; and government-to-government agreements, 271–2, 274–7; and Indigenous law, 269–70, 277–8; interpretation challenges, 193; Sami people, 189–93, 194–8

Index | 469

languages (Indigenous): and biodiversity, 283; diversity in Canada, 10; importance, xxviii; and landscape, 389; loss, 437; revitalization, 390 “Lap privilege,” 189 Larix laricina, 66–8, 67 Laskin, Boris, 44 latitude, and plants as medicine, 153, 158, 160 law (colonial/mainstream): adjustments from 1950s, 369–70; claims settlement in Aotearoa NZ , 208, 209–10, 212; common law, 332–3, 337, 345n11; and expert witnesses, 313–14, 326–7; and first encounter, 333–4; and harvesting rights, 44–5, 357–8, 359; heritage in BC (see heritage laws in BC ); honour of the Crown, 422, 425, 431, 433, 434n4; and land for Indigenous peoples, 16, 17, 73, 329; oral history and evidence, 198–9, 421, 423; overriding rights, 45; plant harvesting in US, 230; plants in Aotearoa NZ , 205, 207–9, 210; and politics of distraction, 21; protected areas in Aotearoa NZ , 205–7, 209–16; and reconciliation, 432–3; and restoration, 22; rights related to plants, 20–1, 367; title and plants, 20–1, 340–1, 343, 367; as tool and process for rights, 366–7, 378; and treaty in Aotearoa NZ , 204–5, 207–10; and written record, 198. See also Indigenous law and legal traditions Lawaiʻa ʻOhana (Family Fishing) Camps, 246 Laxgalts’ap landscape, and plant-people relationships, 98–100 leadership by example, 363 LeBlanc, Dominic, and Ajax Mine, 145 Lee, Erica Violet, 185 legal rights for Nature. See rights of Nature legislation: national parks, 206, 230; ownership of land and resources, 73; of states vs biodiversity, 285, 286. See also specific legislation Lekwungen Coast Salish: as agricultural workers and labourers, 124–5; appeal of land to settlers, 120–1; burial cairns, 96–7; burning practices, 117–20, 118; camas cultivation, 96, 97, 115–20, 357–60; camas trading, 117; conflict over lands and resources, 123–5; dances and songs, 120; farming by settlers, 122, 122–3; food sources, 115, 120, 126n4; landscape management, 93, 96–7, 117–21, 125; nonnative plantings, 362; potato growing, 121;

470 | Index

restorying and resurgence, 357–61; rights of harvesting, 357–8, 359; territories and population, 114–15, 115; transformation of territory, 123–4, 125–6 Lekwungen Community Tool Shed (CTS ), 359–61 Lelu Island (BC ), archaeological work, 91 Letham, Bryn, 99 Levine, J., and colleagues, 293 Lewes, Adolphus Lee, 113 licorice fern. See fern, licorice Lillooet Forest District, 74 lily, yellow avalanche (Ɂesghunsh), 317, 319 Lindstrom, Fanny, 392 Little, Mary Hamilton, 53, 54, 54 Little Bear, Leroy, and colleagues, 356–7 living earth. See earth and living earth logging. See forestry and logging Louis, Petit (Chief), 409 low-bush cranberries. See cranberries, low-bush Lysichiton americanus, 56 Maa-nulth First Nations Final Agreement, 376 Maaqtusiis community, 52, 61 MacGregor, N., 344 Mack, Charlie, 72 Mack, Johnny, 353 MacMillan Bloedel, 378 Macrocystis pyrifera, 272, 273 Magpie River, 295 manifestations, and everydayness, 354 Manual, Robert, 44 Māori: arrival in Aotearoa NZ , 203–4; “civilization” by colonizers, 205; claims and settlement, 208, 209–10, 212; and law for plants, 207–9; park management, 210–16; and protected areas in Aotearoa NZ , 205–6, 209–16; and rights of Nature, 296; and Treaty of Waitangi, 204–5, 207–9 Marchak, M.P., 74 Marder, Michael, 174 marginalization of Indigenous peoples, 74, 369 Marshall, Albert, 265 Martin, Joe, 255 Martin, P.L., 295 Martinez, Jose, 334 masks, in Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxi, xxii, xxiii Mason, A., 37 material remains in archaeology, 87, 88, 91

McConnell, A., 37 McCune, L.M., 154 McEachern, Allan, 17, 326–7, 421 McGregor, Walter (Ghandl), 342 McKenna-McBride Royal Commission, and loss of plants, 16 McLachlan, Beverley, 324–5 McLoughlin, John, 109 McMahon, Ryan, 3 McNeill, W.H., 109 meadow-oak ecosystem, management, 96 Meares Island Tribal Park, 290 medicinal plants. See plants as medicine Meeqan (Beacon Hill Park), and camas, 120, 360 Memorial to Sir Wilfrid Laurier (1910), 402, 404, 409–10, 411–13 Merryman, J.H., 279n1 Metulia. See Victoria Michell, Herman J., 177 Mills, Aaron, 408 miners, impact, 72, 412, 414 mining, 131–2, 137, 161–2. See also Ajax Mine Mink, L.O., 55 Miranda, Louie, Sr, 396 Mitaanjigamiing First Nation, 66 Mitchell, Marjorie, 116 Mitchell, Sam, 72 modernist worldview, 415–16 modern life, and plants, 426–7, 430 modern treaties: and co-management, 376–7; plant-people relationships, 4, 20 Morales, Sarah, 269 Morgera, E., 285 Morris, Joan (Sellemah), xxvi mountain ash, 159, 160 mountain birch. See birch, mountain mountain potato (sunt’iny), 317, 318 Muir, John, 221, 222 Museo de America (Madrid), 334, 336 “myth of emptiness,” 14–15 Nadleh Whut’en First Nation, 278 Nagoya Protocol, 163–4, 286 names of plants: Haida, 340, 341, 342; learning for non-Indigenous people, 430; Tsilhqot’in, 316–17, 318 Nam’oks (Chief), 351 National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls, 269 National Parks Act (Aotearoa NZ , 1980), 206, 207

National Park Service (NPS ) of US: mandate, 221–2; policy on plant gathering, 229, 230–3, 234–5; rangers and removal of resources users, 221–2, 229; subsistence access to parks, 230–1 national parks in Aotearoa NZ : legislation, 206; management with Māori, 210–16 national parks in US: burning practices, 222–3, 225, 226–7, 228–9; displacement of Indigenous peoples, 220–1, 222; exclusions, 230–1; gathering of plants, 225, 227–8, 230–4; impact on Indigenous peoples, 220–1, 222, 230, 234; legislation on plant gathering, 230; management mandate, 221–2; as model of land conservation, 220; park management impact, 225–7, 229–30; plant management, 222–7, 228–30, 234; policing and removal of resources users, 221–2, 227, 229; policy review on plant gathering, 229, 230–3, 234–5 native plants. See plants and plant communities Native Plants Protection Act (Aotearoa NZ , 1934), 206–7 nature: education from, 406; humans and environment, 36, 37; reconciliation with, 37–8, 430. See also rights of Nature Nereocystis luetkeana, 60 newcomers. See colonizers; non-Indigenous people New Zealand. See Aotearoa New Zealand Ngāi Tahu, 209–10, 211–12 Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act (Aotearoa NZ, 1998), 209–10 Ngāi Tūhoe, 212–14 Nicholas, Graham, 93 Nietschmann, Bernard, 282–3 Nisga’a Final Agreement, 376 Noble, Brian, 255 non-Indigenous people (settlers to modern societies): assimilationist attitudes, 15–16; attachment to land, 439–40; attitudes toward land and resources, 17–18, 70–1, 371–2; damage to lands, 17–20, 21, 37, 370–1; dismissal of Indigenous practices and knowledge, 9–10, 13, 16–18; farming in Lekwungen territory, 122, 122–3; in giftnonreciprocity relationship, 408; in giftreciprocity relationship, 408–16; as guests of Indigenous peoples, 410–15; impact in Aotearoa NZ , 204–5; impact on plants, 123, 370–1; learning names of plants, 430; logic

Index | 471

of expansion, 14–17, 73–4; monetization of lands and resources, 4, 18, 371–2; and partial “Indigenization” of Canada, 438–41; post–gold rush settlers, 409, 410, 412–13, 414–15; pre-settlement and first settlers (see colonizers); pushback by Xáxli’p, 70, 75–7, 78; reconciliation support, 392, 402, 432–3; relationship with Indigenous lands, 351; superiority over Indigenous peoples, 13–14, 71–2, 353, 411, 415–16; and transformation of Canada, 408–9, 436–7, 438–41; use of native plants, 13; value of plants, 3–4, 17–18; and values of Indigenous peoples, 439; views on plant resources and sites, 3–4, 8, 9–10, 13, 16–18, 368, 426–8; in virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404–5, 411; worldviews, 220, 415–16 nonreciprocity, 404, 406, 407, 408, 409, 412–13, 416 Nordmaling municipality (Sweden), 190 Norrbotten region (Sweden), 191–2 northern riceroot. See riceroot, northern Northern Tribes Buffalo Treaty, 49 Northwest Coast culture area, role and use of plants, 12 N’tsuwa7lhkálha Tl’ákmen (“Our Way of Life”), 78 Nuučaan̓uł/Nuu-chah-nulth: berry (qaawii) bushes in annual cycle, 58–9; comanagement example, 378; experiential knowledge, 428–9; habitus and social capital, 52–3; herring and roe fishery, 56, 272–3; hygiene in food processing, 56–8; lineage and relations, 52–4, 55, 60; narrative and experience, 55; oneness (tsawalk/čawaak), 55, 61, 299, 429–30; plant materials in annual cycle, 59–61; Raven stories, 51, 61; relationship with plants, 424–5; rights and protocols, 422, 424, 425; rights and responsibilities to land, 255; role and use of plants, 51, 52, 54, 55–61, 57; salmon processing, 57, 57–8; schooling in and teachers, 52, 53–5, 61; stewardship, 299; traditional teachings and ha’huulthii, 255; vision quest, 18; western redcedar (humiis), 55–8, 57, 60; whaling and technology, 60 oak, California black (acorns), 223–4, 224 oak, Garry, 112–13, 357, 358, 359 octopus harvesting, 244

472 | Index

Oil and Gas Commission (BC ), 90, 91 oil and gas industry: contamination of wild foods, 176, 177; exploration and heritage, 90–1; in Wet’suwet’en homelands, 350, 351 Okanagan-Colville nation, 39, 42, 43 Okanagan Nation Alliance, 47, 275, 277–8 Okanagan River, 38, 275 Okanagan Valley, 38 Olympic National Park, resource management, 227–30 oneness (tsawalk/čawaak) of Nuu-chah-nulth, 55, 61, 299, 429–30 oral history and evidence: in courts, 198–9, 421, 423; Haida, 330, 341–3, 344; and plants, 317, 342; and title, 317–19, 421 Organic Act (US, 1900), 241 Organic Act (US, 1916), 221–2 “Original Treaty” of Nuu-chah-nulth, 255 Oujé-Bougoumou Cree community, 162 Our Common Future (UN , 1987), 282 ownership of land, 8, 73, 177, 255–6, 371–2 Pachamama (Mother Earth), protection and rights, 295–6, 297 Pacific herring roe fisheries, 271, 272–5 Paʻitulu (fisherman), 243 Paiute people, 224 paleoethnobotany, examples in coastal BC , 91–100 palmate coltsfoot. See coltsfoot, palmate Palmer, L.R., 293 Paparoa National Park (Aotearoa NZ ), 209–12 Paparoa National Park Management Plan 2017, 211–12, 215, 216 Park Act (BC , 1996), 274 Parker, Patricia, 231–2 park reserves, harvesting in, 376 parks: co-management, 375–6; exclusion and inclusion of Indigenous peoples, 375–6; harvesting of resources, 357–60, 376–7; and plants as medicine for Cree, 162–3; and sovereignty, 375–6. See also national parks in Aotearoa NZ ; national parks in US Pasa’lathl (Chief), xxxii n2 Pathway to Canada Target 1 initiative, 290 payments for ecosystem services: biodiversity conservation and Indigenous peoples, 284, 292–4, 300; criticisms and examples, 293–4; description as mechanism, 284, 292–4 Pemberton, J.D., 114, 120

Penn, Briony, 357–8 “People in Place: The Worldview We Need” keynote address, 254 Perez, Juan, and Haida: first contact, 331–2; first encounter documents and spruce-root hat, 333–4, 337, 338, 340, 344–5 Pérez-Perdomo, R., 279n1 Petasites frigidus var. palmatus, 227–8 Peterson Creek, 136 petroforms, at Pípsell, 136 petroglyph in Sts’ailes territory, 88, 89, 90 photoinhibition, 153 photosynthesis, 153 phytochemicals, in plants as medicine, 153–4 Picea mariana, 157, 158–9, 159 Picea sitchensis. See spruce, Sitka picturesque landscapes, 110–11, 120 Pierre Elliott Trudeau Foundation, xxv pine, ponderosa (sɁatqʷłp), 40 pine, Scots, 194, 194, 195, 196 Pinus ponderosa, 40 Pinus sylvestris, 194, 194, 195, 196 Pípsell (“trout place”), 133, 135; Afton Mine, 137; Ajax Mine, 132; animals and birds, 138; cultural keystone places, 133, 134, 145, 146; cultural keystone species, 137–8; decision of SSN , 145, 148n14; environmental impact studies, 144–5, 146; farming and ranching impact, 136–7; fish and fishing, 138; heritage study and significance, 132–3, 134, 137, 145, 146; human presence history, 136; location and description, 132, 134, 138; mine impact, 143–4; plants species, 134–6, 137–8; protection by Secwépemc, 143–4; stewardship by SSN , 132, 134, 144–5; title declaration by SSN , 133–4; and trade, 138–9; trout children story, 133, 139–43, 146; use by Secwépemc, 138–9; and “water people,” 142 pitcher plant, 159, 159–60 Planes, Gordon (Chief), xxvi, xxvi, xxvii– xxviii, 402 plant knowledge: by First Nations, 5, 393; importance, 430; precontact, 369; and resurgence, 352, 394; and sovereignty, 367–70; transmission, 9–10, 19–20 plant management: co-management, 373–7, 378; dismissal by non-Indigenous people, 16–18; documentation, 9–10; examples, 8–9; national parks in US, 222–7, 228–30, 234; and rights, 20–1, 271

plant-people relationships: in colonial views, 5, 14–15; documentation in coastal BC, 91–100; and ecosystem damage, 370–1; historical aspects, 83; importance for Indigenous peoples, 3–6, 33, 352, 368–9, 420, 424–5, 428–30; Indigenous vs non-Indigenous, 3–5, 426–8, 430–1; vs industry, 173–4; and modern treaties, 4, 20; for new Indigenous-state relations, 378–9; precontact, 369; revitalization and restoration of sites, 101–2; and sovereignty, 367–70 plants, as model of protest, 174 plants and plant communities (native plants): of Aotearoa NZ (see Tāne’s children); and connection to land, 329; education, 391; heritage laws, 90; importance, 389; introduction protocol, 389; knowledge transmission, 9–10, 19–20; loss acknowledgment, 16; in modern treaties, 4, 20; and non-native plantings, 362; not mentioned in treaties, 14, 15; precontact harvest and use, 369; respect for, 42, 174, 177, 431, 437–8; restoration case study, 394–8; and rights, 20–1, 271, 420, 422, 429; rights in law, 20–1, 367; role and use in culture areas, 10–13; scientific perspective, 427; survey at Fort Victoria, 112–14, 113; at symposium, xxviii, 423–4; in title, 20–1, 316–24, 329, 343–5; use by non-Indigenous people, 13; value to Indigenous peoples, 3–4, 6, 19; Victoria, 114; views of nonIndigenous people, 3–4, 8, 9–10, 13, 16–18, 368, 426–8. See also specific plants plants as food: in culture areas, 12; Haida Gwaii, 340–1, 342, 343–4; and health, 393–4, 397, 398; revitalization and revival, 393–4. See also food; specific plants plants as medicine: altitude and potency, 153, 227–8; antioxidants, 153, 154–7, 161, 162; Aotearoa NZ and Māori, 205, 207; as assets and in Nagoya Protocol, 163–4; compounds and phytochemicals, 151, 153–4; contamination by industry, 176; for Cree, 155, 157–60, 159, 162–3; in culture areas, 12; and diabetes, 154–60, 161–2; Haida Gwaii, 341; harvesting as journey, 151; and harvesting site, 151, 153, 156, 158, 161, 162, 163; knowledge complementarity, 151, 160, 163; and latitude, 153, 158, 160; and mining, 161–2; and parks, 162–3;

Index | 473

quality and efficacy, 151, 153; recognition by authorities, 160; respect for by Syilx, 42; and rights, 152, 163 plants in technology: in annual cycle of Nuuchah-nulth, 59–61; in culture areas, 13; fishing by Haida, 339–40 Plateau culture area, role and use of plants, 12 political ecology, 174 politics of distraction, 21 pollution, impact, 177 Polypodium glycyrrhiza, 60 ponderosa pine. See pine, ponderosa Poole, Roger, 262 Posey, Darrell, 256–8, 259 Post, R.H., 39, 42, 43 “postage stamp” theory of title, 315–16, 323 potato growing by Lekwungen, 121 Potato Mountain (Tsimol Ch’ed), 321–2 Potato Mountains, 318 potlatches, xix prairie lands of central Canada, role and use of plants, 12 Pratt, Mary, 108 “pristine myth,” 14–15 private ownership and privatization, 371–2 protected areas: biodiversity conservation and Indigenous peoples, 284, 287–92, 300; co-management, 375–6; description as mechanism, 284, 287–8; examples in Canada, 290–2; and law in Aotearoa NZ, 205–7, 209–16; size and targets worldwide, 288, 289. See also ICCA s protests. See resistance and protests provinces: and government-to-government agreements, 271–2, 274–6; law overriding Aboriginal rights, 45. See also governments in Canada; specific provinces pruning practices, 223–4 Pteridium aquilinum, 56, 57, 58 Public Employees for Environmental Responsibility (PEER ), and plant-gathering rights, 232–3 Puget Sound Agricultural Company, 122, 122–3 Puget Sound entrance, 109 Quercus garryana, 112–13, 357, 358, 359 Quercus kelloggii, 223–4, 224 Quinault people, 227–30 Quinault Treaty (1856), 229 Quock, Roy, 393 Qwul’sih’yah’maht, 353

474 | Index

racism, 74 rangers in national parks in US, 221–2 Rapinski, M., and colleagues, 159 RCMP, in Wet’suwet’en homelands, 351 Reading, J., 261 Recalma-Clutesi, Kim (Oqwilowgwa), xxvi reciprocity. See gift-reciprocity system reconciliation: in Aotearoa NZ , 207–9, 210–11; and conservancies, 274; and food, 38, 48; and gift-reciprocity system, 403–4, 408–9, 416; and history of Indigenous peoples, 61–2; Indigenous peoples in, 37–8, 44; and law, 432–3; with nature, 37–8, 430; for non-Indigenous people, 392, 402, 432–3; relationship with lifeforms, 430–1; and restoration, 21–2; and resurgence, 402, 403–5, 408, 416; and status quo, 403–4, 405; and virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404, 405 redcedar, western: in annual cycle of Nuuchah-nulth, 55–8; CMT s, 95–6; importance, 95; role and uses for Nuu-chah-nulth, 55–6, 57, 60; use and management by Indigenous peoples, 95–6; use by Haida, 334, 338, 339 regeneration, 406–7 Regina v. Derriksan (1976), 44 Reimerson, E., 283, 285 reindeer herding and Sami people, 188–9, 190 relational accountability, 142–3 Repton, Humphry, 111 research: berry picking as, 178, 181; ethics, 259, 260–5; and Indigenous peoples, 261–5 residential schools, xix, 73–4, 387–8 resistance and protests: and academics, 183–4; care and caring as, 174, 185; and everydayness, 354–5, 360–1, 362–3; for Indigenous culture, 392; logging blockades, 76; plants as model, 174. See also Standing Rock protests Resource Access Negotiation program, 76 Resource Management Act (Aotearoa NZ , 1991), 207–8 resources extraction, 17, 174, 276, 371–3, 408. See also mining respect: for plants, 42, 174, 177, 431, 437–8; in relational accountability, 142–3, 431 restoration: examples, 22, 48, 76, 101–2, 356–7, 394–8; movement toward, 21–2 restorying: examples, 355–62; and land and landscapes, 351, 354; and resurgence, 351–2, 354, 363; role and goal, 352, 353–4

resurgence: and colonization, 352–3, 354; definition and role, 352; emotions in, 391–2; and everyday life, 354–5, 360–1, 362–3; examples, 355–62, 391; Indigenous law, 269–70; for non-Indigenous people, 402; and plant knowledge, 352, 394; and politics of distraction, 21; and reconciliation, 402, 403–5, 408, 416; and relationships, 352, 354, 355, 357; and restorying, 351–2, 354, 363 Rhododendron groenlandicum, 158, 159, 159–60 Rhus hirta, syn. Rhus typhina, 155, 155–6 riceroot, northern (lhásem), 395; bulbs and bulblets, 395–6, 396, 397–8; description and distribution, 394; restoration in Squamish River estuary, 394–8 right relationships: development, 254, 260; and ethical space, 262–4; and land, 329; for land rights and responsibilities, 264–5; in research, 262 rights (Aboriginal rights): access equality, 411–12; acknowledgment, 425–6; for biodiversity conservation and knowledge, 284–7, 300, 301; and co-management, 367, 374–5; in damaged landscapes, 370; in Douglas Treaties, 15; and ethics in ethnobiology, 259–61, 264–5; evolution in court decisions, 420–1, 423, 425; extinguishment, 45, 421; and governmentto-government agreements, 271–4, 276; and harvesting, 20, 44–5, 271, 357–8, 359; and land (see land rights); legal avenues as tool and process, 366–7, 378; modern treaties, 20; natural vs civil right of possession, 14; obligations of governments, 366–7; overriding by law in provinces, 45; and Pacific herring fishery, 273; and plants, 20–1, 271, 420, 422, 429; and plants as medicine, 152, 163; D. Posey’s work and influence, 256–8; protection through CBD, 284; recognition, 5–66; vs rights of Canadians in Charter, 422; scope affirmation, 271; “traditional resource rights” concept, 257–9; usufruct rights, 189, 190, 226, 228. See also Aboriginal rights and title; specific topics rights of Nature: biodiversity conservation, 284, 294–8, 300; in Canada, 295; description as mechanism, 284, 294–5; and Indigenous peoples, 295, 296; key events and decisions, 297–8 ritual landscapes, 96–7 river cane. See cane, river

Robinson, D.F., 286, 301 Rockefeller, John D., Jr, 221, 222 Roosevelt, Theodore, 221 root gardens. See estuarine “garden” sites Rose, Deborah Bird, 174, 185 Rotman, Leonard, 366 Rousseau, M.K., 71 Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP ), 254, 261, 431 Royal Proclamation of 1763, 15, 332, 368 Rubus spectabilis, 58 Ruru, J., 375 R. v. Bob (1979), 75 Sacred Mountain of T’Sou-ke Nation, xxvii, xxvii sacred sites, 90 salmon: access to by Xáxli’p, 75; harvest and conservation by Syilx, 42, 48; and Lekwungen, 115; mucus, 57, 58; and Okanagan Nation Alliance, 275; processing by Nuu-chah-nulth, 57, 57–8; respect and protocols, 424; restoration, 48, 276 salmonberry (qawii) and shoots (m̓ aayi), 58 Sambucus cerulea, 94 Sami people in Sweden: CMT s, 194–5, 196; description, 188; domestication of landscape, 197–8; ethnobotanical and ethnoecological evidence, 192–9; hunting and fishing rights, 192–3; land rights, 189–90, 192, 198; land use, 189–93, 194–8; legal cases, 190–9; legal situation, 189–90; oral history, 198–9; subsistence strategies and resources, 188–9, 193; trees and forests, 189, 194, 194–7; winter grazing of reindeer, 190; written records, 190–1, 198. See also Girjas Sami Reindeer Herding Community Sampson, Tom, 21–2 Santiago ship, 331 Sarracenia purpurea, 159, 159–60 Saul, John Ralston: on acknowledgment, 425–7; on court decisions, 420–1, 422–3, 425; on land rights, 254; on plant-people relationships, 5, 426–7; on relationships, 420–1, 422–3, 425–8, 429; and symposium, 254, 419–20; on Western view of plants, 426–8; work, 419 scientific knowledge and perspectives, 13, 163, 427. See also knowledge complementarity Scientific Panel for Sustainable Forest Practices in Clayoquot Sound, 424 Scots pine. See pine, Scots

Index | 475

seasonal rounds, 39–41, 227 section 35 of Constitution Act, 1982: affirmation of rights, 271, 422; fulfilment of rights, 61–2; as guide, 432–3; and refinement of rights, 421–2 Secwépemc law (stsq̓ey̓), 131, 133; and x7ensq̓t ethic, 143, 144, 146 Secwépemc people: burning practices, 136; human presence history, 131, 136; oral tellings (stsptékwll), 131, 133, 138, 139–41; stewardship, 146n1; transportability of practices, 134, 144; use of Pípsell area, 138–9; value of plants and animals, 132, 136; and “water people,” 142; and x7ensq̓t, 143 Secwépemc territory (Secwepemcúĺecw), 135; animals, 136, 138; changes, 131; land tenure, 134; mid-elevation grasslands, 132, 136; mining projects, 131–2, 137; plant species, 134–6, 137–8; trade and routes, 138–9. See also Pípsell seed banks, 361–2 Seemann, Berthold, 110 Selar crumenophthalmus, 239, 243 self-government, 370 settlers. See colonizers; non-Indigenous people Shaw, K., 368 Shepherdia argentea, 183 Shepherdia canadensis, 178 Siddon, Tom, 76 silver buffaloberries. See buffaloberries, silver Simpson, George, 108, 110 Simpson, Leanne, 352, 353, 354, 355 Simpson, Michael, 361, 406 Sir Wilfrid Laurier Memorial (1910), 402, 404, 409–10, 411–13 Sitka spruce. See spruce, Sitka skunk cabbage (tima’t), 56 Skwxwú7mesh Traditional Plant Foods and Medicines Celebration, 398 smallpox epidemic, 72 soapberries, 178 social-ecological systems/relationships, 272, 274, 275, 373–4 sockeye salmon, 48, 275 Songhees First Nation, 357. See also Lekwungen Coast Salish Sooke Nation. See T’Sou-ke Nation community and territory Sorbus decora and S. americana, 159, 160 southern Vancouver Island: as English and picturesque landscape, 110; farms, 122,

476 | Index

122–3; Indigenous peoples on, 114–15; invasive species, 359–60, 370–1; native plant communities, 112–14, 113, 114; plans for establishment, 113; seeking site for new headquarters, 109–10; as terra nullius, 112 sovereignty: and co-management, 367–8, 377; 1846 assertion cutoff in BC , 315, 332–3, 368; and lands, 6, 368; multiple sovereignties, 423, 432; and parks, 375–6; and plant-people relationships, 367–70; and privatization, 371–2; states and biodiversity, 285, 286 space for Indigenous agency in biodiversity conservation: in framework, 283, 299, 301–2; in mechanisms, 284–5, 288, 289, 291, 292, 293, 294, 295 Spanish explorers. See Perez, Juan, and Haida “Spirits of the Forest” Dance cycle. See Atla’gimma Dance cycle spring beauty (sunt’iny), 317, 318 Sproat, Gilbert, 123 spruce, black, 157, 158–9, 159 spruce, Sitka: spruce-root hats by Haida, 334–5, 335, 337, 345; use by Haida, 334, 339 Squamish First Nation, 393–4 Squamish Nation Language Immersion Program, 390 Squamish River estuary (Skwxwú7mesh), restoration of northern riceroot (lhásem), 394–8 ̓ SSN . See Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation and Pípsell staghorn sumac. See sumac, staghorn Standing Rock protests, 182; description, 181–2, 183, 184; new gardens and berry picking, 184–5 Stark, Heidi Kiiwetinepinesiik, 351 state. See federal government in Canada; governments in Canada Stellat’en First Nation, 278 stewardship, environmental, 284, 286–7, 301 stewardship, Indigenous: in biodiversity conservation, 301; concept and examples, 299, 303n9; by Secwépemc, 132, 134, 144–5, 146n1; by Xáxli’p, 76 Stewardship Policy of Tsleil-Waututh Nation, 276 ̓ Stkemlúpsemc te Secwépemc Nation (SSN ) and Pípsell: and Ajax Mine, 132, 145, 276–7; cultural heritage and environmental study, 132–3, 134, 137, 144–6; decision, 145, 148n14; declaration of rights and title,

133–4; environmental review, 144–5, 146; mine impact, 143–4; stewardship, 132, 134, 144–5 Stl’átl’imx (St’át’imc) Nation and people: Declaration of the Lillooet Tribe, 75–6; description, 71, 79n1; forestry impact, 74–5; separation from land, 71; smallpox epidemic, 72. See also Xáxli’p community stories and storytelling: examples, 51, 61, 317– 19, 342–3, 352, 353; role and importance, 352, 353, 357. See also oral history and evidence; “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents” story Strait of Juan de Fuca, 108–9 Stryd, Arnoud, 78 stsptekwll or stseptékwll (oral tellings), 131, 133, 138, 139–41 stump of trees, in Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxi–xxii, xxiii Subarctic region, role and use of plants, 11–12 sumac, staghorn, 155, 155–6 supply chains and commodities, 372 Supreme Court of Canada (SCC ): affirmation of title in Tsilhqot’in, 313, 324; evolution on rights, 420–1, 423, 425; hunting and fishing rights of Syilx, 44; and Indigenous law, 425; legal test for title, 315, 325, 336, 421; rights related to plants, 20–1, 420; sufficient occupation in Tsilhqot’in, 324–6; title as justiciable right, 333; title rulings, 100, 324, 421 sustainability: in Anishinaabe view, 65–6, 68–9; and Atla’gimma Dance cycle, xxi, 403; and regeneration, 406–7; T’Sou-ke Nation community, 402–3; and virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404–6, 407; as way of living, 403 Suzuki, D., 37 Svalbard Global Seed Vault, 361 Swanton, John R., 341, 342 Sweden: hunting and fishing policy and legislation, 191–2; land use and rights of Sami people, 189–93, 194–8; legal cases of Sami people, 190–9 Syilx: burning practices, 43; ceremonies, 41–2, 46, 48; conservation practices, 42–3; court cases, 44–5; education through practices, 46–7; ethic, 38, 45, 47; food and revitalization, 46; food security, 38, 45, 46, 47, 48; food sovereignty, 44–5, 46–9; future of, 48–9; harvesting practices, 38–44, 46; knowledge of land, 46–7; law and

harvesting rights, 44–5; plants as medicine, 42; respect for lifeforms and their rights, 41, 42; and salmon, 42, 48; water law, 277 Syilx Nation Siwɬkʷ Declaration, 277 Sylvester, O., 163 symposium (“Indigenous Peoples’ Land Rights and the Roles of Ethnoecology and Ethnobotany: Strategies for Canada’s Future”): Atla’gimma Dance presentation, xvii–xix, xxi–xxiii, xxii, xxiii, xxvi; book as outcome, xxix, 22–3; as database for rights, 422; description and purpose, xxv– xxviii; keynote address, 254; knowledge transmission, xxiii–xxiv; opening by J. Webber, 254; opening by Kwaxsistalla A. Dick, xvii–xix; plants as participants, 423–4 Tacconi, L., 292 Tahltan elders, plant knowledge, 393 tamarack (mashkiigwaatig), 66–8, 67 Tāne Mahuta, 203, 215, 216 Tāne’s children (flora of Aotearoa): conservation examples today, 209–16; description, 203–4; impact of settlers, 204, 205; laws for protection, 205, 207–9, 210; treasured (taonga) species mechanism, 210 taro and loʻi in Hawaiʻi, 245 Taxed Mountains case (Sweden), 190 Taxol, 60 Taxus brevifolia, 60 tea (Camellia sinensis), and antioxidants, 161 Teit, James, 41, 142, 143 Te Kawa o Te Urewera management plan, 212–14 Te’mexw Treaty Association, 402 Tennant, P., 73–4 Te Roroa, 215–16 Terralingua diversity project, 283 terra nullius: description and impact, 14; Haida Gwaii as, 335; southern Vancouver Island as, 112; and wilderness in US, 221, 222, 230 Tetlenitsa, John (Chief), 409 Te Urewera Act (Aotearoa NZ , 2014), 212–14, 296 Te Urewera National Park (Aotearoa NZ ), 209, 212–15, 216, 296 Thuja plicata. See redcedar, western Til’hoon area, documentation of plant-people relationships, 100 time, view of Indigenous peoples, 88 “Timeline” petroglyph (Sts’ailes territory), 88, 89, 90

Index | 477

title: and Aboriginal perspective, 325, 336; and basic occupation, 315–19; colonizers’ view, 14; and common law, 332–3; cultivation and residence, 320–2, 324; 1846 cutoff, 315, 332–3; expert opinion of ethnobotany/ ethnoecology, 313–14, 316–17, 319–21, 323, 324, 325–6; expert witness role, 326–7; and first contact histories, 332; Haida case, 335–6, 343–5; as justiciable right, 333; legal precedent, 14, 324; legal test of SCC , 315, 325, 336, 421; occupation of land as threshold, 313, 315–16, 333, 336; and oral traditions, 317–19, 421; at Pípsell, 133–4; and place names, 317–18; plants in, 20–1, 316–24, 329, 343–5; “postage stamp” theory, 315–16, 323; proof for claims, 100, 315–16, 336; rulings of SCC , 100, 324, 421; and sufficient occupation, 315, 316, 319–26; and tracts of land, 316, 324. See also Aboriginal rights and title; Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2007 and 2014) ̓ Tkemlúps (Kamloops) (BC ), 132 Tla’amin Final Agreement, 377 Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation, xxviii, 290 Tl’ches (Chatham and Discovery islands) (BC ), 93 Tlingit, 299 tobacco prayer, 68, 69 Todd, John, 123 Todd, Zoe, 174 Tohunga Suppression Act (Aotearoa NZ , 1907), 205, 207 Toman, Shirley, 394 tracts of land and title, 316, 324 traditional knowledge. See knowledge “traditional resource rights (TRR )” concept, 257–8 Trans Mountain Pipeline, 276 traplines, 177 trauma, 19, 387–8, 392 treaties: assimilation and racism in, 15–16; at Canada-US border, 355, 356–7; and co-management, 376–7; Douglas Treaties, 15, 16, 357, 402, 414; as final agreements, 376–7; and gift-reciprocity system, 413; impact on lands, 15, 16; and laws in Aotearoa NZ , 204–5, 207–10; logic of colonizers, 14–15; modern treaties, 4, 20, 376–7; policy of British Crown, 15; and relationship with plants, 4, 20; rights, 15, 20, 271; and sovereignty, 368; violation by settlers, 414, 415; Xáxli’p negotiations, 76

478 | Index

Treaty of Waitangi (Aotearoa NZ ), 204–5, 207–10 trees, antioxidants and diabetes, 157 tribal parks, in BC, 290 Tri-Council Policy Statement: Ethical Conduct for Research Involving Humans (TCPS), 260–2 Tr’ondek Hwech’in Teaching Farm, 390–1 Trosper, Ronald, 408 “The Trout Children and Their Grandparents” story, 133, 139–43, 146 trout in Pípsell, 138 Trutch, Joseph, 15–16, 73 Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC ), 6, 254, 269 Tsilhqot’in First Nation: affirmation of title, 313, 324; basic occupation of land, 315–19; cultivation and residence on lands, 320–2, 324; occupation of land, 313, 315; oral traditions, 317–19; place names and title, 317–18; plants and title, 20–1, 316–24; proof of title, 315–16, 336; sufficient occupation of land, 315, 316, 319–26; traditional food plants, 318, 319; tribal parks, 290 Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2007): affirmation, 21, 271; appeals, 315, 323–4; basic occupation of land, 315–19; expert opinion in, 316–17, 319–21, 323, 324, 325–6; legal test of SCC, 315, 325; and oral traditions, 317–19; sufficient occupation of land, 315, 316, 319–24 Tsilhqot’in Nation v. British Columbia (2014): affirmation of title, 313, 324; area subject to title, 314; ethnobotanical evidence, 313–14, 315, 316–17, 319–27; expert opinion in, 313–14, 326; impact, 420; rights related to plants, 20–1, 271, 420; sufficient occupation of land, 324–6 Tsilhqox (Chilko River), 321, 322 Tsil·husalst (Chief), 71 Ts’ilɁos and ɁEniyud story, 317–19 Tsimol Ch’ed (Potato Mountain), 321–2 Tsing, A.L., 372 Tsioumani, E., 285 Tsleil-Waututh Nation, 276 T’Sou-ke Nation community and territory: gift-reciprocity system, 407; sustainability and self-sufficiency, 402–3; symposium at, xxv, xxvii, xxvii–xxviii, 402 Tsuga heterophylla, 56 Tuck, Eve, 353 Tūhoe Claims Settlement Act (Aotearoa NZ, 2014), 212

Tūhoe people, 296 Turner, Nancy Chapman, 116 Turner, Nancy J.: acknowledgment at symposium, xvii; on acknowledgment of lifeforms, 425, 429–30, 431; on camas harvesting, 116; on court decisions about rights, 422, 431; cultural keystone species, 137; as expert witness in Tsilhqot’in, 316–17, 320–1; on gift-reciprocity system, 408; Haida plants and plant use, 338, 339, 340, 341, 343; harvest sites of Syilx, 39; introduction of plants at symposium, 423; on invisible losses of Indigenous peoples, 353; lhásem documentation, 396; on nonreciprocity, 404; on reconciliation support by non-Indigenous people, 432–3; on relationships with lifeforms, 430–1; on respect for plants, 42; at SSN panel for Pípsell, 145; work with Xáxli’p, 77–8 “Two-Eyed Seeing” perspective, 265 type 2 diabetes, 157–8 Umeek (Chief). See Atleo, E. Richard Umeek (first one) and whaling, 60 UNDRIP (United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples): implementation, 286; Indigenous stewardship, 303n9; as instrument for state obligations, 285–6; and plants as medicine, 152; recognition of rights, 5–6 Unist’ot’en camp, 350–1 United Nations Conference on Environment and Development (1992), 284 United States: critique of plant gathering, 232–3; management impact in Hawaiʻi, 239, 241, 242, 245; subsistence access to parks, 230–1; wilderness and terra nullius, 221, 222, 230. See also national parks in US University of Victoria, xxv urban life, 426–7, 430 usufruct rights, 189, 190, 226, 228 utilitarianism, 427–8, 432 Vaccinium membranceum, 41, 44–5, 226, 228 Vaccinium myrtilloides, 177 Vaccinium ovatum, 59, 59 Vaccinium vitis-idaea, 177 vacuum domicilium doctrine, 14 Van Asdall, Willard, 256–7 Vancouver, George, 110, 112 Vancouver Island. See southern Vancouver Island

vegetables, on Haida Gwaii, 340–1 velvet-leaf blueberry. See blueberry, velvet-leaf Vickers, David H.: and appeals of Tsilhqot’in, 323–4; and expert witnesses, 316–17, 319–21, 323; rights related to plants, 21, 271; Tsilhqot’in title, 315–24 Victoria (or Metulia) (BC ): camas cultivation and harvest in parks, 357–60; in 1860, 125; native plant communities, 112–14, 114; nonnative plantings, 362. See also Fort Victoria virtuous vs vicious relationships, 404–6, 407, 411 von Hellermann, P., 373 Waipoua Forest Reserve (Aotearoa NZ ), 209, 215–16 Walters, L.V.W., 39 water flows for fish, 276, 277–8 “water people” (xqelmecwétkwe), 142 water use: and government-to-government agreements, 271–4, 276–7; Indigenous law, 269–70, 276, 277–8 Webber, Jeremy, 254 Weinstein, Martin, 78 welcoming practices of Indigenous peoples, 411 Wemindji Nation, 291 western redcedar. See redcedar, western wetlands, 17–18, 228–9 Wet’suwet’en homelands reoccupation, 350, 351 whales and whaling technology, 60 Whanganui River (Aotearoa NZ ), 296 Whanganui River Settlement Agreements, 296, 298 Whidbey Island (BC ), 109 White, Bill (Xelimuxw/Kasalid), xxx whites, “real” vs “other” in Laurier Memorial, 409–10, 412–15 Wieland, R., and colleagues, 293 wilderness: as concept of colonizers, 14–15, 371; national parks in US, 221, 222, 233, 234; and terra nullius, 221, 222, 230 Wilderness Act (US, 1964), 221 Williams, Charlene, 393 Williams-Davidson, Terri-Lynn (Gid7ahlGudsllaay Lalaxaaygans), 343 Wilson, Barbara (Kii’iljuus), 273, 341–2 Winthrop, John, 14 women: and camas, 116, 117, 359; impact of settlers, 369; labour value to settlers, 9;

Index | 479

plant knowledge, 9–10; relationship with plants, 432 “Working Better Together Conference on Indigenous Research Ethics,” 263, 264 World Health Organization, 152 World Heritage Convention, 291–2 World Parks Congress, 288 worldviews of Indigenous peoples, 13, 19, 100, 299, 353–4, 429; vs non-Indigenous, 220, 415–16 World Wildlife Fund diversity project, 283 Wright, Robin, 335 W̱ SÁNEĆ (Saanich Straits Salish) people and territory, 17–18, 270 Wyomilth peoples, 357 Xanthocyparis nootkatensis, 95–6 Xáxli’p community (St’at’imc/Lillooet): blockades to territory, 76; in co-management, 375; control and decision making, 74–7; description, 71, 79n1; displacement, 72; documentation of knowledge, 70–1, 77–8; forestry by industry, 74–5, 76; history of suppression, 70–4; impact

480 | Index

of non-Indigenous policies, 70–1; land management, 76, 77–8; land-use and ecosystem-based plan, 77–8; pushback against non-Indigenous approach, 70, 75–7, 78; salmon fishery, 75; separation from land, 71; traditional knowledge preservation, 70–1, 77; treaty negotiations, 76 Xáxli’p Community Forest, 78 Xáxli’p Survival Territory, 71, 76, 77–8 Xeni (Nemiah Valley) (BC ), 322 Xerophyllum tenax, 229 x7ensq̓t ethic, 143, 144, 146 yellow avalanche lily. See lily, yellow avalanche yellow cedar, 95–6 yerí7 re stsq̓ey̓skucw, 134 yew (ƛatmapt), 60 York, Frederick, 232 Yosemite National Park, 223–5, 226 Yosemite Valley, 222 Younging, Gregory, 256 Yukon territory, 375 Zigadenus venenosus, 116, 363n1, 371