By Tim Billo (Faculty, University of Washington, Program on the Environment)

“[Glacier Bay National Park] was founded in the spirit of John Muir, with a strong tradition of scientific inquiry [and] an historic focus looking only as far back as the arrival of European explorers. Perhaps it was this short-sightedness that led to many of the conflicts to come.”

–Wayne Howell, 1998

“We lived in that area. If you’ve been there you’ll never forget your visit to Glacier Bay. The most beautiful place you’ll ever visit. The best hunting grounds, the best fishing grounds…”

–Bill Wilson, Jr., Hoonah, 2018

“The first day I arrive, it feels like the ancestors putting their arms around me…we live our culture. We are not just in museums. We are not just in those old stories. We are here, the original descendants of the people that once lived in Glacier Bay…”

–Bertha Franulovich, Alaska Native Voices interpreter, Glacier Bay National Park

This blog documents an extraordinary journey of learning, adventure, and friendship along the northwest coast, in a place which is in some ways, not that far from Seattle. From July 30 to August 13, 2018, our University of Washington Environmental Studies course dove deep into the culture and natural history of southeast Alaska, as we witnessed new history being made between the National Park Service and the Huna Tlingit. Each student has written about one or more days of the course, and provided reflections on what the experience meant to them. It has been our goal here to accurately summarize our impressions and learning, in order to share our experiences with a wider audience. While we have consulted our partners in Alaska before posting, I take responsibility for any omissions and/or misrepresentations that might inadvertently have occurred throughout these posts. These are our impressions and memories only, and should not be taken as the authoritative source of information on any of the people or issues described. I invite anyone with questions, concerns, or comments to contact me at timbillo@uw.edu, or, to contact our partners in Alaska directly for more authoritative information.

During the backcountry portion of the course, we brought along many readings tied to the landscape of the region, including several volumes of poetry by Tlingit poet, Nora Marks Dauenhauer. Her words inspired us on our journey, and we’ve featured her poetry at the head of some of the posts.

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If you are interested in a longer explanation of how this course came to be, you can read about it here. Otherwise I want to move straight to an overview of the course, including essential background to the topics we covered, and acknowledgements of the various people that contributed to our learning.

First and foremost, it is essential to understand that the Huna Tlingit people lived in Glacier Bay prior to the glacial advances associated with the Little Ice Age 500 years ago. The Little Ice Age glaciers descended rapidly from the Fairweather Range (at the speed of a running dog, according to a story by a tribal elder, Amy Marvin), forcing them out of the bay they called Sit’ Eeti Geeyi to other locations around Icy Strait, including the town which would come to be known as Hoonah (or Xunaaa—loosely translated to “in the lee of the north winds”). The events surrounding this relocation are documented in tribal stories which have been passed down over many generations. Famously, John Muir visited the area a handful of times, beginning in 1879, making stops in Hoonah and recruiting Hoonah Native guides in Berg Bay (a bay within Glacier Bay that had been re-occupied as a seasonal base for hunting seals after glaciers had begun to retreat north up Glacier Bay again starting in the 1800s).  Muir’s visits and subsequent writings quickly heralded a new era of tourism and scientific study in Glacier Bay, and the eventual establishment of a national monument (1925) and later a national park (1980). The monument and park would, by law, remove the Tlingit yet again from Glacier Bay, effectively suppressing subsistence hunting and gathering activities. The early years of the monument came at a time when the Bureau of Indian Affairs was, as a matter of official policy, was attempting to strip Native Americans across the country of their language and culture. With respect to land management in the Huna Tlingit homeland, these factors together led to decades of distrust, misunderstandings, and entirely justifiable anger on the part of the Huna Tlingit towards the federal government broadly, but also towards park rangers who (although sometimes well-meaning people) were following orders from Washignton, D.C. and Sitka (the former base for Glacier Bay rangers) with little understanding of the Huna Tlingit situation.

Around 1998, during my first visit to Glacier Bay, Wayne Howell and Mary Beth Moss, both Glacier Bay National Park anthropologists, were in the throes of initiating what would become a 20+ year effort on the part of Glacier Bay National Park, to restore ties with Native communities, with the goal of ameliorating infringement on Native sovereignty and subsistence rights in Glacier Bay National Park. These efforts reached a zenith on August 25, 2016 when, as part of Glacier Bay National Park’s celebration of the 100^th anniversary of the National Park Service (NPS), the Huna Tlingit paddled their canoes into Bartlett Cove to occupy their new tribal house (Xunaa Shuka Hit, loosely translated as Huna Ancestor’s House, and usually referred to simply as the Huna Tribal House), a tangible footprint in Bartlett Cove, marking the return of the Huna Tlingit to their homeland in partnership with the federal government in the cooperative management of their traditional territory. [Tribal Administrator Bob Starbard, would later emphasize to me that the ceremony was co-hosted equally by the NPS and Hoonah Indian Association (HIA) and that HIA had led the way in selecting August 25th, fully mindful of the symbolism in their appropriation the NPS Centenary date, and their transformation of this date into the official date of reclamation of their homeland in Glacier Bay].

 

Thus, we came to study the history and current state of cultural revival on the part of the Huna Tlingit, and more specifically, the evolution of the relationship between the Huna Tlingit and National Park Service. We came to study the reconciliation process; the events leading up to the establishment and occupation of Xunaa Shuka Hit in 2016, and further progress symbolized by the raising this summer of a healing pole in Bartlett Cove. We wanted to meet and understand the people who made this reconciliation possible, and think about the future of this unique collaboration, which can serve as a model for other national parks around our country. Management of wilderness spaces in the region is not just the responsibility of the National Park Service, however. Much of the land around Hoonah is owned by the US Forest Service, Huna Totem (Hoonah’s native corporation), and Sealaska (the regional native corporation). We came to understand the unique arrangements of ANCSA and ANILCA, which make the Alaska Native situation (and indeed the general management of wilderness spaces in Alaska with respect to all Alaskans), so different from the situation of tribes and landscape management in the Lower 48. We also came to explore the Huna Tlingit homeland (Sit’ Eeti Geeyi, or “Bay Taking the Place of the Glacier”) on its own terms, through an 8-day kayak camping trip into Sit’ Eeti Geeyi or Glacier Bay. We wanted to understand for ourselves what value there is in that elusive idea of wilderness, as conceived and championed by John Muir, an idea which invokes many interpretations and continues to inspire so many “tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people”, but which is usually framed as being at odds with those who would connect with the landscape for subsistence purposes.

With respect to Glacier Bay, we were interested in whether there are any grounds for common understanding between the National Park Service and the Huna Tlingit, across that cultural chasm and the hurt of forced exclusion. Can the preservation mandate of the National Park Service co-exist with the cultural, spiritual, and practical needs for subsistence hunting of the Huna Tlingit in what is rightfully their homeland? Who has the right to profit from tourism in the national park, and to explain the history of “place” to tourists?  These are some of the many questions we wrestled with, and that are part of a broader discussion between the Huna Tlingit and the National Park Service. While Xunaa Shuka Hit is probably the biggest achievement to date, it is significant that half of the educational programs at Bartlett Cove, as well as on ships entering the park, are now done by Native interpreters in a cooperative agreement with the National Park Service. National Park Service rangers (unless they are Huna Tlingit and sanctioned by Hoonah Indian Association) are not allowed to brief visitors on the historical relationship between the Tlingit and the NPS, nor can they interpret the artwork at Xunaa Shuka Hit, as those are not their stories to tell (similarly, HIA cultural interpreters can only tell the stories of their personal clan). There are currently experimental spruce root and gull egg harvests underway in Glacier Bay, not because they make economic sense for the Huna Tlingit people, but because they make cultural sense, and are symbolic of shared sovereignty over the land. There is also debate over whether traditional seal harvest could occur again in the future.

The Hoonah Indian Association (HIA), the federally recognized tribal government under which the Hoonah Tlingit clans are organized, shares the conservation mission of the National Park Service. The right balance of symbolic subsistence, together with preservation of the landscape and resources of Glacier Bay, must be worked out in joint leadership between the national park and the HIA. The successful raising of the healing pole two weeks ago increase the chances that that balance will be achieved and sustained into the future. Glacier Bay National Park is a richer place for the presence of the Huna Tlingit. The Huna Tlingit, perhaps better than anyone, understand the long arc of time, and the resilience of people and nature when that human/nature relationship is properly tended. As a matter of official policy, the HIA also recognizes that anthropogenic climate change presents challenges unlike what we have encountered in the past, and are fully on board with the need to consult science, both on climate change and sustainable harvest levels when it comes to subsistence. As a subsistence culture, the Huna Tlingit understand first hand climate change as a real threat to their culture and livelihood in their ancestral homeland. We found this to be a frequent topic of current conversation and historical storytelling.

We are indebted to many people for making this course what it was. First and foremost, I want to thank Bob Starbard, Tribal Administrator of the HIA, for inviting us and hosting us in Hoonah to help us understand the present economical and psychological position of the Huna Tlingit, and for rightfully reminding me that the HIA is the “sole entity that officially speaks to the nature and state of the relationship (past, present, and future) between the tribal community and the NPS.” The course would really not have been what it was, without this essential time in Hoonah. Several subsequent posts articulate Bob’s perspectives, but briefly, in Bob’s words, the tribe has moved from a place of “ishaan” (Tlingit for self pity) to a place of agency. He is comfortable with asking for a “hand up” every now and again, and seeking out collaborations, but the HIA will no longer settle for “hand outs”. That is, he is not interested in perpetuating past power imbalances that leave the Huna Tlingit poor and indebted to those with power and resources. In the same sense, Bob is not interested in re-hashing the events of the past or dwelling in the past (although this is not at all to say he does not respect tradition). He is interested, however, in talking about the future, and cementing the progress they have made with the National Park Service, Forest Service and other agencies in co-management of their lands, even as he and other local leaders look toward retirement. Finally, in addition to Bob, I want to thank the entire community of Hoonah, including Bambi, Jolene, Jerry, Bill, Owen, Herb, Amelia, Zach, Ian, Don, Sherry, Sean, Gordon, Mary Beth, Dave, and a host of other people whom I didn’t officially meet, but who nonetheless warmly welcomed us and shared their personal stories with us. Gunalcheesh to all of you!

We are grateful to Former Secretary of the Interior Sally Jewell, and Superintendent Philip Hooge for joining us, along with Mary Beth Moss (NPS cultural liaison), in a lengthy discussion at Xunaa Shuka Hit. Mary Beth, as a 20+ year employee of the NPS at Glacier Bay, and resident of Hoonah, is really the initiator and institutional memory for all of the events culminating in this summer’s healing pole ceremony. Philip has been an instrumental player and promoter of the most recent conciliatory events at Glacier Bay, and Sally in her time at Interior, was instrumental in promoting these kinds of conciliatory actions between the Federal Government and tribal governments across the country. Sally also holds a big picture view, from the past and into the future, along with knowledge of the inner workings of our political system, that helped us grasp the uniqueness and vulnerabilities of the arrangements of what we were witnessing between Glacier Bay National Park and the HIA. Sally joined us for several more discussions around the campfire, and nearly paddled away with us on the first day of our kayak trip!

Just prior to our kayak trip, ranger Matthew Cahill joined us to update us on some of the science and natural history studies happening in Glacier Bay. On our kayak trip, we were thankful for the backcountry skill of Sean and Condor of Alaska Mountain Guides. On our return to Bartlett Cove, we were grateful to learn from ranger Cristina Martinez who sat down with us to discuss issues of diversity and access (from both a visitor and employee standpoint) in the national parks. Many of Cristina’s ideas are now weaving their way into student papers, and speak to broader issues in the Park Service.

In Gustavus we were graciously hosted by Kim and Melanie Heacox, both of whom, as I explain in the section “how the course came to be,” really set the ball rolling and made many introductions. They also hosted us for a final dinner and discussion at their beautiful house (future site of the John Muir Alaska Leadership School). Park Service bear biologist (and talented musician) Tania Lewis met with us to discuss the science behind cultural subsistence practices in the park. Lynn and George Jensen talked to us about “homesteading” in Alaska while we toured their cabin and property, and Zack Brown of the Inian Islands Institute provided a roof over our heads at his house for our final two rainy nights in Alaska. Last but not least, we are grateful to the fine folks at the Outpost, and the entire music community of Gustavus, for putting on a music night for us and welcoming us into their community.

By Tim Billo

July 30, 2018

Part 1: Juneau to Hoonah (Scroll down for Part 2, about our first day in Hoonah)

After months of anticipation, the course was finally beginning. A sunny sunrise (sunshine being unusual in this part of the world) greeted us as we sped north out of Juneau in a van towards the ferry terminal.  I kept my eyes out for brown bears on the river delta draining the Mendenhall glacier, and counted untold numbers of Bald Eagles lining up to feast on salmon carcasses. The excitement of Alaska was palpable, as other tourists in the van eagerly shared their plans for the coming days. As is usually the case on the first day of field courses, my mind was racing through various checklists— but the main question on my mind was whether all of the students would show up at the appointed place and time. To my relief, within 20 minutes of arriving at the terminal, all the students showed up piecemeal in a variety of taxis, vans, and other transport, and soon we were all on the ferry.

Needless to say, in student terms, the “stoke” was high. We gathered a circle of deck chairs on the upper deck of the ferry and began a round of re-introductions, not having seen each other since a meeting in a windowless room in Seattle back in May. As the towering wall of spruce forest behind the terminal receded away from us, the spires of peaks above the Juneau Icefield came into view, and the immensity of the Mendhall Glacier spilling down from the icefield to near sea level, immediately became apparent. I reminded my students that while we could have flown to Gustavus, the Alaska Marine Highway System is part of the southeast Alaska experience, not to mention a more environmentally sustainable way to travel. Traveling by public ferry boat through Southeast’s fjords provides opportunity to appreciate and contemplate the power of the ice that so recently shaped this landscape in profound ways…and from which the landscape continues to recover. Passing Admirality Island, which has one of the densest populations of brown bears in the world, we pondered why brown bears and black bears for the most part don’t coexist on islands, and why some islands came to have only brown bears, and some only black bears; and why wolves usually don’t inhabit islands with brown bears, but do inhabit islands with black bears. As it turned out, we could have asked one of the experts on this subject and other biogeographical conundrums of southeast Alaska, Richard Carstensen, who happened to be on the ferry boat with us (the first of many “small world” encounters we would have on this trip).  A short while later we observed a pod of orcas, and a surfacing minke whale. Entering Icy Strait from Lynn Canal, forestry clear cuts of various sizes and shapes came into view on the hillsides at the south end of the Chilkat Range. In my 20 year absence, I noted that the vegetation was beginning to grow back on these clearcuts, having been relatively freshly cut on my first visit. Thus, we were afforded opportunities to talk about the history and politics of logging in the Tongass National Forest, as a beginning to the resource management theme that ran through our course. After a brief de-boarding at Gustavus, formerly known as Strawberry Point, to botanize, bird watch, and munch on wild strawberries, we discussed glacial rebound of Gustavus’ coastal plain (which is rising out of the water at an astounding 1 inch per year, even as sea level rises too). We rushed back to the ferry and were soon off again to Hoonah, on the opposite side of Icy Strait. Gliding across calm waters, the glaciated peaks of the Fairweather Range stood out in stunning glory behind the boat, while shearwaters played over the waves west to Lemesurier Island. The Alaskan weather had been eerily kind to us so far.

Part 2: Hoonah

Our visit to Hoonah would prove to be the most important part of the course in many ways, and it was crucial on a number of levels that we visited Hoonah prior to visiting the national park. In my conversations with Bob Starbard, Tribal Administrator and CEO of the Hoonah Indian Association (HIA), prior to the course, he reminded me that the HIA is the federally recognized governing body of the Xunaa Kawoo (clans of the Huna Tlingit) and as such is the “sole entity that officially speaks to the nature and state of the relationship (past, present, and future) between the tribal community and the National Park Service.” To start our course anywhere else would have contradicted tribal protocol, and on some level would have sent a message of subtle subversion of the reconciliation we had come to study. Additionally, Bob was adamant that we gain a deeper understanding of the social, cultural, and psychological space of the Huna Tlingit people today, through actual in person interaction with the community, rather through the stories of tribal interpreters in the national park. Bob was wise to recognize this, especially since all of us were coming to this experience with pre-conceived ideas about the Huna Tlingit people and homeland, and many of those ideas were based in anthropological accounts of traditional Tlingit culture and history which we had read prior to the trip. I reminded my students to put aside their preconceptions, and to approach what we might experience in Hoonah with an open mind. Case in point: our first major item on the agenda for that afternoon, was a visit to Icy Strait Point (ISP), a multi-million dollar investment by Huna Totem (the ANCSA Corporation of Hoonah) to re-purpose Hoonah’s cannery to attract cruise ship visitors from around the world. Having done much reading about ANCSA and the effects of ANCSA corporations, both positive and negative, on indigenous peoples of Alaska, we were excited to take a first-hand look at ISP.

First, however, as the boat pulled within view of Hoonah, I struck up conversation with Dave See, one of the tribal elders from HIA, who happened to be on the boat with us. He and his partner were returning from one of two annual shopping trips to Juneau to stock up on staples from the Costco supermarket. As we bantered up on deck, he pointed out places along the coast that had names and special meaning to him—an island with a tree whose top was shaped by a mistletoe broom, a cove where he goes for salmon, and another for crab, and another for halibut, the mountain where he’d be going for deer when hunting season opened in a few days. I was struck by the similarity to what the anthropologist Thomas Thornton refers to as Tlingit “path geographies” in his book Being and Place Among the Tlingit. While the book often unintentionally portrays Tlingit culture in a historical context, this conversation, and many others I would have later, made me realize how important “path geographies” and subsistence are to the Tlingit today, or to what Thornton calls the Tlingit “sense of being,” in quoting a tribal fisherman Gabriel George. These are not memories of lives gone by, or cultures of the past—rather they represent much of the continuing present reality of the Tlingit, even as hunting and fishing techniques change, and/or other aspects of their culture change as the world changes around them. The key message that was driven home to me on Day 1, was that it is expensive, impractical, and unsustainable to travel to Juneau to shop more than twice a year. It is even more expensive to shop in the small grocery story in Hoonah. It is a given, according to Dave, that every Friday after work, you’ll be gearing up your boat, or your pickup truck, for travel over a long weekend out to your favorite spots for hunting and gathering. It is a given that you will share what you catch with your family and friends—and Dave took great pride in not only supporting his immediate family’s nutritional needs, but that of his many grand children and their families. With year-round employment in Hoonah scarce, super markets expensive and/or far away, subsistence fills a very a practical need, both from the standpoint of immediate survival, as well as living sustainably in a remote location. The cultural benefits of subsistence through connection to food, landscape, and extended family are crucial too, and to some extent subsistence is what enables the critical parts of Tlingit culture to persist and be passed on naturally. Here then, I began to get a feel for the deep cultural importance to the Huna Tlingit of exercising their sovereign rights to subsistence practices in their traditional homeland within the boundaries of Glacier Bay National Park. This was about “sense of being.”

We were met on the dock by Zach Inglesby, a summer intern with the HIA, whose grandfather was Huna Tlingit, but whose children (one of Zach’s parents) had left Alaska for Washington and Arizona. As Zach sought to reconnect with his grandfather’s culture, he had been adopted into the Hoonah community and Tlingit tribe. The friendly, almost ruthless, ribbing he took at every turn, mostly from male tribal elders, was indicative of his outsider status, but also of his gradual induction into their community. Zach led our tour of Icy Strait Point. We walked out to the new dock where a cruise ship was tied up. As a business aficionado himself, he went through the details of the upfront investments, loans, past and projected profit margins, and past and projected dividends to shareholders (mostly Hoonah residents and their children scattered far and wide). Huna Totem was the village corporation established by and for Hoonah, under ANCSA. After logging nearly every parcel of merchantable timber (maximization of profit being a requisite of public corporations) given to them in the 1980s and 90s, the Huna Totem logging industry went belly up. While profits were re-invested in real estate, often if far away places in the lower 48, the logging of Chichagof Island came at a high price ecologically, economically, and spiritually to the Hoonah people. Tribal Administrator, Bob Starbard literally cried upon his return to Hoonah after more than 10 years away during the logging boom. Codes of ethics on which particular timber tracts (especially those around town) would be off-limits for spiritual reasons, were broken. Stream buffers were largely ignored or shrunken, and some salmon runs became critically endangered (see Owen Oliver’s post about HNFP on this blog). Deer lost critical winter shelter and browse as interlocking canopies were lost all over the island.

But the new Icy Strait Point represents a fresh start for Huna Totem. Re-purposing a defunct cannery with large loans from the cruise ship industry at questionable interest rates, might represent a sustainable source of income for the community into the future. The jury is still out on this, but once loans are paid off at some point in the coming years, Hoonah residents should expect to see bigger dividends. Indeed dividends, although small, are being paid out again this year after falling off for some time. The cruise ship dock and old cannery are about a mile from the Hoonah village. The shiny, renovated buildings, boutique stores, and eateries were tastefully done, but in stark contrast to the relatively impoverished community of Hoonah, living in houses that were slapped together after the great Hoonah fire of 1944, a mile down the shoreline. Most visitors to ISP chose to partake in the world’s longest zipline, from the summit of a culturally important peak, down to a bar at Duck Point, another place of cultural importance to the Huna Tlingit, where they could then buy a shot of alcohol and a T-Shirt commemorating their experience (or maybe the alcohol came first, I’m not sure). Many of us were conflicted by what to make of all of this, as we walked the shoreline to the village (which is trying to implement a tobacco and alcohol free policy), past an ancient petroglyph telling stories of the ancestors. WE had hoped to meet with Huna Totem executives during our time in Hoonah, but they were not available.

Those relatively few tourists who elected to travel to the village rather than remaining at ISP or heading directly to the zipline summit, were greeted by an authentic, low-key, and friendly small-town experience in Hoonah. Regular townspeople worked tirelessly to staff the Yaakw Kahidi cultural center to make these out of town folks (such as ourselves) feel at home, respectfully answering all manner of clueless but usually well-meaning questions, and proudly sharing many aspects of their culture. In particular, we and the few tourists around us, were especially curious about a number of totem poles in the carving process. We were quickly led to, and gathered around the pole that really symbolized the whole purpose of this class: The healing pole that would be raised in Glacier Bay National Park on August 25^th, 2018 (see video later in the blog). Tribal elder and carver, Owen James, started at the bottom of the pole, explaining that the Tlingit story telling tradition starts in the past and moves to the present, leaving open the future for speculation and opportunities for future storytellers. He noted that other cultures start in the present and move to the past, or write the story down and put it in a book with a front and back cover. At the base of the pole were depicted objects of cultural importance, such as the leaves of the Devil’s club, one of the most important medicinal plants to the Tlingit, followed by a glacier overcoming the Tlingit village in Bartlett Cove, some 500 years ago, and chasing Tlingit pullers (paddlers) as it approached. After that, an eye-less being with many arms, and holding a literal chain with a padlock, bolted to the pole, depicted the many arms of the federal government, blind to the past and to the culture of the Tlingits, effectively cordoning off the Huna Tlingit from access to their homeland. The top of the pole featured figures in the traditional hats of the national park service and the cedar hat of the Huna Tlingit, similar to the one worn by Owen himself, which was also adorned with the pelt of an ermine, depicting a new reconciliation over issues of cultural and subsistence access to Glacier Bay, and shared protection of the landscape. The pole would be raised a few weeks later, sadly after the end of our course, in Bartlett Cove in Glacier Bay, followed by ceremonial speeches and dancing in Xunaa Shuka Hit.

Later we walked to the carving shed where Gordon Greenwald, master carver and mastermind of the story panels in Xunaa Shuka Hit, was working on another pole, privately commissioned, with carver Herb Sheakley. Gordon explained his career teaching woodshop and carving at the local school, and his desire to gift the carving tradition and the stories told in poles and house panels, to future generations. His T-shirt, with the words: “In 1492, Native Americans discovered Columbus Lost at Sea” belied his sense of humor and pride in his culture. He showed us his hand-made carving tools—in particular, an adze made from the hammered leaf springs of an old pickup truck, mounted on a hand-carved alder wood handle. He let us all take turns shaving wood off the top of the pole he was working on with Herb, and explained how each person who works on a pole adds a bit of their personality into it. An experienced carver can tell right away which parts of a pole were carved by whom.

That evening (hard to imagine we are still on Day 1!) we were treated to a community ku.eex, or potlatch style dinner and ceremony at Yaakw Kahidi. Community young and old gathered with delicious homemade dishes to share, many using traditional food resources. Halibut prepared in two different ways, Dungeness Crab legs, salmon head soup, cherry pie (with cherries from a tree in someone’s yard) were just some of the many dishes we feasted on. Prior to dinner, Bill Wilson, tribal elder gave a convocation in Tlingit, giving thanks and wishing us well on our journey of learning in the Tlingit homeland. I had a chance to sit with Bill at dinner to learn about his childhood, and how, as a member of the generation that had had Tlingit culture and language forcefully repressed by BIA schools, he managed to retain his native Tlingit. Among his siblings, he was sent to live with and take care of his grandparents, who only spoke Tlingit. He became a defacto interpretor for them, and it was accepted by the community and powers that be at the school, that he would speak Tlingit as a matter of caring for his grandparents.

Bill would later that evening, staff in hand, tell stories in his native tongue, and lead the community members in group song and dance. Hearing Tlingit spoken by a native speaker of the language was for me one of the most powerful moments of the trip. While it is simply beautiful to listen to, language for me is the most powerful form of culture. Its words and grammar reflect social and geographical tradition. Place names and family names, species names, relationships to the land and resources, are all reflected in language, especially in indigenous languages that are so deeply tied to place. Once language is lost, essential elements of culture can be lost or diluted too. Indigenous place names and species names often imply or imbue deep meanings or understanding of those places and species, including how and when the species were used. The impact of suppression of language and community gatherings (ku.eex) was, sadly, I’m sure not lost on the policy makers within the BIA. Hearing Bill speak and tell the traditional stories of place, was like listening to the voices of the ancestors, reaching back into an ancient cultural memory, and pulling it into the future. Reminding us that the Tlingit culture, like so many Native American cultures, is alive and resistant to whatever short-term setbacks it may have suffered. The tenacity it took to survive in these sometimes cold and desolate landscapes is what has carried this ancient culture forward through challenging times, and why it is not going away. The Tlingit people hold a long view—they understand the arc of time and deep connection to a landscape in a way that cannot be understood by the National Park Service and more recently colonizing forces.

Click here to hear part of Bill’s invocation.

By Marco Ammatelli

July 31, 2018

Click here for brief video of our paddling excursion.

 

I wonder if Tim ate the rest of that cobbler?

Strange dreams.

When I awoke, overcast light penetrated the lone window in Yaakw Kahidi Cultural Center, dappling my sunburnt face and illuminating the leftovers on the counter from the night before. How could I possibly be hungry after all the fresh halibut, crab, and salmon head soup? Gently unzipping my sleeping bag, I emerged while others tossed and turned, their sleeping pads crinkling on the concrete floor. My ankles popped as I stood. With my camera in hand and a toothbrush in my breast pocket, I tip-toed toward the exit, wondering if brown bears still populated the streets of Hoonah during early morning hours. Slipping through a sliver of light, I turned to close the sliding wall of the shed, the wooden base grumbling as it rubbed the reinforced trim. In my peripheral vision, the gleam of a metal bowl topped with parchment caught my eye. Cornbread muffins. I’ll be back for you.

Outside, the air was moist. A silver mist hibernated in the hillside behind town, looming over homes designed for the South Pacific Theater but nevertheless diverted from Guam to Hoonah following the historic fire of 1944. Locals insulated the thin walls with newspaper to combat the cold, a necessity even in the summer months. By Alaska standards, however, this morning was mild. For half an hour or so, I welcomed solitude by walking the exposed beams of the marina, finding comfort in the slip of seaweed residue and the fragrance of low tide, knowing well the silence would not last.

 

 

In the HIA conference room, we gathered for breakfast before a full day of presentations. Cream cheese and bagels, fry bread, a mountain of cornbread muffins, even fresh-baked oatmeal cookies graced the table, almost everything courtesy of our hosts. Passing the paper plates and plastic fork, we passed gratitude, the gift of simple pleasures. Overtime, eating eclipsed casual banter, and before long, a woman entered from the central offices, fabric folded in her hands and draped over her shoulders. Squares of black felt framed by red soon covered the head of the table, accompanied by a spool of white thread and a multitude of buttons, ivory in hue. One by one, she summoned us to sew buttons in congruent columns upon the blanket, asking for help with threading the needles under the dim fluorescent lights. “My old eyes,” she chuckled. Demonstrating the proper technique, she continued: “With each button, you are contributing to our history. Be gentle. Respect this artifact linking past and present.”

Passing the thread between my fingers and through the first hole of the button, the weight of responsibility pricked my conscience. This will be used to commemorate the healing pole later in August. During the final step, as I inserted the needle beneath repeating stitches, my apprehension grew. Common threads of history. I circled the protruding point three times and pulled. Pop! The thread snapped, my anchor knot simultaneously unseated. Tighter does not necessarily mean more secure. As I worked to amend my mistake—to ensure the button and my confidence did not become loose overtime—the woman, Jolene, placed a yellow pad on the table for us to write our names after we completed the task. “In the future, we will use this list to honor you as contributors, your willingness to share in our work,” she declared, pausing. “… As well as to verify who sewed the missing buttons.”

A wink punctuated her smile.

 

…

 

On the edge of the dock near our vessel, the first fisherman of the day returned with a small catch, a father and son busy at the fish cleaning station. Subsistence practices are alive and well here, even if the methods have evolved. Under the late morning sun, my chest expanded and contracted like a steaming canoe, my black fleece a receptacle of heat constrained by the snug fit of a PFD. The urge to jump into the water was enormous, though erratic in nature. In the water, a massive dugout canoe nudged the dock where it wasn’t buffered by buoys. The brilliant red flanks showed no wear, the boat as strong as the people who carved it.

Sitting two across, we paddled into the open water of Port Frederick. While Zach commanded the bow, both Owens—Owen Oliver and Owen James of Hoonah—dictated the pace. Bambi steered from the stern, and Sherry ushered the boat forward with song and the beat of a drum. Avoiding the path of a landing floatplane and pushing against the tide, we angled for the cliffs between town and Icy Straight Point, the granite wall where fingers scrawled an images in blood-red many years ago. From the water, the faded petroglyph appeared more prominent than when we had viewed it from shore. This is the perspective of the artist. The storyteller. The rendering, two men and a wounded chief in a canoe, served as a reminder, a reminder of conflicted legacy, a reminder of battles won and lost. Turning away from the cliffs, a song echoed from the rear of the boat. One minute of singing seemed to span a generation. Not long after, Calvin dipped his iPhone beneath the water to capture strokes of penetrating sunlight illuminating bubbles released by the pull of synchronized paddles. The footage was mesmerizing, the view from below like a divulged secret, so much so the sea decided to steal it back. After one dip too many, the screen turned blank, black like a slate skipping stone, the device succumbing to an error in water-resistance. Both Tim and I peered over at the wounded chief. Battles won and battles lost.

 

Returning to the dock, we opted to test our coordination as a team. Speed.  Sherry increased the tempo of the drumbeat, her chanting embodying rhythmic urgency. Mindful of the person in front of us, we dug in deep, pulling yet pushing, our hands grazing the surface of the water to submerge the entirety of the blade. The unified drive possessed an ancient resonance, a togetherness, a connection to the water unrecognized in the presence of motors. Indeed, each stroke of the paddle was a re-acquaintance—a reintroduction. Formline salmon painted on the blades merged with rippling waves and returned to the sea; diving herons flecked water from their wooden wings and returned to the sky with arching flight; a lone sea otter dragged its slender body at the surface, if only for one second at a time, before disappearing and popping up five feet ahead with cyclical repetition.

At that moment, I had no doubt of the spiritual significance of a canoe: a medium instilling sense of place across pathway geographies and generations, a shared art and a practical necessity, a living member of tradition.

A perpetuating gift.

 

…

 

Exhausted by our efforts, we let ourselves drift for a while before docking. Sea stars and small fish dotted the shallow bottom amidst floating pockets of green algae, some of which covered the buoy at my feet. Once Zach moored the boat, I dropped it overboard, pulling excess strands from my shoes as I stepped onto the aggregate walkway. Ascending the grated ramps back towards Harbor Way, I felt fulfilled—which was only half true, in retrospect.

The day was only half over.

By Owen Oliver

After a short eventful paddle, we were back into the office of HIA (Hoonah Indian Association). We were greeted by Ian Johnson who currently serves as the Hoonah Indian Association Environmental Coordinator for the Hoonah Native Forest Partnership while also being the Community Catalyst. Ian is from Minnesota, however he completed his undergraduate biology degree in Wisconsin. Recently he graduated with a master’s in Wildlife Biology and Conservation from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. He brings his studies and experiences to the Hoonah Native Forest Partnership and contributes to their mission of “achieving a measurable and resilient blend of timber, salmon and deer production, local economic diversification and improved watershed health” (Sustainable Southeast) with the ultimate goal of putting the tribe front and center in the co-management of natural resources on Chichagof Island such that resource management is sustainable  (from a an ecological and economic standpoint), and meets the cultural and practical needs of the tribe. Next to Ian was Sean Williams who is from Louisiana State University and brought into Hoonah by the AmeriCorps VISTA program. Sean is focusing his masters degree on Environmental Sciences and he brings unique skills to Hoonah. Sean’s focuses in Hoonah include projects within Port Frederick and working with the youth outdoors. Ian who is interested in GIS/Aerial photography begins the presentation informing us about new technologies they are using in Hoonah. LIDAR or light imaging, detection, and ranging is currently being used to understand efficient and sustainable subsistence practices. LIDAR works by sending wavelengths from a plane down towards the ground and measuring the wavelengths that are reflected back. The data is collected and through programs you can create 3-D topographic maps. LIDAR can even determine where certain berry patches are and how the yield changes from each patch. This could be useful in many ways, as subsistence practices can become more resourceful and efficient, but they can also monitor from the sky where you used to have to hire a crew, which turns out to be more expensive. Nevertheless, the Hoonah Native Forest Partnership provides training and jobs to HIA members who work on the ground to check and monitor resources assessed from the sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once the presentation was done we all climbed into a small touring bus driven by our tour guide Zach to check out HNFP’s work on tree thinning and salmon stream restoration just outside of Hoonah. We jumped out and Ian (Figure 3, in the green) immediately was excited to tell us about their studies on “natural” tree thinning in the area. Thinning is a practice to remove some trees in immature areas to reduce competition, and eventually increase growth of the remaining trees (a process that happens naturally, but which can be sped up by people). The main reason why HNFP is practicing thinning is to redistribute the trees so that older trees will be able to survive which promotes higher quality timber. Figure 4 shows natural thinning in action. See how the bark is cut and the wood is exposed.

 

While Ian was excited to show off their work on thinning, I sensed that their prized work was their restoration of a nearby salmon stream. We walked a bit further along the small gravel road and dropped along the stream bed. There were many comments about the state of the salmon stream bed, most of them were about the lack of water. When I mean lack of water, I mean no water, the stream was completely dry. Sean said “Hoonah had only 4 days of rain this whole summer. This is very weird and unusual, it’s usually raining the whole summer.” While a dry stream is boring with the lack of salmon trying to complete their journey, it brings a different perspective. We were able to walk right in middle of the stream and have the ability to get down low and pretend to be a salmon, imagining how they would navigate through the obstacles that have been placed and built upon. As a Fishery Sciences student I got quite a kick out of this. Ian explains how he has worked with his peers to restore this particular salmon stream. The most important element of a healthy stream is having dead wood in the streams. Figure 5 shows Ian explaining to us how you only need to place one dead log across the stream and more sticks and trees limbs will pile up. This is crucially important for the salmon because it helps control flow, creates shade, and builds up gravel for the salmon to use as spawning beds while laying their eggs. We learned about the types of salmon that use this particular stream the pink salmon (Oncorhynchus gorbuscha) and the dog salmon (Oncorhynchus keta).  These salmon species are different in sizes and you can tell that these salmon used to be present in this stream. Ian brought us over and showed us various sized rocks. The smaller fish like the pink salmon prefer the smaller rocks when creating their spawning site and the bigger dog salmon prefer the much larger rocks. Once he told us this we were able to see the distinct piles of similar sized rocks laying around everywhere. Ian did a great job on informing us about the HNFP and their goal to restore salmon streams around Hoonah.

 

 

 

 

We climbed back onto the bus and drove back to Hoonah, but before we got back we stopped to explore the muskeg around Hoonah. Muskegs are the same as bogs, just worded differently in Alaska. Muskegs are super cool because of their acidic soil due to plants decomposing into peat and humus. Since muskegs are super acidic only certain plant species have adapted to these regions, the most notable is Sphagnum moss which can hold 40x its own weight in water. The coolest plant we found were Sundews (Droseraceae, Drosera). These carnivorous plants use sticky substances on their leafed surfaces to catch and lure insects (Figure 8). The acidity of bogs means that nutrients are leached out of the system, hence Drosera obtains nutrients from insects. In some cases, the water is so acidic that plants prefer not to use it–this is arguably true of Labrador tea, another common muskeg plant, which is drought adapted, through its leathery leaves with dense hairs on the undersurface.

 

We ended the night with good food from a local Hoonah restaurant, The Fisherman’s Daughter, featuring local seafood, then embarked on a mission to see bears with Ian and Sean. We were told there are four grizzly bears for every person in Hoonah, so we all were pretty positive we were going to see some. As we arrived and parked just beyond the bridge, excitement grew and people were wondering when they were going to see their first grizzly bear. The day grew long, and the sun was setting, it had been 2 hours since we’d arrived and only saw salmon swimming up the stream. People were getting antsy and tired. However, the sounds of rustling in the salmonberry bushes got everyone right up. Finally, we saw a mother grizzly (coastal brown bear) and her two cubs (Figure 9). Everyone that night had dreams of seeing more bears. The journey wasn’t over yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hoonah was just a short stop in our trip, but it was just as meaningful as the rest. Each person we met, each story we heard, each story we told, and each memory we created all came together to build a sense of place in Hoonah. Once the trip ended we looked back at our time in Hoonah and all acknowledged that the trip wouldn’t have been as great if we didn’t go to Hoonah first. In Hoonah we learned about Glacier Bay from the perspective of the people that had been there for centuries before the National Parks Service and other settlers. We traveled in their canoes while hearing their songs, the same songs that could have been sung while leaving and crossing Icy Strait. It’s pretty powerful to feel welcomed into a community that has had so many issues yet still hold on to such a rich history. We learned so much in the few days we were there that it’s hard to grasp everything. I know that I’ll be back in Hoonah once again.

 

Owen Oliver

 

 

Sources Cited

Hoonah Native Forest Partnership

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I believe time takes care of everything. Even if a goal seems unattainable, the universe will help fill in the gaps along the way if we remain patient and diligent.” –Bob Starbard

“We are what we are based on where we are from, but it is not our anchor–not ishaan… We are an entrepreneurial people.” –Bob Starbard

By Marco Ammatelli

August 1st, 2018.

For extended interpretation by Tim Billo, be sure to read to the bottom of the post.

…

 “How do you define tribe?”

The question lingered in the HIA conference room as if to suggest the unexpected. Leaning back in his chair, Bob Starbard nodded towards me: “We can start with you.”

Though an answer migrated to the front of my mind, I paused to consider my response. The situation reminded me of a passage in John Muir’s Travels in Alaska, a passage in which Muir explains his purpose for visiting Glacier Bay to a Tlingit congregation. Ultimately, a common reverence for the land and an unanticipated truthfulness united him with the audience. Even now, he is remembered as speaking “on the same side of the river, eye to eye, heart to heart.”

Throughout our discussion, I felt this river. This unanticipated truth. The words of the Tribal Administrator and Alaska Native seeped into my ears with currents of clarity, even if some complexities washed over my head. Like the first surge of water across a dry creek bed, he spoke to overcome drought. No small preconception escaped untouched. The immersion, both an honest conclusion to our time in Hoonah and a sincere introduction to our travels in Glacier Bay, marked an awakening. With each hour that passed, we came closer to the same side of the river, eye to eye and heart to heart, crossing perspective after perspective. Our learning in Hoonah was only the beginning of a greater dialogue. And many crossings remained.

…

Our last morning in Hoonah, Bob sat on the edge of his chair at the head of the conference table, his brow pensive, one hand slowly outlining the curve of his upper jaw while the other rested near an open laptop and a mug of coffee. He looked us all in the eye with the intensity and calculation of a Raven, derived from weeks, if not months, of thinking. This was his chance to set a precedent. To speak his mind and his heart. And his focus was clear: Before we entered their homeland—and the political sphere of the National Park Service in Glacier Bay—he demanded we understand the mission of the Xunaa Káawu.

To Bob, this began with one vital perspective: Acknowledging how the Tlingit adapted, not the extent of their loss.

“‘Poor me’ is not progress.”

Despite displacement from their homeland, despite the repercussions of ANCSA—the paradoxes that stem from being judged as corporations rather than sovereign clans, and despite symptoms of isolation—whether in the cultural rehabilitation of a gap generation or the contemporary struggles with substance abuse and mental health, he insisted dwelling on victimhood only amounts to further deprivation for the Tlingit people. In reflecting on notions of self-reliance within a modernized economy, he stated: “There is a difference between asking for a ‘hand-up’ and a ‘hand-out.’”

This led to his second belief: the importance of “pulling together.” Whether in a conference room or a canoe, he reinforced the need to act in unison as the clans and the NPS navigate the future of wilderness management in Glacier Bay—at its core, a process of reconciling the place of traditional subsistence within a landscape commonly considered void of human work. In a short anecdote, Bob illustrated the futility of the Park Service’s historical resistance (See Figure). He emphasized their deep connection to the land, the knowledge and tradition the many generations of Tlingit realize through work in places that sustain their sense of being. For the better part of the morning, we discussed the current state of the relationship between both groups, as well as the evolution of park policy, concluding with a stark reminder:

“It’s fragile, much like nature… [Our relationship] is at its beginning. It is very much a creation of the people who are currently leading. And we haven’t made it systemic yet. We haven’t made it a part of our foundational documents and what carries beyond us. I don’t want to leave you all with the ‘everything is good’ hunky-dory there. It’s not. It’s a work in progress. And it very much could still fall apart.”

While his statement exposed the vulnerability of the partnership, he remained resolute. As a man with many visions for his people, he often repeated a guiding maxim, a measure of courage for the crossings he hoped to partake. This one seemed to ring true since time immemorial:

“I believe time takes care of everything. Even if a goal seems unattainable, the universe will help fill in the gaps along the way if we remain patient and diligent.”

Beyond hope, a sense of commitment emanated from his voice. When he sat forward in his chair, his hands clasped together like interlocking feathers, his movements commanded the gravity of the room. From sources of struggle and strife, his river flowed with purpose. And knowing we, in that moment, listened on the same banks, he extended this power to us: the responsibility of filling gaps. As a diverse collective of ambassadors, he urged each of us to one day return to Hoonah and serve the community in our own way, just as the community had served us. Whether months or decades from that day, he hoped we would bring the learning full circle. He hoped we would share our experiences beyond the bounds of Glacier Bay, and he hoped, in our many crossings, we help return the ethics of the Huna Tlingit to their homeland.

…

With only minutes before the ferry departed, Bob offered one last piece of advice. Without paper in my hands, I rushed to transcribe his phrases on the only material remaining in my pocket: a laminated Alaska Marine Highway Ticket. In a frenzied hand, I tried to capture the truth in his words:

Front: Change is vital. Adapting.

Back: Preservation is for dead things; preservation is static. Preserves are berries, picked and sugar coated. Perpetuation is the answer.

Scrambling down the grated ramp towards the mouth of the ferry, tickets and IDs seemingly crammed into the most difficult places to reach, the river swept us forth. Most of us carried two backpacks; a few carried extra dry bags containing bagels and cheese, assisting those who heaved duffels as heavy as glacial erratics; but despite full hands, all of us carried something much larger. Waiting to board the vessel, I looked back at Hoonah. The piers, the shoreline where children swim despite glass shards and rusted metal, the green tip of Yaakw Kahidi’s roof, even the lone road that exits town and turns to dirt amidst sitka spruce and muskeg. With each place, I associated a story, an extension of welcoming community. Lunging up the steep stairs to the main cabin, I counted the innumerable people who gave our visit meaning, their generosity, their good humor, their resilience. I held their kindness close. The imprints circled me like ripples.

Between bites of scrambled eggs from the Fisherman’s Daughter and pinball conversation on the upper deck, I studied the vast silver above and below the guard rail, the mirror-like continuum interrupted only by fringes of blue from clear-cut foothills on either side. A deep sense of stewardship left me still, overcome with contemplation but not frozen. Battered by wind and the first hints of rain, I retired to the solarium. The yellow tint of the room softened the view of ISP as we passed, but more than anything, the revelations of the morning allowed me to reframe its contradictions. Instead of preconception, I opted to adhere to the plan, a vision for the long-view instilled by only a short stay in Hoonah.

So I looked forward, out across Icy Strait to the Tlingit headwaters.

Gustavus awaited, Kim and Melanie Heacox the first of many warm welcomes.

John the Driver likely sat in the front seat of his ancient van with even more ancient compression brakes, preparing to escort a hungry cohort of college students to Sunnyside market so they could stock up on Fuji apples from Argentina at $5.67 per pound.

Farther yet was Bartlett Cove, the Vis, the plodding of plastic wheel barrows down a dirt path to a campsite with blueberries and firm sand.

Looming in the mist, Xunaa Shuká Hít was sheltering visitors with the strong smell of cedar, and inside, Paula was speaking of her people and homeland with simple eloquence, her emotion enough to shield anyone from the cold of Alaskan rain.

The skeleton of a once pregnant whale was also waiting. She engendered thoughts of scale and timing and coexistence to each passerby reading her plaque.

Near the warming hut, wood for chopping was growing moist by the minute. An axe was waiting for a strong hand or two.

A cache of flour tortillas, beans, bricks of cheddar cheese, and a massive bottle of Sriracha remained stowed away in Tim’s duffel, hiding beneath piles of pots from which we would drink grey water with Swiss Miss and later sanitize with seaweed and salt water.

Too, a fire pit on the beach was waiting. Waiting for the sun to set and waiting for reflection to circle glowing faces chased by smoke and the passing of the first squares of dark chocolate.

Everything was in front of us as we sailed across open waters on the LeConte. There was no way to predict our path through Glacier Bay.

But we knew one thing for certain: From one bank to the next, we were off to accept our duty.

…

(Figure):

Harvesting spruce-roots is an enduring tradition in Tlingit culture, affording weavers material for crafting baskets and hats among other objects. Paula’s hat reminded me of a story told by Bob Starbard earlier in the day. Below is the ironic punchline:

…Despite informing park rangers the approximate area where experimental spruce-root harvests would take place, the park rangers found no evidence of ecological or aesthetic disturbance in the zone…

…

Commentary and Clarifications by Tim Billo

One of the things that Bob helped us understand was the difference in goals between HIA and Huna Totem. In Bob’s mind the goal of HIA is to uphold the cultural traditions and cultural pride of the community. HIA also holds governmental power as a federally recognized tribe. [As a side note, the “tribe” status is artificial since the Tlingits traditionally operated as clans. One of Bob’s recent accomplishments has been in the location and repatriation of cultural artifacts taken from Hoonah in the distant past–such as a 200 year old box drum, a cultural form previously attributed only to the Klukwan clans further north. These items are officially repatriated to the tribe, but later a discussion must ensues on which clan has rightful access to the items.] Corporations on the other hand, such as Huna Totem, wield power in the form of money. In effect they were set up as an attempt by the federal government to help tribes take care of themselves, but in practice the goals of corporations are often at odds with the goals of tribal entities such as HIA. Often money speaks louder than it should. Bob would like to see the power being consolidated in the federally recognized governing body of the tribal entity–that is HIA. There are many ways that the HIA looks after the health and well-being (physical, cultural, psychological, and otherwise) of its people, that a corporation cannot or should not be expected to do. That is, the corporate model of simply handing out dividend checks has not proven to offer a holistic good to the community. While Huna Totem does engage in cultural activities, Bob would like to see HIA at the center of those activities. He has big plans for helping HIA return to the center of the community, and to some extent, that means putting HIA back on sound financial footing so that it can compete in some of the areas in which the community may currently look to Huna Totem. Bob has seen a lot in his time, starting with his experiences with overt racism as a child in the 1960s, but the time of ishaan (poor me) is past. Bob is guiding the HIA and Huna Tlingit into a new space–a space where heads are held high, and they again actively control their own destiny in their own lands.

August 3rd, 2018

By Calvin Smith

Glacier Bay was set up “as an ecological park, devoid of cultural references…” [Words like] “empty, devoid, natural, set it up for problems.” –Philip Hooge

“Solutions don’t come from anger.” –Bob Starbard

“There are no no-brainers…there’s always an argument from the other side…but what are we borrowing from the next generation?…it’s all disciplines on deck…this administration will galvanize people’s resolve.” –Sally Jewell

Birds did not chirp, The whisper yonder instead blows its foghorn, except there is no fog this morning. Today’s plan called for a meeting with Bob Starbard – Tribal Administrator of the Hoonah Indian Association; Sally Jewell – Secretary of the Interior ’12-’16; Phillip Hooge – the Superintendent of Glacier Bay National Park; Mary Beth Moss– pivotal figure to the current NPS/ Hoonah relationship; and of course, Tim Billo – UW Environmental Studies Prof. Quite the A-Team lineup was gathered this day, calling me to jump on the opportunity to reflect upon it. Aware of this unique cast, I knew great preparation would be required – even though in the end I was not prepared enough. The plan was to go to Glacier Bay Lodge before the discussion, chiefly to secure some liquid black gold and to prepare for the discussion of course, prior to heading over to Xunaa Shuká Hít (Huna Tribal House) for the discussion.

Glacier Bay Lodge is this quaint and warming Hotel/ Restaurant/ visitor center which also had a music selection reminiscent of Seattle. So, all of us had found it quite welcoming. There I was snarfing down a buffet of food – mini pancakes, sausage, eggs, bacon, all of it. Our kind waiter that morning, Barbara, is an elderly woman who has made it her summer tradition to work at different national parks year to year. Barbara is a kind woman, especially because she was quite attentive to the table’s demands for coffee this morning. As for the discussion preparation, I had begun to write down various questions: How can we spread this dynamic effort between Natives and the NPS to other parks? What has been the most difficult challenge in this mission? What do you predict to be the most difficult challenge in the future? Struggling to produce a question which could capture more than a yes or no answer, none felt fitting nor appropriate. In the moment, I was quite flustered, sad almost. How can I let this grand moment slip through my hands – I panicked. Whereas now, sitting in Northern Tea House in Juneau, myself a new resident to the world of tea, I am fine with the challenge of the discussion, not the inability to produce a question. Part of this epiphany brings me back to Bob’s remarkable four-hour lecture/ speech/ talk to the group on our last day in Hoonah. As a student in American Indian Studies, the information Bob had bestowed upon us in four-hours, was equivalent to three years of classes at UW. Spanning from Indian subsistence, history of Indian boarding schools to the difference between the Alaskan Native Corporations and the lower-48 Native Tribes, Bob shared a host of knowledge and wisdom – his time as a previous professor was proven in his prowess. To bring the circle round, some of the historical information and facts were not new to me, rather his perspective was. By providing his personal story and imagery, my questions were already answered. Ultimately, it was for the best I did not feel comfortable asking questions during the panel discussion or that my questions did not feel good enough – the challenge for me was not knowing what questions to ask, it is what do I do now, with wisdom gained from this experience?

Stepping through the oval shaped doorway, we are bathed in cedar, wrapped by its warm smell then allured to fall asleep in the most snooze worthy temperatures lit by gas-powered campfire in the center of Xunaa Shuká Hít. Equipped with a bottle of fresh coffee and a belly full of something other than oatmeal, I was primed to be beholden to such profound leaders (Not sorry about dissing the oatmeal Tim, I cannot eat much more of it after my personal outings and your Olympics course, but I digress). After removing my shoes and resting against a cedar bench, Phillip introduced himself. In a circle the A-Team sat intermingled amongst students, and one by one we followed Dr. Hooge, introducing ourselves, our majors, and our UW class ranking, rather than a lustrous list of accomplishments. Coffee in our veins, pencil in hand, we were ready to bask in a discussion of a lifetime.

Without diving into direct commentary of the discussion, the facts which best summarize our sum two or three hours there, are that one must always look to the future. Never dwell on past infringements of others upon you, rather learn from such encounters and apply wisdom towards self advancement. This theme, of essentially not perpetuating the “victim card” as Bob called it, was said to be a lynchpin to the current relationship between the Hoonah Indian Association (HIA) and the National Park Service (NPS). Another takeaway from the discussion was hearing of the ability to open your perspective for growth; particularly, allowing comfort to be tested in aims for new gains. In the case of the NPS and HIA, both parties had to step out of their own respective comfort zones to foster this new age of reparation and reclamation within the park – forging a distinctly unprecedented relationship compared to other parks throughout the nation. Finally, maintaining a vision towards the future made up the bulk of the discussion and deserves more reflection. We had not mustered there to hold a history lecture, but a gathering of the minds to reflect on profound accomplishments and cementing progress even as leadership changes with the HIA and NPS.

There were a number of concluding thoughts on how to keep progress moving forward, even when it may feel like a “hard frost” is settling in in Washington D.C. Bob stated that tourists need to “expect” that the story of native people to be told by natives themselves, and that tribes and parks need to be “represented together.” Sally emphasized that the NPS mission of preserving park resources unimpaired needs to include the cultural world too–not just cultural objects, but culture and cultural relationships, that are the heart of our most iconic landscapes. Philip expressed that we need to hire more local employees in the NPS–people who are invested in the place and will stay in the place, giving them opportunities to advance without having to move to another park–the goal here to hire a staff more reflective of the demographics of communities around the park, emphasizing Alaska Native communities which are currently underrepresented. On top of that, we need Alaska Natives in all sectors of the park, not just in cultural interpretation, and we need to provide a space that is culturally welcoming, in which alternative ideas are valued and employees don’t feel isolated. Mary Beth pointed out that if more local hire jobs become available, and you expect Alaska Natives to apply, you’ll need to break down the mistrust of the NPS–that needs to start early, e.g. with NPS partnerships with the Hoonah school. Sally concluded by saying that once the public sees and tastes progress, you can’t “put that genie back in the bottle”. We need to “set up situations where ‘undoing’ would be embarrassing for successors.”

Sharing a story from ranger Betty Reid Soskin, Sally Jewell portrayed contemporary conflicts within the U.S. to those witnessed in Soskin’s time; a time of challenge, injustice, prejudice, and meager opportunity. Yet through Jewell’s encouragement to focus on the “thin crack of light underneath the doorway,” she made everything seem alright. Bringing the conversation around full circle, these virtues and themes brought about Glacier Bay and Xunaa Shuká Hít; implemented by just a few people inspired by great wisdom. As for other details of the discussion, well, it was simply something where you had to be there to understand the gravity. Details of which shall remain omitted on the fact that not everything needs to be shared in the 21^st century, and that is okay.

I

In a form of intellectual whiplash, we proceeded from the discussion to meet our kayak guides, Sean and Condor, after lunch. Gear exploded across the lunch tables at the “Vis”, Condor asked us all to introduce ourselves and our favorite color. At the time, we had also gone over which pieces of gear each of us needed, rain coat/ pants, eating utensils, cups, etc. They had it all, or so we hoped. Sean and Condor had stressed that they had been “turning and burning” that summer – essentially, continuing from one guided expedition to another with little downtime in between each. Thus, yielding their gear warehouse barren. The evidence of their burnt-out state was also noticeable along the journey; which, I do not blame them for rather the scheduling around the high frequency of their business. Sometimes it is just the way the cookie crumbles. Anyways, after dispersing dry bags for us and planning the time of departure for the next day they were off. It was a short introduction with them. Some of us were optimistic, others skeptical. Either way, we were going to spend the next eight days with them. Now the rest of the day was to be spent organizing our personal gear. Ditching any unnecessary items such as: deodorant or my Bluetooth speaker but not forgetting a pivotal item, the Sriracha. As we sat around the fire that night, we were glowing with giddiness about the next step of our journey–a journey deep into the homeland of the Hoonah Tlingit, Sit’ Eeti Geeyi, at a pace dictated by the whims of nature (yes…this would prove to be only too true).

Personal Reflection:

 

For the final portion of the post, I am supposed to dive into a reflection of the course in its entirety with a focus on the academic themes. On a broad spectrum, the themes which I witnessed were conflict and reconciliation. Conflict arising within the Huna-Tlingit story of their homeland, Sit’ Eeti Geeyi, and how the glacier seized their land. Made right in a sense by Kasteen, a Huna Indian girl who chose to stay behind and reconcile her coaxing of the glacier; conflict within the NPS and USA seizing Glacier Bay as a national park effectively disenfranchising the Huna-Tlingit presence and history, but then reconciled via efforts by those on the discussion panel; and then a more personal internal conflict. As a Native American youth coming of age, I have gloriously tripped over a hurdle this summer, thanks to the wisdom of Bob Starbard, and learning to say goodbye (thanks Kim Heacox), while focusing on the crack of light under the door (thanks Sally Jewell). Intertwining the Western concept of academia and personal lessons cannot be avoided on a course such as this. To say we are the same people as we were boarding the plane to Alaska mid-July is ludicrous. Indeed Tim has done a tremendous job in teaching ecology and history of Glacier Bay and parts of SE-Alaska; however, it is the unstructured curriculum in which I benefited the most. It is difficult to articulate these unstructured lessons, so I will end with an encounter on the final day of kayaking. During one of the student discussions, I claimed I would not enjoy visiting Glacier Bay on a cruise ship, unless I was old in age and unable to pursue physical exploration. Then, on the small ship-tour of the West Arm, I had met such a man. Let’s call him Edward. Edward is a local of Washington, visiting Glacier Bay, all alone. But not lonely. He shared that since his wife passed away in 2017, he was touring national parks on his own. Heralding Alaska as his prime destination. In fact, he had already planned his next trip to Denali before his stay in Glacier Bay was over. Edward and I shared love for the North Cascades, a cornucopia of mountains where if you can make it there you can just about anywhere. Although Edward was not a mountaineer himself, we had bonded over these peaks. Discussing the prominent rise of Cashmere Mountain or the beast of a mountain, Bonzanza Peak. I will explore my more personal reflections in my final paper for the class.

To wrap up my post, I just want to take a final paragraph to highlight a series of fortunate events for myself yet unfortunate for Owen. Owen and I spent a few days post-course to hangout in Juneau, see some sights and eat some good food before returning to reality. Originally, we had planned to hike the West Loop of Mendenhall and jot down onto the ice-field; however, this dingus almost missed his flight as he flew out a day earlier than realized. So, it is Tuesday the 14^th, we both take a bus to the airport, say our goodbyes and plan to hangout asap once school starts. Instead of heading back to the hostel I decide to float around nearby, indulge in some amazing tea at the nearby Northern Tea House – which you must go to if you get a chance. After sum three hours there I return to the airport and plan to hangout and sleep there rather than stay in the hostel because I am a cheap/ poor college student and I do not want to pay for taxi-fare to the airport at 5 am. So, I sit in the airport for a handful of hours, switching between YouTube, reading and starting this post, not really paying attention to my surroundings as time is dragging by horridly. It is around 6 pm now, hour four of sitting down in the airport, I have successfully tucked away near the baggage belt with somewhat of something called privacy. I decide to stretch my legs when I happen to stumble by Owen, who I thought had flown out to Ketchikan hours earlier. Turns out, his flight was cancelled due to required maintenance on his plane. Thus, Alaska Airlines secured a night stay in a local hotel for him and conveniently myself. Off we were then, I sat outside for about 30 minutes before sneaking into his room. Afterwards, we both had some delicious tamales in Juneau Alaska, go figure right? Anyways, we had both thought it was absolutely crazy we were hanging out that night. Needless to say I was giddy with delight to not have to spend a total of 16 hours lurking around Juneau International Airport.

 

By Maddie Joy

“You paddle a canoe; you wear a kayak.” –Kim Heacox, The Only Kayak

Kelp: Ribbons if iodine/unrolled by fingers/of waves. –Nora Marks Dauenhauer, The Droning Shaman

August 4th, 2018

Everyone in camp woke up at 7 am…but not me. I woke up late, at 8:45 am, and had to run to the Tribal House for our discussions that were supposed to start at 9 am. When I arrived, everyone was already in attendance, and Paula kindly offered me some tea and snacks. I quickly made my tea, and then went to sit down with everybody.

Around 9:30, we started Calvin’s discussion. It was a very interesting/thought-provoking conversation that discussed the continuing of culture through generations, and the different roles and required signs of respect for each step forward. Calvin, a member of the Grand Ronde tribe has wrestled personally with what it means to be Native in the 21st century, respecting tradition, while being open to other cultural influences. It was especially valuable to be able to have these discussions with Sally Jewell, who was again joining us, before she departed from us, for the rest of our journey.

We then took a small break, and moved right into Marco’s discussion about ANILCA and its effects on subsistence in rural Alaska. He started out by telling us a story, a story he heard from a man on the ferry, who was bragging about having participated in the killing of a beluga whale, just two years after moving into rural Alaska. The way he talked about this killing, as if it was just for trophy, and “thrill of the kill,” made us all sick to our stomachs as Marco retold the story. The person telling the story may be an outlier, but it truly made us think about subsistence, and whether or not it should be extended to all rural Alaskans (as it currently is), or just be a component in the lives of the Native people. Sally then talked a little about “bears over bait,” which is a practice in which people lure bears and then shoot them. She had previously abolished it as Secretary of the Interior, however it has soon been reversed in the current administration. After I heard about these two horrific trophy-hunting related-instances, it made me very angry and sad, as I think how most of the class also felt at this point. These stories definitely skewed many views, and just generally put a sour taste in everyones’ mouths, so we decided to stop the discussion and continue it another day.

We had lunch on the beach, around midday, all hoping that it was the last day of tortillas, cheese, and Sriracha. We then packed up our camp, put only the “essentials” into dry bags, and then went on our way to meet with the guides and get geared up to start the trip!

We departed around 4:30. So exciting! Kim Heacox and Sally Jewell paddled out with us to say goodbye. It was very bittersweet. A part of me felt like I was leaving my new home, and it was very sad to leave all the amazing people we had met and spent time with, however I was very excited for the next part of this amazing journey-8 days in the Southeast Alaskan Wilderness, kayaking up the East Arm of Glacier Bay.

After about 2 miles into kayaking through the Beardslee Islands, Calvin and Owen’s kayak rudder broke, so the guides decided that we would only go 2 more miles. Kayaking with a broken rudder is no easy feat, as could be seen from Calvin and Owen’s kayak going around in circles, with both of them trying their hardest to stay going straight. We ended up seeing a sea otter, a few loons, throngs of white-winged scoters and Bonapartes gulls, and a few porpoises, and we all got so excited for each wildlife spotting. It was fun!

We kayaked for a total of 4 miles in 2 hours and ended up on this super cute island with 3 tent spots in the woods, and 2 tent spots on the surrounding shore. The “bathroom” beach was established on the opposite of that of the “kitchen,” doubling as the place where we carried/ placed/ and unloaded the boats.

Within an hour of being on the island, we all were having some private journaling time, when we heard Sean yell “BEAR.” We all ran over and yelled “HEY BEAR” to an adorable, smaller, female black bear who was just wandering around near our camp. She eventually swam across to the nearby island, which was very cool to watch.

For dinner we had stir-fried veggies and rice. VEGGIES. I think we all were at the point of being so done with straight carbs and would be willing to do anything to have fresh fruit and vegetables. IT WAS AMAZING.

I remember thinking about how happy I was after this day. I wrote in my journal that “my heart is so warm…I’m in the most beautiful, peaceful place in the world with absolutely amazing people.” It was an amazing start to the kayaking trip, and it made me so excited for the days to come.

 

August 5th, 2018

Kelp:  Ribbons of iodine/ unrolled by fingers/ of waves. –Nora Marks Dauenhauer, from The Droning Shaman

Today marked the halfway point of the full trip. It also was my favorite day of the entire journey. Also, Happy Birthday Mackenzie!

We woke up early, had some breakfast, fixed Owen and Calvin’s kayak, and then were on our way. Today, we were going to be heading to an island known as “Christmas Tree Island,” by the AMG guides, or “Bear Track Cove,” by everyone else living around Glacier Bay. It was roughly seven miles away from the small island we were departing from.

After kayaking for about an hour and a half, we stopped on a little island for lunch. While munching on tortillas and beach asparagus (the local name for “pickle weed” or Salicornia), all of the sudden, we see Tim running towards us from the beach hiding away in the distance. “Hey guys, there’s a humpback feeding over here, hurry!” he said. We all quickly ran over and were immediately amazed by what we saw. There were two humpback whales, a larger and a smaller one, just swimming around a small cove, very close to shore, and feeding. It was such a beautiful and peaceful moment for everyone. We all stood silent, in awe, watching the sprays come closer, the tails go farther, and listening to the sounds of the whales breathe, that sent goosebumps and shivers down my skin.

When we got back on the water again, we all stopped to admire a cute sea otter, playing around in the kelp. Jayna then spotted something move on shore, so we all pulled out binoculars to take a closer look. Sure enough, there was a mama and two baby moose walking along the beach. We watched as they majestically moved across the rocks, and then across the small river, and into the forest. On top of it all, the two humpbacks, from earlier, were nearby, breathing and spurting, a sound and a sight to be remembered for the rest of the trip. This moment was all-around amazing, and truly encapsulated the richness of wildlife and diversity found in Glacier Bay National Park.

When we were within a mile of our destination, we hit dead end to land, as we had hit the shallowest part of the canal at exactly low tide. We then had to all get onto land, and lug the 300-pound, gear-filled boats to the other side of the water-filled channel. Six people to a boat, climbing a hill over 20 yards, was no easy feat, but together as a team, we accomplished our goal.

Despite the roadblock, we eventually made it to “Christmas Tree Island” and enjoyed all of the small spruce trees lining the beach, interspersed with a carpet of wild strawberry and soapberry shrubs. After setting up camp, we all went off to have some private journaling time, and a moment to just take in the immense beauty surrounding us. During this time, I wrote- “I am sitting on the roots of a fallen log on the beach, on the last of the Beardslee Islands, looking into the entrance of Glacier Bay and the beautiful snowcapped mountains. I am listening to two humpback whales breathe and I am watching them spray out their water, creating towers of mist in the distance. I’m watching Jayna watch a harbor seal, that is watching her. The ultimate stare down. It’s just so quiet, still, and inspiring. I am able to hear myself think.”

It truly was some much-needed alone time for everyone, a time to just process everything we had been experiencing over the last week and the wildness surrounding us.

We then did Natalie’s discussion about sustainability, and talked about all of our different definitions, and how there truly can’t be one concrete meaning, as it can encompass so many things. We talked about cultural sustainability and the relationship to the Tlingit, environmental sustainability in the park, and many others such as economic, political, and social sustainability. We also compared different organizations such as HIA (Hoonah Indian Association), HNFP (Hoonah Native Forest Partnership), Hoonah Totem, the National Park Service, and the National Forest Service to discuss which aspects of sustainability appeal most to each of their missions.

After dinner, Abby and I then tag-teamed our discussions about the concept of “wilderness.” We asked the group whether different situations could be considered true “wilderness,” such as Glacier Bay, with two cruise ships entering its waters each day. There were many mixed views on many of the topics, and it was interesting to hear everyone’s inputs.

Towards the end of our discussion, the clouds covering the Fairweather mountain range began to lift, and it was as if all of the sudden, we were looking into the depths of heaven. We then spent the next hour just watching the sun set over the Fairweather mountain range, looking into the West and East Arms of Glacier Bay as the backdrop for all the wildlife in the waters in front of us. This was the perfect ending to a perfect day and I will remember all the beauty forever.

Reflection:

I have traveled many places around the world, been among many wonders, and been blessed to spend time with some amazing people, but this trip was the most amazing experience I have ever been a part of. I got the opportunity to firsthand communicate with and learn from amazing people such as Bob Starbard, Mary Beth Moss, Philip Hooge, Sally Jewell, and those from the wonderful communities of both Hoonah and Gustavus. I got to experience the most generous hospitality I ever have in my entire life, and the most “wild” wilderness that I ever thought could be possible. On top of it all though, I was blessed to have made lifelong friends, that will share this amazing experience with me forever.

My most memorable moment and most special memory of the trip occurred right after we all watched the humpbacks feeding near the shore, on the second day of the kayaking trip. After about 15 minutes, everyone started to walk back to finish lunch, however I wanted to stay just a bit longer, as I was in awe with everything I had been watching. I walked down to the water’s edge, and stood about ankle deep, just looking out at the amazing wilderness surrounding me. It had been a couple minutes since the whales had surfaced, so we thought that they maybe had left the cove and continued their way down the bay. As I was about to turn back to rejoin the group, the large humpback surfaced less than 10 feet away from me, and sprayed, almost close enough to get me wet. I just stood there in awe. It was one of the most amazing moments in my life. It was just me, this whale, and the beautiful wilderness that surrounded me. A moment I will cherish forever. It made me feel so small, and lucky, to be in the presence of such a massive and extraordinary creature, in the most beautiful place in the world.

I experienced a lot of changes in perspective on this journey, and one of the most telling moments was during my discussion about Wilderness. After talking, we all realized that we take for granted our youth, physicality, and ability to go out, not see any people for 8 days, and kayak into truly deep Southeast Alaskan Wilderness. Many of us, including myself, hold judgments towards those who don’t go out and experience wilderness “in the right way” whether that’s going into the backcountry, backpacking, or making your own paths in the “untrekked”. However, we acknowledged that many people do not have the means, especially physically, to experience wilderness in this way, so it could be that maybe taking a guided bear-watching tour, or a cruise ship up the bay, is the only way for them to experience the preserved wonders of the world. We then talked about whether we would rather essentially “share” the wilderness in this way, with the less-conventional wilderness experience and possibly sacrificing the “wildness” of it, or if it was more important for everyone to be able to have some level of wilderness in their life. Before starting this trip, I think that myself and many others on the trip were against the whole idea of exposing more people to National Parks and making them less “wild,” however this trip truly made us appreciate diversity in parks and the importance of exposure, education, and knowledge surrounding the parks, to help sustain them for generations to come.

I also came into this trip with preconceived opinions about hunting, especially the action within national parks. Being the typical nature-lover, liberal college student, I think that my viewpoint can be inferred. I had always praised the idea of the “no-hunting” policies in national parks and wanted all animals protected at all costs, no matter the situation.

Even within my first three days spent in Hoonah, Alaska, my viewpoint completely changed. I listened to the stories, and concepts of lifestyle from the Tlingit people, and realized just how important subsistence and hunting was to their lives. On top of the outrageously expensive prices to buy any food item in Alaska, subsistence and hunting has always been a crucial part of culture/survival to the Tlingit people and all native peoples of Alaska. Not only that, these practices were significant to their original homeland-Glacier Bay. Upon returning to their homeland after the glacier retreated, they were once again forced away by the National Park Service. Their original source all of all resources, food, and home, was now taken away from them, as it had been countless times in the past.

As I kayaked down the east arm of Glacier Bay, and saw upwards of 50 sea otters and seals a day, I realized if there was hunting in Glacier Bay, everything would be okay. There would still be plenty of sea otters, seals, fish, shellfish, gulls, and not create a detrimental impact to the ecosystem. This realization stacked upon the cultural importance of the Tlingit hunting in their homeland, made my view very clear. After meeting many Tlingit members, and hearing the significance and specialness of certain hunting/subsistence practices, I became fully supportive of their ability to access resources within the National Park. I still do not know where my views lie when it comes to extending subsistence to all “rural Alaskans,” especially within a national park, but I do know that I carry a new viewpoint that I did not have coming into the trip.

Realizations like these were reasons why this trip was irreplaceable and truly changed me as a person.

I am just so lucky to have been a part of such a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I remember at the end of the trip, I asked Professor Billo if he was planning on doing this course next year, and he said he was going to try, but we both knew that it would not be the same caliber to the amazement and generosity we got to experience on this journey. Yes, it is likely that it will not rain six inches a day on the group for next summer, however I just do not see it being possible to receive all the opportunities and memories we were given. However, even if there is less perfect “meetings” with all the right people, and not as many perfectly planned activities, it will always be an amazing trip regardless, because Alaska is truly a wonder. This was my third time coming to Alaska, and it will not be my last. I want to continue exploring its beauty and appreciating its wonder for the rest of my life.

Thank you so much Tim, for making this all possible, and for being the best teacher/mentor I have ever had.

 

 

By Natalie Schwartz

“I made haste to strip off my clothing, threw it in a sloppy heap and crept into my sleeping bag to shiver away the night as best I could.” –John Muir, Travels in Alaska, within a mile of where this post was written.

Fur Seals: Carried in the arms of/ standing waves,/ gliding to the head, breaking/ through the frothing mouth. –Nora Marks Dauenhauer, from The Droning Shaman

 

August 7, 2018, Garforth Island to Adams Inlet:

As we awoke on the morning of August 7th we all knew there was a chance bad weather would dictate our plans. As soon as we got out of our tents we felt the mist hit our faces and saw the wind break over the water and we knew we would no longer be paddling to the McBride Glacier. We did not care how far we went or where our final destination would be, but now we could slow down and focus on every inch of wildlife around us— and we would still be sure to miss things with the uttermost abundance of life in Glacier Bay. We did our routine of packing up our tents, grabbing breakfast and hot drinks, and then began to tear down camp and pack everything into the deep hollows of our kayaks. As we finished packing up, we launched one by one. The shore seemed a little choppy, but nothing could have prepared us for what we were about to paddle into.

With big smiles on our faces, we began our paddle— depending on the weather we would either tackle 5 miles to an exposed camp or paddle less than 3 miles to a less exposed camp in Adam’s Inlet. As we paddled away from Garforth Island we got into larger and larger waves. We did not realize how strong the current was until our eyeballs were barely peering over the crest of the waves as they broke. Still smiling we sang through the waters. As waves crashed into the cockpits of our boats we kept on going to get to safer waters. We decided we would camp close by to be blocked by the wind and get out of the what seemed to be, 40 foot waves crashing on us. Most of us were all novices in the kayaks, so to say this hour of paddling was intense would be an understatement. It pushed our limits, but all of us came out of it with our stoke levels off the charts.

When we finally got to our camp we piled out of the boats, dumping out the entire ocean from our soggy boots. Raincoats were just a formality at this point— there function was no longer useful. However, it seemed that mother nature was always doing us a solid by holding off on the rain as we set up our camp. We had a few hours of dryness where some of us got warm in our tents, some of us learned to weave mats out of the grass—an attempt to cover the ground to keep it dry for fire making, key word here is attempt—, and with the final minutes of our break in the rain we decided to go on a hunt for the old cabin built by John Muir. Minutes into our beach adventure to find Muir’s cabin it started pouring. That did not stop us. We persisted to find his cabin. We found a game trail and followed it to a plateau surrounded by dripping moss from all the trees and an abundance of salmonberries. There was no sign of Muir’s cabin, but we decided we might have found the land he once settled and called it a day.

As we headed back to the camp we saw a friend down shore. Our friend was a healthy sized grizzly bear! The bear was feeding, flipping over boulders to munch on it’s dinner. We called, “Hey Bear!” time and time again, ultimately chasing it down the beach. We were trying to push it up the beach into the woods for our safe passage, but this bear had a plan of it’s own. We accidentally pushed this bear into our camp, where the other half of our team was eating dinner. They hastily packed up the food and then protected our camp chatting with the bear and asking it nicely to carry on. When we got back our guides taught us a valuable lesson that I believe is worth sharing for the outdoors humans of the world! If you ever see a bear, let it be known that you are there. Say “What’s up bear!” as many times as needed so the bear knows you are there. If it notices you and ignores your presence, you are safe to pass with as much distance as you can give the bear. We all learned great bear techniques this day.

When we all settled back into camp we ate dinner peacefully and watched the bear mosey down the shore. Soon enough, the bear wanted to retreat to the place we had chased it, so it crossed right back in front of our camp. We all stared in awe as this massive bear sauntered back home. It was one of the most intense interactions I have ever experienced with nature. The gracefulness of such a large creature is mind boggling. It dwarfs your presence in nature. I felt so small— only a visitor to Glacier Bay, leaving no trace in these beautiful animals home.

August 8th, 2018, Paddle into Adams Inlet:

Today marked the wettest day of our entire trip. We woke up, and our guides were ready to call it a day for staying in the tents and keeping dry. None of us agreed. We came to Glacier Bay to see the homeland of the Tlingit people and experience the wilderness! We did not come to sit in our tents. We were all so eager to get out to paddle that our guides changed their minds. In pouring rain we began to paddle into the inlet. The color of the water was magnificent. It ranged from a deep blue to an aquamarine to a silty beige. We traveled over glacial silt flowing into the inlet from the nearest glaciers, which were not far away up side valleys. Black-legged kittiwakes passed overhead, while scoters, murrelets, and harelequin ducks scattered ahead of us. As we paddled over the water that flowed from the glaciers, the temperature dropped and the air was so crisp you could feel the coolness in each inhale. 

We paddled through sections of the inlet that had so many sea otters and harbor seals that it looked like pop goes the weasel (probably explaining what the orcas some of our group saw later in the day, were after)! I started counting harbor seals that I could see in front of my kayak in one instant. I counted up to 20. I have never seen so much abundance in my life. As we traveled into the inlet further and further, I really felt like we were going back in time. We watched the young Sitka spruce (Picea sitchensis) forests turn into forests of Black cottonwood (Populus trichocarpa). There was even one mountain hemlock (Tsuga mertensiana) spotted at sea level–a descendant of one of the interglacial forests (a mountain forest that persisted above the glaciers) that Muir studied here over 100 years ago. The far end of Adams Inlet is shallower, having been a glacial lake in Little Ice Age, filled with glacial sediment, and never sculpted by ice itself. 

As we paddled back I meditated on the idea that Tlingit ancestors endured this weather for their entire lives. We were having a hard time enduring the weather for seven days. It humbled me to think about life here 500 years ago. Glacier Bay is as beautiful as it is because of the constant rain and weather. It is so gorgeous and life flourishes because the animals and the humans have adapted to living in such a space.

Most of us spent the rest of the day in our tents trying to keep dry. A few other students stayed outside under the tarp and watched a pod of orcas swim into Adam’s Inlet. Our guides said they had never seen orcas in the East Arm of Glacier Bay, so that was pretty special. I am bummed I did not see them myself, but I am sure the orcas were having a feast on the pop goes the weasel players. The amount of food for them inside of Adam’s Inlet likely kept them busy for quite a while.

Personal Reflection:

This wilderness management course was indescribable. I truthfully did not know what to expect coming into the class. However, when we arrived in Huna and were greeted by so many kind and welcoming people I knew we were in for one of the greatest trips of my life. I have never experienced so much in such a short amount of time. I had taken two indigenous history classes at UW before taking this course. The professor always reminded us that the indigenous people we were learning about were not a “historical” presence, but they are very much still here, and their story is still being told. They are resilient. Bob Starbard taught us that very idea, and showed us what he meant in Huna. Although the National Park Service did not recognize the Huna Tlingit, the people of Huna were able to remain strong and there resiliency is ever present in Glacier Bay, especially at the Huna House in Gustavus. Glacier Bay is the homeland to the Tlingit. Everyone else is simply a visitor to such a magical place.

Kayaking through these waters was the only way I would have wanted to experience the bay. It was such an intimate way to experience the wilderness. We were feet away from humpback whales, sea otters, a myriad of exotic birds, and grizzly bears! I am someone who has spent a considerable amount of time in the outdoors, and this was more wildlife than I had seen in my entire life in less than a week! It was a special moment to share with other students and I have been inspired to continue my work to keep places like these special. I want to share what I learned in Huna. As Bob Starbard taught us: I want to be an ambassador of Huna and share the resiliency and beautiful culture that we were so privileged to learn from and be a part of for a few nights.

By MacKenzie Price

“I drifted back to the bear, how beautiful it was, the fur-dappled legs and blond-tipped ears, the paws flicking onto the ground with each step, the broad face, elegant shoulders, and enormous gait so fluid, frightful, and strong, so capable of crushing a skull and picking a berry. It was every bear, and I was every man. My fingers brushed lightly on the map. I looked back at Garforth Island and let it go.” —Kim Heacox, from The Only Kayak, “Garforth Bear”

August 9th 2018

Waking up with a slightly damp down sleeping bag was how I started this day. I never got to the point of being cold but was constantly stressed that I might be cold at some point. We were rolling onto day 6 out on Glacier Bay and morale was slowly starting to dip. People, including our guides, seemed to have grown tired of an almost constant rain. I have been very cold before but never had I experienced such inescapable wetness. Every layer of clothing was soaked through to my skin and my hands were beginning to look alarmingly withered and pruned. We had long given up the hope of rallying to see the McBride Glacier, but there was still a sting of sadness in the morning when the guides decided that we should paddle back to Garforth Island in order to be picked up a day early. I, though I did not want to admit this, was grateful for a relief from my permanent wetness. But I was also disappointed that we had to resort to leaving a day early. Going into Glacier Bay and not getting to paddle near a glacier felt like we were being cheated out of something. But if I learned anything, I learned that the uninhibited wild is unpredictable and a lot more powerful than us. We were just visitors to this area and we were definitely not in charge. 

     After breakfast we broke down camp and piled everything into the kayaks. By this point we were almost pros at this tricky Tetris. The paddle back to Garforth Island was a relatively short and I was mentally motivated with the thought of dryness. Not even a mile off of Muir Point we encountered an iceberg. It seemed out of place and oddly prehistoric. I tried to rack my brain to see if I had ever been close to an iceberg and came to the conclusion that my experience with icebergs was strictly fictional, which made it even more amazing. We did not reach the glacier, but at least we got a little glimpse of what it is all about.

   Aside from the iceberg rendezvous, the paddle was afflicted with some rain. The rain was refreshing and atmospheric when moving out on the water. But as soon as we reached Garforth and had to put up our lightweight tent up in the pouring rain, it turned from atmospheric to detrimental. This portion of setting up camp was usually riddled with anxiety that the rain would seep into our one haven. However, we found some luck when, as soon as we were done setting up camp, the rain stopped. Just in time for a bear to walk across our camp! At this point we had come across quite a few bears but I do not think that my heart ever stopped jumping a little when I saw one. Being in such close proximity to a bear, a multitude of times, was always a thrill. I do not think the fact that we were in the Alaskan back country was truly realized until we saw that bear on the very first day. That is when it really sunk in that we were venturing into a place that relatively few people got to experience. 

  We had the rest of the day to wander the stretches of rocky beach, trying to pick out mountain goats on the surrounding cliffs and reflecting on the kayaking portion of the trip. A brown bear ambled through the trees past our tents, we startling us momentarily, and we it. It lingered for a moment by our bear canisters, but was interested in them only as a visual curiosity–and we tended to our camping with surprising nonchalance–after seven days in Sit’ Eeti Geeyi, we had grown accustomed to our wild home and our wild neighbors, each minding our own business as good neighbors should. I got a bit more reading time which is always my favorite part of the day. Our last day of the kayak trip ended (thankfully) with a fire. A wonderful dinner of halibut tacos and a campfire with plenty of poetry felt like an appropriate way to end this ordeal. After paddling and camping for multiple days in the rain, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I felt I lived through something that was going to make its mark on me. The rain, perhaps falsely, made the whole thing feel more authentic because it provided some adversity to overcome, which is ultimately a good thing. The intensity of our surroundings was only amplified by the weather. It really made it feel like we had to surmount something in order to be privy to the wilderness that is Glacier Bay. But I think that Glacier Bay did not reveal all its cards, and we have to go back in order to explore all the secrets that are held in the breaches of the bay. 

    From Hoonah, to the Adams Inlet, to Gustavus, and all the people along the way I felt like I had an immersive experience that will affect me for years to come. I came to better understand how parties of somewhat opposing interests, namely the Tribal Association and the National Parks Service, can come form a collaborative relationship. In order to maintain this relationship, these organizations need to look forward on future goals and not backwards on past tragedies. The dialogue we got to witness between the Tribe and the Parks Service was obviously a start. They collaborated on the Hoonah House, and now the Healing Pole. But the next step is maintaining this collaboration so it can continue to grow and not stay stagnate. From what I understood in the conversation between Bob Starbard, Phillip Hooge, and Sally Jewell, there are going to be hurdles when it comes to sustaining this partnership. Some of these challenges include financial limitations, the physical space between the tribe and the Park, and the need for a public demand in order to continue the partnership. But although I know there will always be challenges, from what I experienced in the Glacier Bay/Hoonah/Gustavus community, I am optimistic that there are people out there that will maintain and cultivate this inspiring relationship. 

    As I sit and reflect over the entire trip, I cannot help but think about the natural beauty that constantly surrounded us. It reminded me to appreciate the fact that I had been raised in the Puget Sound, a place I feel as deeply connected to as many locals did to Glacier Bay. While Glacier Bay may be more uninhibited as the Puget Sound, I am still so lucky to be able to have such a captivating place to call home. The people we also met along the way affected me in ways I was not expecting. I have been so used to the “keep your head down” attitude of Seattle that I could not fathom the hospitality and kindness that was shown to us. A perfect example of this was when almost every person we had met in Gustavus showed up at the ferry terminal to see us off. It inspired me to bring some of that attitude back to Seattle and open up to others in new ways. And as the year gears up and the pace picks up, I can not help but wish I was wet to the bone on a rocky beach with a book in hand. 

 

The view from Garforth Island (Jayna Milan)

 

I wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye to the landscape of change that had become our norm for the past 7 days, so I breathed deeply, laid back against the plastic seat of my kayak, and let my eyes flutter closed. I tried to recreate the scene in front of me – cascading waterfalls and green mountains submerged in low hanging clouds – but it was difficult to capture every single element for how it was.

Upon paddling ashore, we organized all of our gear and then took time to examine the intertidal zone for a final time. Sea urchins, washed up jellyfish, and sea stars dotted the shoreline and became a living, breathing classroom. As we waited for the pick-up boat, we walked from creature to creature and questioned Tim about the thriving ecosystem around us.

We heard the pick-up boat before we saw it emerge from the fog. Time ticked by too fast as I spread out my arms to feel the rain sinking into my rain jacket for the last time. On one hand, I felt a strange overcoming to run away into the woods and far away from reality and society at large; on the other, the notion of unlimited hot drinks, comfy seats, and flushable toilets sounded too good to be true. I couldn’t make up my mind in time as the pick-up boat charged into view from the fog and we were ushered into our fire line positions.

Walking into the cabin, I was hit by an air of heat that tickled at my skin and made my hands flush red. Hot drinks! Coffee! Rumors of chocolate chip cookies to be given out later! We were ecstatic by novelties and comforts unavailable in the backcountry, and excitedly talked among ourselves about the Junior Ranger Program and free food. The other tourists on the boat weren’t quite sure what to make of us stinky and talkative students, but smiled all the same.

(Jayna Milan)

As we pulled away from shore, my introverted side pulled at my heartstrings and I had a sudden urge to be by myself. I quickly changed into dry clothes and claimed the last row of seats on the second floor overlooking the port side. I treated myself with two packets of steaming hot cocoa and tried to spot mountain goats in the distance.

We quickly sped into the West Arm where the skies opened up and our rainy days seemed like a faraway memory. Upon spotting a mama bear and her two cubs, everyone on the boat jumped to the right side with their binoculars in hand and eyes wide open in amazement. It felt strange and weirdly too comfortable to have 300 m of glass and water between us and the bears; after 4 close encounters with bears on our kayaking trip, something irked me about looking at these beautiful creatures from such a distance.

(Jayna Milan)

Puffins, mountain goats, eagles, and more bears graced our trip up to John Hopkins Glacier. Everyone on the boat was playing a game of Glacier Bay I Spy and would excitedly tell others when they spotted something of interest. As we sped northward, the National Park Ranger on board, Cristina, explained glacial retreat and other natural processes crucial to Glacier Bay’s formation and continued change. I would often eye others on the boat and wonder what they were taking away from this experience and what their minds were thinking as they looked out on the expanse of water in front of them. It was easy to be critical and think of our group as the “true adventurers” as we were the ones who had been tested by the elements with a week out sea kayaking; but when I really looked around, it was beautiful to see people from all over the world connecting over shared amazement by what lay in front of us. For many, this boat trip is the “wildest” way that they’d be able to experience Glacier Bay, and for others, the only way that their bodies allow them to.

 (Jayna Milan)

On the upper deck, we excitedly embraced the gush of winds that sent chills down our spines. I precariously sipped on my fourth cup of steaming hot cocoa and took photos of the waves left in the boat’s wake, riding happily on the giddy undercurrent of excitement that rippled through the deck. John Hopkins came into view and I couldn’t help but compare its beauty to a slab of cool mint fudge with chocolate ripples. Everyone stared out in the same direction captivated by the height of the snow-capped mountains and eerie sounds of the glacier cracking.

(Marco Ammatelli)

(Jayna Milan)

(Jayna Milan)

We sped away and the crowd trickled downstairs back to the comforts of the cabin. I remained on the upper deck where the wind slapped hair in my face and took my breath away – saying a final goodbye to the glacier.

The next morning in Bartlett Cove, we had a chance to chat with our Park Ranger on board from yesterday, Cristina, over breakfast outside the “Vis” – Visitor Center. She talked to us about what it was like being a Latina ranger and how she had come to start this position at the park. Based off of what Tim and Cristina has told us, it seems to me that the NPS needs to change their hiring process as it seemed awfully skewed to those who already have connections within.

(Jayna Milan)

As we had returned a day early, we decided as a group to take advantage of our last paddle day in Bartlett Cove with Sean and Condor, our kayaking guides. The sun hid behind the fog for most of the morning, and it was difficult to distinguish sea from sky as everything was painted a still grey. We weren’t able to catch sight of any wolves, but instead witnessed two moose swimming from island to island as we were making our way back to the cove. Sean told us, “Glacier Bay has treated you all very well,” and I couldn’t have agreed more.

We packed our gear into a van and took off for Gustavus. We quickly learned that Gustavus was a tight-knit community when we realized that we were staying at a friends of friends’ two-story house who they were out of town for a couple of days. It felt strange but incredibly comforting to be back in a “normal” house where we could all stretch out and slowly digest over our adventures over the past two weeks.

Marco mulls over potential song lyrics for our one hit wonder at Music Night. (Jayna Milan)

Note the home-canned salmon and berries on the shelf, a rifle hanging on the rack, along with flotation coats, heavy rain gear, and Alaska “sneakers”, as well as over-sized brownies and Mac n Cheese from Costco! (Jayna Milan)

Later that night, we made our way over to “music night” at the Outpost – a local artist’s gallery that was converted to a community space for open-mic music every other week. While this week they hadn’t planned on having music night, the community had come together to hold a second session in our honor! We, “Timmy and the Termites”, had crafted our own song and had the chance to perform it in front of the 30-person crowd. It was a one-hit wonder. Everyone in the room knew each other and also made me feel as though I was part of their large, extended family. Performers cracked jokes on the stage and my heart swelled at the ease and happiness that flowed through the room. I had always wondered what a small rural town in Alaska would be like, and this was nothing what I had imagined. The night winded down with three hits by the one and only Tim Billo, who ended up being the town celebrity that night. It was a night to remember.

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As I reflect from my house in the University District, looking at concrete blocks and cars passing by my window, I try to recreate the image of cascading waterfalls and towering mountains; And while it’s difficult, the imprint is definitely still there.

This trip has impacted me in ways I can’t put down in words. From the incredible individuals we’ve had the opportunity to meet, to discussing what “wilderness” is and exploring the relationship between the National Park Service and the Tlingit tribe, I’m still unraveling it all. One major thing I have realized is to unlearn what you have been taught about everything you know, and to not put communities and individuals into black and white categories.  Before this trip, I also always found myself at odds with myself and tried to figure out where I stood with others. I love the city, but also cherish being outside; I’m not quite at home in the U.S., nor am I in Thailand; My goofy and social side feels guilty for wanting to hole up and reflect on my own; The outdoors takes you are as a person, and I now know that I don’t have to exist within the confines of my own boxes – I’m a multi-faceted person who will contradict myself and I’m learning to be okay with that.

Before the trip, I was always passionate and interested in the topic of diversity in the outdoors, but this trip allowed me to dig deeper by meeting with so many other individuals who are engaged in this national conversation from different angles. I’ve furthered my understanding and interest in the intersections between the outdoor industry, our societal thoughts on what the “outdoors” pertains to, and the systematic barriers that minorities still face to truly “get outside.” I realized that my heart is tied deeper to nature than I ever thought, and I feel as though this trip hit a reset button on my own definition of success and has made me ponder why I pursue the activities that I do.

Before the trip, I knew that many Native American communities have traditionally viewed the concept of land and property in ways that contrast those of Western European settlers; however, I never did any deep-dive thinking about how these two disparate “land-management” philosophies have resulted in varying ways that both groups recreate and interact with the outdoors.

Typically, when one thinks of the outdoors, he/she/they will conjure images of someone hiking, kayaking, fishing, and backpacking in areas of land that are considered pristine. Historically in our nation since the foundation of national parks, this vision was and continues to be painted by and for white, affluent, urbanites who are active participants of the mainstream outdoor economy. This vision is evoked from a wilderness philosophy that dates back to Western European settlers where the “wild” is separate from man – and meant to stay that way. After talking with various members of the Tlingit tribe of Southeast Alaska, they reflected that the concept of “wilderness” does not fit in with their traditional beliefs, and can be viewed as a societal construct created by Western European settlers. Activities within subsistence culture like berry picking, salmon catching, and mushroom gathering, which the Tlingit have participated in for all of millenia, do not reflect mainstream outdoor culture, but are just as – or more – deeply connected to experiencing the outdoors. So, spending an “weekend outdoors” while in the village of Hoonah might look a little different from a weekend spent glissading in the Olympics. It is, however, important to note that this is not representative of everyone in the community nor of all Native American tribes. Some Tlingit individuals do own North Face jackets and do go hiking, but for the most part, their traditional ways of interacting with the land around them would not include a 7-day recreational paddle up Glacier Bay – it would be more so for a means of subsistence culture.

Attempting to see a painful history from all sides is difficult. It is easier to make assumptions about individuals and to place entire communities in categories than it is to realize that each person is multi-faceted and might have a contrasting opinion from his/her/their neighbor. Our time in Hoonah discussing such issues with amazing individuals has made me reflect on how we need to listen more in our daily lives to break down the categories and assumptions that unknowingly build up in our own minds. Especially with the political polarization that exists today within our communities and schools, it is so important to voice our own opinion, but perhaps even more crucial to listen and to break down our own assumptions.

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Thank you, thank you, thank you to all of you who have made this trip what it was, and to Tim for being our goofy and fearless mentor and leader.

 

By Tim Billo

I have many emotions at the end of this course. I have never cried at the end of a course, until this one. The landscape of southeast Alaska, and the wonderful communities we had come to know, tugged at my heart as I stood on deck in the stormy seas and heavy rain that pushed us back to Juneau. It is safe to say that the learning was profound for me as well as the 9 incredible students I shared this experience with. We were blessed to have been influenced by so many generous people along our journey. Sit’ Eeti Geeyi, however, does not give up all of its secrets and lessons easily. I know I will be back. Until then, I want to leave you with a short article by Matthew Cahill, another NPS employee who generously shared his time with us, offering here an official recounting of the raising of the healing pole on August 25th, 2018, just 12 days after our departure.