partner Steph who was working in the community health cen- tre. Te Quinault’s acceptance of non-natives is confused. In truth, much about the Quinault is confused—or worse. Many children are born to young, disadvantaged parents, too many babies nurse on Pepsi instead of breast milk, adolescents play with meth addiction and adults struggle with diabetes. But there is also hope. You can see it in the eyes of the proud,
many of whom have been busy for the last several weeks refur- bishing Quinault’s new dugout canoes. Te last of Quinault’s traditional dugouts had disappeared
early last century, under the watchful eye of the Bureau of In- dian Affairs. Folklore kept a faint ember of memory glowing and in 1998 a Quinault elder and his son decided to act on the stories of his childhood and gathered from the elders what they could about shaping the ancient cedars. Tey used deer antlers to carry glowing pumice from a nearby
fire to reduce the tree’s 700-year-old belly to smouldering embers. Ten they chipped it away with sharpened rock and steel until a canoe took shape—and a community began to remember. Now four dugout canoes sit on the banks of the Quinault
River waiting for their crews and high tide, both of which will come early the next morning.
“Circle up pullers!” our skipper Ritchie belts as excited kids
crowd around, shaking off the damp cold in the dawn’s faint shadows. Ritchie tells Don he will be sitting behind the pacers. He has
known Don his whole life and knows that Don will put his head down and pull with all his strength all the way to Sand Point. In the last year Don has educated himself about nutrition and exercise. Tis is Don’s first journey, and I suspect not his last.
Ritchie chooses me as a thruster and I sit in the rear of the ca-
noe. Ritchie knows from the silence we have shared while carv- ing paddles in the boathouse that I am determined and strong. When we push off I pull as hard as I can as the canoe leaves the steady flow of the river and pushes into the waves of the Pacific. Ancient songs echo off sea walls while grey whales breach
and sea otters play. When each sun sets we take shelter with the other tribes. As the days pass we fight against the current and the swell.
Ten, two days into the eastern leg a summer storm whips up two-metre waves that capsize a Makah canoe, killing a Nuu- chah-nulth chief named Jerry Jacks and hospitalizing three of his crew. We were from separate tribes, in separate canoes, but we
were all on the same journey. Tat evening, I walk into the community centre where the
paddlers have gathered. To look into their eyes is to see fear and confusion. Tese nations are rediscovering pride and the death of a chief of the most intact tribe during this symbolic journey is crushing. All mouths are wondering, “Do we stop for three days to show respect? Or do we continue with renewed inspiration?” Te children continue to play, the police continue to patrol,
the adults continue to speculate, and the elders chant and pray. Te prayer tonight is for clarity, and confidence in whatever guidance we are offered. We take the evening to mourn, and then we continue. We are
determined to let Jacks’ passing inspire us. Determined to make it to Sand Point. Determined to show the world that it can take away the Quinault’s past but it cannot take away its future.
AMMEN JORDAN is a proffesional filmmaker.
C ANOE ROOT S n 37
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