Through the Broughton Archipelago to the northeast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia …
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We arrive at Alert Bay on Cormorant Island, once the site of a vibrant village, dominated by large cedar longhouses and tall totem poles. Today, the picture is different. Moss-encrusted piers, several with missing planks, jut into the bay. The tang of salt, seaweed and rotting fish hangs in the air. A few totems punctuate the drab waterfront, reminders that this place, which has been home to the Namgis First Nation for thousands of years, has seen better days.
My wife and I are aboard the Columbia III on a First Nations’ cruise operated by Mothership Adventures that will meander through the Broughton Archipelago to the northeast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia, while we learn about Native history and culture. Lillian Hunt, a Namgis Native and curator of the U’mista Cultural Centre is our guide.
Ghostly masks in the Potlatch Collection of the U’mista Cultural Centre.
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We head ashore to the U’mista Cultural Centre, which captures both the agony and glory of the Kwakwaka’wakw people, a group of 16 First Nations in this region that shared a common language. A film shows how in December 1921 a large potlatch (considered illegal by the white man) on Village Island was raided and the priceless ceremonial regalia confiscated. About 20% of the seized items have been repatriated and are showcased in the Potlatch Collection, which is full of coppers and masks representing ravens, eagles, orcas, bears, the moon and sun as well as supernatural creatures. It’s stunning and I sense a powerful pulse, an emotional celebration embodied in this regalia.
The T’sasala (“Determined”) Dancers, youngsters in Native regalia, circle the fire in the Big House, performing a traditional dance.
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Then we are called to a Native feast of barbequed salmon, clam fritters, prawns, halibut and a special treat, an oily fish called oolichan. Delicious!
Only yards away from the modern cultural centre, sits the decaying St. Michael’s residential school, a hulking, red-bricked reminder of the persecution of the Native people. (This cruise took place before the school was demolished in 2015.) From 1929 to 1974, children were forcibly taken from their families to live and study at the school in order to ‘civilize’ them.
Alert Bay Big House, the bold green, black and red ovoids represent a whale. The world’s tallest totem pole (173 feet) soars high.
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We stroll to the Big House, its front painted in bold green, black and red ovoids representing a whale. The world’s tallest totem pole (173 feet/56.4 m) soars high above. Inside, a fire lights the dusky interior, illuminating colourful totems and immense cedar posts and beams. Four men drum on a log. The T’sasala Dancers, youngsters in Native regalia, circle the fire, performing traditional dances.
We stroll into town and gaze at the cemetery. I am touched by the array of totems as well as crosses, an intriguing intermingling of Native and non-Native faiths.
Totem poles intermingle with crosses in Alert Bay’s cemetery.
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Sailing away, I realize the soul of the First Nations people is laid bare in this town of contrasts. It has living conditions that, in places, resemble a third-world country. But it also displays great beauty and a proud culture. Alert Bay screams out about the injustices that Native people have suffered.
We cruise eastward and anchor on the north side of Hanson Island. Over dinner we chat about First Nations’ dances, thunderbird masks and the taste of oolichan.
In the morning we rise to mist hanging over the islands like silken veils. The rising sun chases the fog and the Columbia purrs through the archipelago.
Lillian points to a mortuary box peeking out of the greenery on Berry Island. Not allowed to go ashore, we study the box with binoculars wondering what high-ranking person lies inside and how he or she lived and died.
Albert Bay, B.C. totem poles – The vibrant waterfront of Alert Bay circa 1880.
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Under a blue sky we arrive at the deserted Village Island and a beach whitened by broken clamshells. Signs of a previously flourishing village are everywhere: broken pieces of pottery and metal litter the beach and a decaying totem pole lies horizontal in the forest. The midden (layers of broken clam shells left by centuries of First Nations habitation) has been dated at more than 6,000 years.
I can imagine the cries of anguish as Chief Dan Cranmer’s potlatch was raided and the treasures of masks, coppers, rattles and whistles were confiscated. This beautiful, lonely site captures the misguided callousness with which the “white man” ruled the “red man”.
We cruise on until a red petroglyph winks at us from a cliff. Believed to represent an image of the North Spirit, the red colouring came from fish eggs. We drop anchor at Crease Island for the night.
When we awake, fog hangs like an ethereal blanket over the sea and islands.
The moon hangs over a totem pole in Alert Bay.
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At Insect Island Lillian shows us cedar trees with long vertical scars (known as culturally modified trees) where Natives sustainably “farmed” cedar bark, an important material used to make hats, clothes, baskets and much more.
We motor to Sunday Harbour where a long wall of rocks lies along one of the bays. “This is a clam garden,” explains Lillian, “where clams were gathered at low tide.” As the First Nations say …
“When the tide is out, the table is set.”
At the Burdwood Group, a glorious gaggle of little islands, some of us paddle kayaks while others go ashore to explore the middens. I ponder the long Native history of living off this bounteous land and sea.
On our last day we return to Alert Bay and stroll past the cemetery, the residential school and the cultural centre. Back on the Columbia, leaning against the rail, I don’t know whether to rejoice or to cry.
If You Go:
The First Nations’ Cruise: www.mothershipadventures.com
U’mista Cultural Center: www.umista.ca
First Nations’ tourism information: www.aboriginalbc.com
I understand very well the healing and anger that was expressed the day St. Michael’s Residential School was demolished, the need to erase a place of horror from the survivor memory. I read the stories online, but to this day regret the building was torn down. It should have remained standing, a visible reminder of a history that undermined the worth of how many young lives. History of good and evil should remain, for example AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU remains as a reminder, lest we forget the evil of mankind to turn blind to atrocities. How convenient was this demolition, Tourism B.C. welcomes how many cruise and ferry visitors through the Inside Passage and is thankful this black mark on the Supernatural history of BC has been erased for all time. My mother attended Coqualeetza Residential School for ll years. Not until after her death did I learn she had but a grade 3 education which she never admitted to anyone other her sister who also attended to grade 3. She spent 22 hours in laundry a week, plus 4 hours of laundry theory plus floor washing before she could attend class after chapel. RIP St.Michaels.
I went to Alert Bay right after the Umista Cultural Center was opened. My Mother and I were standing outside when a very nice man came up to us and invited us to view his workshop, where he was making Bend Boxes, in a basement part of the old St. Michaels School. It was cold and damp in there but he was making some of the most beautiful pieces of art. I wondered at his inspiration. The room was large, with windows high on the wall providing light and reminance of their creative talents were scattered around, in various stages, along with chips of wood and tools. these were the carvers of many fine works in woods. The area was pretty cluttered. Very much like an art studio, where the work is being constantly worked on.
He also told us some of the stories of the old building and all the atrocities that were committed there. I had seen the building from the sea and was told it was a residential school for the First Nations Children, but I had no idea of all this going on in its history. it was the being told by a relative of these children that brought the the story to life for me. I felt a real heaviness in the air of that place and felt a sense of movement within and my heart ached in a dull and constant manner. It was disturbing to say the least but thought it was just because of the telling. We spent hours there with that artist and I wondered around looking at things as he talked. I could have stayed all day there with him but my mother suddenly was not feeling well and we had to leave. We thanked our host graciously and went back to our abode.
Later in conversation with my mother, recounting our adventure with that wonderful man, she broke down into a flood of tears. I held her tight and asked her what was wrong? My mother was a very intuitive person and when she was able to compose herself again, she began to tell me of all the things she saw and felt in that, what she came to call “That Horrible Building”. First off she kept hearing sobbing sounds from the walls fading in and out, and she was not to unsettled by that for she had felt similar things in other old buildings. Later she was getting actual images flashing in her mind of the children, that scared her and a feeling of deep loneliness and despair. She felt things like stinging on her fingers and pains in her tongue and her mouth, a strange taste, and a choking sensation, and what felt like they might be whipping pains on her backside, though she had never really experience such a thing herself. She really could not get out of there fast enough after those images and feelings began asaulting her in the latter part of our visit. It gave creedence to my own senses of dread from that place. We avoided that area for the remainder of our trip.
Spent the rest of the time exploring other places on the island. When we got home she had changed. She had been a devout Evangelist Christian. In the last hours of her own life she did not want to have anything to do with that part of her life. She spent the last years of her life writing letters calling for the tare down of that building. It bothered her so much that those poor people who lived there, had “That Horrible Building” looking down upon their every day lives, constantly reminding them of the terrible things that had been done to them and in a way are still being done to them. She quit going to church and we all thought she was just feeling her old age. She was 94 when she passed. I honestly think the pain of that experience haunted her, and had actually pulled her away from her faith. She was ashamed of what had been done to those poor children, that she experienced in that building and blamed her church for all of it. She wanted nothing to do with the Evangelists in the end. But she still felt at peace when she passed.
The building was deteriorating quickly and was a hazard and way to costly to fix. The Artist had abandoned their workshops there because it just was not working for them anymore. They were afraid of young teens breaking into the building and getting hurt in the crumbling interior.
I felt the same way about the building as you when I first heard of the plan to take the building down.. But when I went back to scatter my moms ashes there on that Island that she loved and with the people that she loved. I actually walked the area where the building use to be and it was peaceful, none of that heaviness remained and I realized its intrusion upon the community was also lifted. For those who lived there it was a blessing to have “That Horrible Building” gone. The story of that building lives on in the memory of the decendants of those children, and they will tell the story of that shameful time in Canadian History and it is now written for all to learn about and in that way it will never be forgotten. The same is true in American history where the Native Americans were also abused in such very cruel and ugly fashions and still are suppressed in so many areas and so many ways.
. . . It was a tough decision for the people of Alert Bay for they also were split on this decision and in the end the building was torn down and it was their choice, not the Governments. I think the People are better off without it.
Nancy,
What a touching story! Thank you for sharing some of your mother’s life and feelings with us.
Glenn.
Interesting read , The Namgis Chief ,”Dan Cranmer ” who’s mentioned in this text was my Grandfather, He was A Humble Man , A Big Chief back then , my grandmother would say that after that Big Potlatch in “Mimkwamlis ” Village island , My gramps didn’t feel proud or happy after what happened to all of his close friends who where Also big chiefs , and also their wives ,who were noble ladies, when they were all sentenced and taken to Jail , He didn’t quite ever get over that …. And I fully understand why he would feel that way , … All that he did, kept things alive , along with the strength of other chiefs and families who continued potlatching regardless of what the settler’s threatened and acted on…. Our Cranmer Family is still Extremely involved and actively Potlatching and feasting to this day … 2 yrs ago almost to the.month , My Father and I , and my uncle and His eldest Son held 2 days of potlaching , starting with the raising of a new memorial Pole which now stands just to the left of the Umista Cultural center…… GILAKASLA NAMWIYUT ,Namgis hereditary “Chief Kwaxala Nukwame Namugwis ” Tyler Cranmer
Tyler,
Thank you for sharing this story, I think it’s important. Also, as well as being culturally important, potlatching sounds like LOTS of fun!
Glenn
Hello Tyler,
You have a splendid culture and I’m delighted you and your friends continue to practice it, including potlatches. We non-Natives have much to learn. Thank you.
Hans
For Tyler,
I so admire the strength that the Namgis People and Their Chiefs had and because of this
we are able to experience your wonderful culture as it truly was and is. It could so easily have been lost forever without their efforts. I am glad You are So Proud and Deservingly so. Thankyou for sharing your story.