Nikki Sanchez-Hood

Walk The Wildside: An Ethnoecological Journey Across Flores Island

Photo courtesy of Justus Lowry

Nikki Sanchez-Hood

Introduction

Throughout my time in university, my degree in Environmental Studies has provided

me with an extensive overview of the history of ethnobotany and ethnoecology. I have

been invited to explore methods of classification; to become familiar with the traditional

ecological knowledge (TEK) contained within language, place names and narratives of

Indigenous cultures; I have been asked to examine biodiversity and the role it plays in

constructing worldview and vice versa; and I have been exposed repeatedly to the

conflict that defines our time— the western worldview of mankind as separate and

having ‘dominion over’ ecological systems. However, the survey of topics in

Environmental Studies has repeatedly led me to arrive at the same contradiction: the most

valuable lessons to be learned between mankind and the wild cannot be reached solely

from the inside of a classroom, a book, or anyplace that is removed from the natural

world. Just as ecology is a dynamic process, true environmental education is based on a

fluid relationship that must experienced to be fully understood. This project emerged

from my desire to address this contradiction by integrating the incredible wealth of

knowledge I gain through the summers working as a wilderness guide into an academic

Environmental Studies project.

The work of Keith Basso, Wisdom Sits in Places, calls attention to the reality that the

history of Indigenous people is often written without consideration or consultation of the

people themselves. Therefore it is not a history of Indigenous people at all—it does not

speak their truths or experiences— it is a historic interpretation that reflects the

perspective of the western culture that felt entitled to record it. As a person whose father

is Maya, I deeply resonate with the experience of the Apache documented by Basso. The

experience of being told about the history of my people by outsiders with no valid

authority or internal understanding of the culture; I grew up being taught by school text

books that the Maya were “the disappeared civilization.” While for Indigenous people it

is hurtful to be told your people no longer exist, in this time of rapid ecological and

cultural destruction it is dangerous to continue to listen to so-called academic authorities

on Indigenous peoples over the people themselves. The danger is this: at present, there

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are less than 200 Nuu-chah-nulth language speakers left in the world and this number is

high in relation to the remaining speakers of the many other language groups native to

Vancouver Island: Kwakwaka’wakw, Nuu-chah-nulth, Ditidaht, Comox, Qualicum, Sne-

Nay-Mux, Quwutsun’, T’Sou-ke, Esquimalt, Songhees and Saanich, to name a few. As

the ethno-ecological and environmental studies communities have become increasingly

aware, losing Indigenous languages means losing invaluable ecological information

indefinitely. TEK is not valuable solely as a relic of the past, or a colorful token of exotic

peoples; TEK holds both the epistemological and ontological foundations that facilitate

the knowledge guiding human beings how to live in a state of reciprocity with their land

(Salmon 2000). In the face of the great environmental uncertainties we currently contend

with as a global community, this TEK – that is rapidly becoming extinct through the

ongoing process of colonialism, neo-colonialism and globalization — may be the key to

informing a path towards human survival. As the 13th Mayan baktun draws to an end, and

Indigenous peoples’ around the world concord that a new cycle of consciousness is

emerging, or in the words of the Tsilhqot’in “the period or era of colonization and neo-

colonization is passing; the fourth world is emerging” (Tsilhqot’in Declaration of

Sovereignty 1998), this project is an offering towards new strategies of living in

reciprocity with nature. As a multi-dimensional endeavor, this project is an effort to

contribute the cultural resurgence of Nuu-chah-nulth language and culture by providing

tangible tools for youth to become stewards of their home place; and in this way to

encourage their role in leading their fellow human beings back to a state of connection

with our shared mother, Earth.

In the spirit of moving back to the people of the land as the keepers of its wisdom, I

have been inspired to take this project in a unique direction. The purpose of this paper

and the corresponding website and guide-book is to return the tools to the true experts:

the people who come from and live on their land. The paper is a documentation of ethno-

ecological understanding gained through place based, personal experience on the Flores

Island Wildside Trail, with the support of academic sources. The paper is woven around

TEK that has been shared with me through narratives of Nuu-chah-nulth elders – whose

stories were shared with me under the direction that they be compiled into a learning

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resource for the youth of their communities— and is inspired by the land itself. With

emphasis on the concepts of place based knowledge, TEK embedded in language and

narrative, and the role of the wild in constructing worldview- this paper is a journey: an

ethnoecological journey along the Ahousaht Heritage Wildside Trail on Flores Island.

Ancestral spirits, oral histories, knowledge embedded in language and fecund

biodiversity guide the way from Cow Bay to Tl’hii’tla. The paper will follow the

tangible, geographic direction of the Wildside trail as a framework to uncover the

epistemological map of understanding that land contains. The journey is informed by

hishuk ish tsawalk, the worldview of the Nuu-chah-nulth teaching that all things are one

and that everything is interconnected. Nuu-chah-nulth place names, traditional narratives

specific to points along the trail and TEK embedded in language referring to the diverse

plant and animal species along the trail will all be used to elucidate an understanding of

the kincentric ecology that is the basis of the Ahousaht worldview. Despite the one-

dimensional format of this paper I invite you to take a deep breathe and evoke your

creative sensibilities: call on your imagination and memories of sights, sounds, textures

and smells of the wild while you walk the Wildside with me.

History of The Wildside

The Wildside Heritage Trail begins in the community of Ahousaht and follows the

southwestern shore of Flores Island 11 km to the summit to of Mt. Flores, the islands

highest point. It has only been over the past 20 years that the trail has been used primarily

for eco-tourism. For thousands of years before this, the trail has been used continuously

by the Ahousaht people for traditional purposes. The trail was—and still is—used to

gather medicinal plants and seasonal food, to collect wood and wood products such as

bark for cultural uses, and to go on spiritual quests (Sam 1997). In 1993 a group of

mothers in Ahousaht concerned about the lack of environmentally sustainable and

culturally significant employment opportunities available for their children, came

together to form “Walk The Wildside.” The group’s mission was to bring sustainable

economic opportunities to the community and revive the TEK of their people by

breathing life back into the ancient trail. For the “Walk the Wildside” group, restoring the

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trail and opening it to the world was as much an ecotourism venture as it was an effort to

promote greater intercultural understanding and respect. The pristine wilderness and

beauty of the trail attracted thousands of visitors, so much so that by the mid-1990s the

trail had significantly deteriorated. At this time, the Ahousaht Band Council united with

the Western Canadian Wilderness Committee to construct a trail capable of

accommodating high numbers of hikers. The revision of the trail saw the installation of

river crossings, boardwalks and cultural signposts. As a measure of cross-cultural

understanding and partnership, a group of 20 Indigenous and non-Indigenous youth were

brought together to construct the trail. These youth lived together and worked together

along the trail for 7 months before it was completed (Sam, S 1997). Today the Wildside

trail forms a loop that runs 22 km from the town of Marktosis (colloquially known as

Ahousaht) through temperate rain forests, along rugged seashores, across white sand

beaches, over rivers to the top of Mt. Flores and back.

I was first introduced to the Wildside Trail while working as a kayak, surfing and

hiking guide in Clayoquot Sound. Since my first summer working in Clayoquot, I have

had the immense privilege of being adopted as an apprentice (and friend) by Qaamina

Sam, who has lived and worked in Ahousaht and Clayoquot Sound since he was born

there in 1950. An esteemed zodiac driver and keeper of traditional knowledge, Qaamina

has taken it upon himself to teach me Nuu-chah-nulth place names and language, cultural

narratives and ecological knowledge specific to Clayoquot Sound with the promise that I

will work to ensure that this knowledge never becomes lost.

The Journey Begins on the Water

Qaamina zips the zodiac intimately through the rocks and hoosmin (kelps beds) along the

way to Cow Bay so fast you can feel the sea salt hit your face, making the boat trip

reminiscent of a ride at the amusement park— complete with yips of joy and excitement

from passengers in the bow. Our trips usually begin with two hours of bear and whale

watching, as it is always Qaamina’s mission to make the journey just as exciting as the

destination. He also makes it his duty to teach me valuable pieces of knowledge passed

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on to him by his elders and skills gained from 50+ years of experience on the water along

the way. Qaamina often shares with me his fears of this knowledge being lost as the way

of his people, the Ahousaht, become more and more influenced by western culture. It is

his hope is that this knowledge will continue to be passed on through those who come to

know and love the lands and waters of Clayoquot Sound. He tells me that the lessons

taught to him by elders during his childhood formed the foundation for his precise

knowledge of the geography, ecological relationships and the secrets held within the land

and its creatures. As we whip through the jagged rocks along Flores Island, Qaamina

shares that his grandfather used to take him, his brothers and cousins out along these

shores in small dug out canoes for seafood harvesting. The canoes were made small

especially for the purposes of weaving in between the rocks at low tide; the best time to

gather the chumus (treats) held in the intertidal zone. For years, in every season and at

different tides heights they would go forage amongst these rocks. “That’s the only reason

I can go 500 rpm without the GPS in the intertidal zone,” he says to me, winking, “don’t

try this at home”.

When our boat arrives along the rocks of Cow Bay, my job is to jump out of the boat

and stand with my gumboots in the water holding the pontoons of the zodiac as the guests

disembark one by one, waiting for the cue of the ebb and flood of the tide. Cow Bay is

four kilometers of white sand beach; it is every bit as exquisite as Long Beach in Tofino

except the majority of the time there is no one on it. If you stand in the middle of Cow

Bay and look out to sea, the ocean is uninterrupted by land until the shores of Japan. It

always seems to be oo-oo-kwa-ish (Nuu-chah-nulth for “a bright and sunny day”) on the

beach at Cow Bay because the sand is so pure and white that it reflects light even when

the weather is overcast.

Qaamina has never told me why it is called Cow Bay, but has only noted that it should

be called ‘Cith cith na’ii Bay’ (grey whale bay) because this is where juvenile and mother

grey whales with calves will come to feed in the spring. Adult grey whales make the

longest known migration of any mammal; 22,000 kilometers from the Southern Gulf of

California and the Baja Peninsula to the Bering and Chukchi seas. Their birthing grounds

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are in the waters off Baja. There the water has higher salinity making it easier for the

newborn calves to float as they first learn to swim, but there is very little food. In late

March grey whales begin the migration to their feeding grounds in the Artic. Juvenile

whales and mothers with calves are not strong enough to complete the full migration and

so they come to Cow Bay (Penn, 1999). In ‘Cith cith na’ii Bay’ it is not unusual to see

eleven or twelve whales at once; although, Qaamina often speaks of a time, before

depletion and pollution of the ocean, when there would be three times that amount.

From the beach you can see the whales and hear the sounds of their blowholes— that

exhilarating “Pwwwaooo” as they surface. Traditionally, grey whales were a major

source of food, oil and tools for coastal peoples. For the Nuu-chah-nulth whaling was

sacred; it entailed elaborate rituals and laborious preparation (Sam, 2012). Only the most

prestigious men where chosen to embark on the whale hunt. In the spring, the select

group of men would intercept both grey whales and humpbacks on their annual

migration. The kill was brought to a small island in between the southern tip of Flores

and the Northern tip of Vargas, aptly named Whaler Island. Whaler island is basically a

just a half kilometer white sand beach that comes up a few meters from sea level; it was

there that whales were gutted and all of its parts were retrieved. After a kill, Whaler

Island would be stained red for weeks (Sam, 2010). The Ahousaht depended on the whale

hunt for economic prosperity and nourishment. Every part of the whale was used: the

great amounts of meat, fat and oil it provided was consumed or used for food

preservation. The bone, sinew and gut to be were utilized for tools, sewing and rope. Any

surplus was given away through potlatches in the tradition redistribution of wealth. The

land and sea are the source of all life and identity for the Nuu-chah-nulth. The sea

incubates the salmon, whales and herring –major sources of wealth for the Nuu-chah-

nulth. The resources Naas (the Creator) provides through the gifts of Mother Nature are

considered as the physical embodiment of his love (Sam, 2010).

Into The Forest

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If you are traveling north along Cow Bay beach there is a trail-head, but if you aren’t

looking carefully chances are you will miss it as the thick Ha-shilth-sa (salal or

Gaultheria shallon), hides it well. Immediately as you step into the bush from the beach

you feel the temperature drop, and as you enter into the forest the air becomes moist and

cool. The vegetation is lush and green. Must people are so excited to begin the walk into

the rain forest that they do not notice the incredible cultural artifact that sits in front of

them, some people are so oblivious that they use it to tie their shoes on. Five steps into

the bush from the beach there sits a 600 year out dugout č’apac ( ���canoe) made from

homiis or western red cedar (Thuja plicata). The sides of the ancient č’apac��� have a unique

texture that demonstrates the crude angle of the instruments that were used to make it. Its

small size, about five feet long, indicates that it was a canoe made for foraging in the

intertidal zone, like the one Qaamina spent his childhood exploring the coast of Flores

Island in. Qaamina explained to me that for the Nuu-chah-nulth the homiis is known as

“the tree of life.” Traditionally when cedar wood was needed a grandmother and a

granddaughter would go deep into the forest, up the mountain for days at a time in search

of the right tree. The TEK of the Nuu-chah-nulth provided the understanding that the

quality of the trees near the ocean is degraded by constant exposure to salty ocean air,

heavy winds and resulting poor soil quality. The Nuu-chah-nulth belief was that the chief

trees— the biggest, oldest, tallest trees— had a spirit. In order to select the right tree for a

specific purpose and respect the creator the Nuu-chah-nulth would pray to the spirit of the

chief tree and it would guide them (Sam, S 1997). The older women would then return to

Ahousaht and bring others back with them to cut the tree down and carry it back to the

village where it could be carved into a dugout canoe, used as a house post or a totem pole

(Native Studies Program, School District No. 70).

The deeper into the forest you travel, the more immense the trees become; each larger

then the last. The canopy is thick, the light is soft and filtered by the trees, making the

forest look mysterious and surreal. 500 year old sitka spruce (Picea sitchensis), western

hemlock (Tsuga heterophylla) and homiis stand up to seventy meters tall and make grown

men look like ants. If you look carefully you will notice long, thin upside down V

patterns on many of the cedar trees. These are called culturally modified trees. A CMT is

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defined by scientists as, a “tree that has been intentionally altered by the Native people

participating in traditional utilization of the forest” (Eldridge 1997). However, through

time CMTs have become more than what they once were, they have become

archaeological gifts of the past that provide contemporary insight into many aspects of

traditional aboriginal society. They provide information about First Nations technological

innovations, social organization, subsistence patterns and population movement (Eldridge

1997). Standing next to a giant CMT, putting your hand along its smooth inner bark, you

become transported hundreds of years into the past when an Ahousaht man would have

stood in the very same spot and chose to harvest bark from this tree.

In Wisdom Sits in Places, Keith Basso highlights the transmission of Apache history

through both narrative and places. The Apache tradition uses spatial location to bring the

past into the present and connect the people to their ancestors and their land. In the same

sense described by Basso for the Apache, knowing you are in the same place that past

Ahousahts once stood creates a sense of deep respect, honor and connection that cannot

be found in a text book. The tree itself holds history, depth and power that cannot be

understood or explained through words, but can only be shared through personal

experience. The role of nature engages all human senses in learning— sights, sounds,

smells— these sensations are all mechanisms to transmit oral place-based narratives. This

experiential knowledge integrates itself not only into the conscious mind but into every

sense based level of one’s being. With this as an example, it is clear to see that the

simplistic and limited western perception of human as separate from nature that is rooted

in Cartesian dualism can be equated with the western model for transmission of historical

knowledge. Printed word and comprehension activate only the cognitive sense,

connecting only on an intellectual level. In comparison to the multi-faceted, sensual

Indigenous model, it becomes clear that western transmission of knowledge systems

regard mankind as only a mind. Whereas Indigenous oral, spatial, narrative based

methods of teaching engage a human being as the whole being they are: with a body, a

mind and a spirit. The idea that “wisdom sits in places” is something that cannot be

understood in words, it is a visceral understanding that must be first experienced in the

heart to be comprehended by the mind.

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For thousands of years, the Nuu-chah-nulth held the knowledge of how to harvest the

bark of the cedar trees and treat it to make rope, nets, clothing, baskets, cooking, even for

diapers (Pojar, J. and MacKinnon, A. 1994). This knowledge is embedded with respect

for the living trees and teaches how to select what trees to take bark from and how much

to take. It is very rare to see more then one strip of bark removed from a single tree. The

removal of the bark does not damage the tree, however, the bark never grows back and

the strip turns into a scar that the rest of the tree grows around. The size of the difference

between the unscarred bark and the scar reveals how many years have passed since the

strip was removed. In the Nuu-chah-nulth worldview human kind was understood to be a

part of the interconnected web of life, with each species filling a unique and valuable role

in the ecosystem. Therefore the only viable strategy for life was to live in harmony with

nature and other organisms. It was the way of life to tread lightly on the earth, never to

damage or destroy it, and for this reason CMTs are one of the only physical traces left by

thousands of years of land use by the First Nations (Eldridge 1997).

Steve Charleson, director and founder of Hooksum Outdoor school, was the first

person to show me a CMT. He told a story of the surprising gift held by CMTs:

“When the Europeans came they thought they had discovered this land. They said that someone called ‘the

Pope’ had sent them to claim it in the name of god. We did not know these people, but we knew this land

had not been discovered; it had always been here, our ancestors had always been a part of it; but the newly

arrived people did not listen to our words, they dismissed our claims. In our tradition, the concept of

owning land did not exist. How could one own a part of the creator? All beings come from the land. We

were of the land. But because we had not scarred the land, because we had not left it damaged and bruised

by our use they said we had no proof of having lived there. This went on for nearly a hundred years. In the

1950s researchers and archaeologists began to visit our community, to conduct ‘scientific’ research. They

tried to teach us that nothing was real without ‘scientific proof,’ that our beliefs and teachings were

imaginary. This notion of ‘scientific proof’ haunted us, it was used to disregard our oral histories, our land

claims and our ecological traditions. We began to realize that even though we had learned to speak English,

they would never understand us— they did not speak our language. The only way for us to prove that this

land had belonged to our ancestors for millennia was to use this ‘scientific proof.’ They call upon this

‘science’ to tell them the things we already know: the tla’usmit (herring) spawn in March, the muwac’ath

(sockeye salmon) will return to the exact river they were born in four years after they spawn as fry and if

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you ask, trees will always tell you how old they are. Trees knew how to make food from sunlight long

before scientists understood photosynthesis, nature holds more wisdom then science ever will. Cedar bark

never grows back after it is stripped but the tree keeps track of how much time has passed. In land debates

during this time the cedar spirits gave us the ‘scientific proof’ to beat them at their own game because they

held the record of our respectful harvest of their bark. Now, all over the world CMTs are used as ‘scientific

proof’ to legitimize Indigenous peoples’ claim to their land.”

In Canada, CMTs have been used in the Heritage Conservation Act (1994) and the Forest

Practices Code of British Colombia (1994) to substantiate the longest standing logging

injunctions in Canada. They have become routinely used as evidence in the Supreme

Court to verify First Nations land claims (Eldridge 1997). CMTs are an embodiment of

the wisdom embedded in TEK. Further testimony that TEK wisdom networks are vast

and meta, containing the “why” and “how” to questions science has yet even thought to

ask.

Earth as Teacher

Walking the Wildside, I never heard Qaamina say the same thing twice. Each trip is

different, we always stop at different places, look at different plants and Qaamina always

tells different stories. If there were no bears one day, or no starfish, no eagles to feed or

fish to catch he never attempts force the experience. He listens to the wild and lets it

guide the way. Because of this, every trip is unique and as magical as the last. Watching

the way in which Qaamina lives his life exemplifies the concept of wilderness is teacher.

In the Nuu-chah-nulth custom elders and mentors use the wilderness to facilitate the

transmission of traditional ecological knowledge, family history and spiritual guidance.

The knowledge gained by learning from nature provides both the guiding light of life—

metaphor, identity and values— and the practical skills to ensure self-sufficiency, health

and prosperity. During one particular trip, Qaamina stopped in front of a huge, hollow

root system of a dead Sitka spruce that had become a nurse stump for many smaller trees.

He stopped the group and for a long time said nothing; he just stood and looked at the

tree roots as if it was the first time in his life he had ever been there. The group was

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silent, anxious to know what was next. Unlike most people, Qaamina does not talk unless

he has something to say and he is not afraid of silence. After about five minutes he spoke:

Look at the roots of this tree, look at the life they give even after the tree has died. I dreamed this tree last

night. All of the roots were ancestors, reaching deep down and far across— creating a foundation that is

strong and full of nourishment for the grandchildren. The roots of the trees and the way of the forest tell us

the importance of family. The thing most people don’t know is that the roots of most trees touch the roots

of the trees around them underground. Just like people, families and communities, trees are strongest when

they are connected to one another. When an old tree dies, it falls to the forest floor and brings with it

hundreds of years of nutrients. Its decomposition allows new life to flourish. Although dead it creates new

life. The grandfather tree lives on through the new trees that grow from the nourishment of its life. This is

how a family should be: I carry with me all the gifts and wisdom of my ancestors and my life will become a

gift of strength, love and wisdom for my grandchildren.

For the Nuu-chah-nulth, the land is a provider, a teacher and a guardian, it’s ecological

process are a guide for how to live life. Trees and forests provide an obvious model for

life because within this systems all links act as relatives, as all living things are. Mother

Earth gives life to all creatures and so all living beings are related. This worldview is

shared by indigenous people all around the world; Enrique Salmon, a Raramuri from

Gawi Wachi in Chihuahua refers to this worldview as “kincentric ecology” (Salmon

2000). Kincentric ecology is a belief system that views the land and its creatures as

family, with the principle awareness that life is only sustainable if ecological interactions

support and preserve the health of the system as a whole. The health of one link in the

ecosystem is inseparable from the other and all life is interconnected. Kincentric

epistemologies conceive life as a web; the earth’s ecology is understood as a dynamic,

spatial and temporal dance between organisms, environmental features, seasons, moon

cycles and the spirits alive in them (Salmon, 2000). It is truly remarkable how similar

Salmon’s kincentric ecology is to the Nuu-chah-nulth worldview of Hishuk ish Tsawalk.

Under this notion of Hishuk ish Tsawalk, it is a kincentric worldview that shapes

Ahousaht traditional ways of life through the principle of living in symbiosis with the

land and animals. With the belief of nature as kin, Indigenous ethnoecological practices

have evolved that situate people as caretakers of the land. The guiding principle for

resource management is to promote the health, diversity and longevity of the land

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(Salmon 2000). This worldview understands the reality that the practices that contribute

to the health of nature benefit all life and any damage done to nature is ultimately harmful

to everyone. Salmon, and others who are informed by an Indigenous ontology, believe

that kincentric ecology is the only viable way to maintaining a sustainable life.

Tl’hitl’aa

The thick tunnel of sitka and homiis break as the forest opens onto the beach of

Tl’hitl’aa (red rocks). The sign-post along the trail head is Ahousaht artist Qwaya Sam’s

carving of the legend of Tl’hitl’aa. His artwork in this carving tells the story of a young

woman with beautiful red hair whose husband went to sea for a whale hunt and was never

to return. The red-haired woman sat on the rocks of this beach waiting for his return, and

the spirit of her husband knew she was suffering. Her husband asked Naas (the Creator)

to send his wife a message that he would not return and that she must abandon her vigil.

Naas sent a great wind as a message, but the woman would not leave. The great wind

continued to blow, more and more powerfully but the woman would not leave. Finally

Naas’ wind blew so mightily that the woman’s beautiful red hair flew all over the rocks,

turning them red forever (Sam, S. 1997).

Tl’hitl’aa is a traditional foraging ground for shellfish and intertidal food since the red

rocks contain an abundance of marine invertebrates. The rocks face westerly and are

exposed to the open Pacific Ocean where the wave fetch gains uninterrupted momentum

for five thousand miles from the coast of Japan. Winter swells bring waves up to twelve

meters that create a large, flourishing intertidal zone (Penn, 1999). Heix (urchin), tsa-in-

wa (gooseneck barnacle), hupasii (horse clam) and in spawning season kw’aqmis (herring

eggs) are just a few of the favorite traditional food that are abundant and easy to find here

at low tide (Penn 1999, Sam 2010). The stories of the Ahousaht teach that it was the faith

and devotion of the red-haired woman that brought the fecundity of intertidal life to

Tl’hitl’aa.

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The Ahousaht lived with an awareness of the cycles of the moon and its relation to the

seasons and the temporal cycles of ecological species. The cycles of the moon indicated

to them when specific ecological cycles were at their peak, it was this knowledge that

guided them to the optimal times to forage for particular foods (Native Studies Program,

School District No. 70). Because the tides are controlled by the gravitational pull of the

moon, the highest and lowest tides occur at equinox, when the moons distance from the

earth is most extreme. These times were especially utilized to gather intertidal shellfish

and were the occasions of potlatches and feasts (Clutesi 1969). The TEK of the Nuu-

chah-nulth provided awareness of the significance of certain natural occurances: they

knew that the absence of heix and hay̕ištup (chiton) was a warning that the shellfish had

become poisonous and not to harvest in those areas (this phenomenon is commonly

known as red tide).

Looking west out to sea from the rocks of Tl’hii’tla, no other body of land is visible

and it seems easy to believe that this is the only island on earth. The rugged west coast

waves have carved the shores of Flores Island into a wild, biologically diverse place.

There is an aspect of this wilderness so powerful that it is able to ignite the wild soul

within all of those who dare to stand and breathe it in. Everything needed to support life

exists on this island and within the ocean that crashes along its shore. Standing here, it

becomes easy see the world from a kincentric perspective—far from the flashing screens

and incessant beeps that have come to characterize life in the fast paced, technological

western world. The wisdom held within this place seeps into consciousness through

being. Being is distinct from knowing, in that it is a depth of knowing that integrates the

embodiment of wisdom into actions and feelings. While words, especially English words,

are often insufficient tools with which to share the lessons of this place, a poem by Chief

Luther Standing Bear sharing the wisdom of his life is as close an expression as I can

find:

The Lakota was a true naturist— a lover of nature;

He loved the earth and all the things of the earth,

The attachment growing with age.

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The old Lakota was wise.

He knew that a man’s heart away from nature becomes hard.

He knew that a lack of respect for growing, living things soon led to

Lack of respect for humans too.

So he kept his youth close to its softening influence.

The Nuu-chah-nulth know themselves to be of the land, for them ‘Mother Nature’ is a

literal expression. While global Indigenous cultures are diverse with distinct histories and

practices, “scholars generally agree that there are core cultural commonalities that emerge

as a consequence of particular political economies and world-views of land based

cultures” (Stewart-Harawira 2005)— it is through connection with the land that most

Indigenous people locate and identify themselves. The defining aspects of traditional

Indigenous life take place in engagement with the wild. The work of ethno-biologist

Luisa Maffi constitutes biodiversity as the environmental factor that determines linguistic

and cultural diversity (2005). Therefore, in the process of evolution, it is the complexity

of resources, diversity of organisms and distinct geography that creates need for

specialization, forms interpretation of ecological processes and constitutes worldview.

Biodiversity, the unique aspects of the ecosystems, is the catalyst and structure that

shapes and determines the diversity of localized ecological knowledge and therefore

constitutes the basis of culture and worldview. From this perspective, the spirit of the

land is the literal entity from which cultural identity emerges. Ecological systems can

only be understood in the spatial and temporal context in which they exist (Maffi 2005).

It seems the western worldview has long since forgotten that humankind too, is

inseparable from the ecological web of life that sustains its existence. TEK offers the

understanding of ecology as a dynamic and continuous process between organisms and

their environment, a process from which no species can be removed without some impact

on every other link of the system. This worldview highlights the discrepancies and

tragedies created by blind adherence to the western worldview that perceives mankind

without consideration of the land that created him. This worldview facilitates the denial

that, that no matter how far removed he has become from the land, man is still acutely

dependent upon its life giving systems for survival.

Nikki Sanchez-Hood

The Wildside is a healing journey back to the “good medicine” of the natural world, to

the power held in TEK and the wisdom of its stories. The journey offers a unique

opportunity to explore a worldview that destabilizes western expansionist hegemony and

offers an alternative kincentric perspective. Walking the Wildside, the Nuu-chah-nulth

kincentric worldview of Hishuk ish Tsawalk becomes another possible truth, a visceral

knowing imparted through interaction with the wild that can translate itself into an

intellectual understanding. Hishuk ish Tsawalk encompasses the acknowledgement of the

interiority that is alive both in the individual and within the living systems of the natural

world, the interconnectedness with nature and with one another, the collective inheritance

of the past, and the significance of physical location, cultural identity and the importance

of honoring connection to the spiritual dimension. The Wildside journey reminds us that

we are a part of the natural world and, that if we listen, it holds the wisdom to guide us

home.

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Nikki Sanchez-Hood

Henley, Thom. (1989, 1996). Rediscovery, Ancient Pathways, New Directions. Edmonton: Lone Pine Publishing. Print. McKay, D. (2001). Vis-à-vis: field notes on poetry and wilderness. Wolfville, Nova Scotia: Gaspereau Press. Print. Maffi, Luisa. (2005). “Linguistic, Cultural, and Biological Diversity.” Annual Review of

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council/welcome.html. December 3, 2010. Web. Penn, Briony. (1999). A Year on the Wildside. British Columbia: Horsdal & Schubart. Print. Pojar, J. and MacKinnon, A. (eds.). (1994). Plants of Coastal British Columbia. Canada: B.C. Ministry of Forests and Lone Pine Publishing. Print. Salmon, Enrique. (2000). “Kincentric Ecology: Indigenous Perceptions of the Human- Nature Relationship,” Ecological Applications 10.5: 1327-1332. Print. Sam, Qaamina. Personal Interview. November 2010. Sam, Qaamina. Personal Interview. November 2012. Sam, Stanley Jr. (1997). Ahousaht Wild Side Heritage Trail Guidebook. Canada: Western Canada Wilderness Committee. Print.

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Tsilhqot’in Nation. (1998).Tsilhqot’in Declaration of Sovereignty 1998. http://www.tsilhqotin.ca/pdfs/Administration/98DeclarationSovereignty.pdf Turner, Nancy Chapman and Bell, Marcus A. M. (1971). The Ethnobotany of the Coast Salish Indians of Vancouver Island. Economic Botany. Springer New York: 1971-07-01. 0013-0001. Print. Turner, Nancy J. (2006). Plant Technology of First Peoples in British Columbia. Vancouver: UBC Press. Canada. Print.