“I want to drive,” I said.
And with that, he turned the chair so I could slide into the seat. Folding the crutch, he placed it back in the chair’s pocket. My muscles were sore, but I wanted to arrive at camp under my own power.
So I wheeled myself from the water’s edge across a grassy area to the campground where our tents were waiting. Our ground crew had done a great job of setting up everything ahead of time.
Our hosts, members of the Suquamish Nation, greeted and welcomed us. A few people wanted to know all about how a kid in a wheelchair got to be a puller. I enjoyed telling a little of my story to the three or four people standing nearby.
The Suquamish people had prepared a wonderful feast for all the canoe guests who’d stopped there for the night. Singing and sharing went on for hours. But I was so exhausted, I had to make my way to my tent and my sleeping bag. I was so thankful for that ground crew.
I faded off to sleep with the sounds of laughter and Salish songs drifting across the camp.
Chapter 10
The Smell of the Ocean
Day two of the journey began early. We were up and at it by six o’clock. A cold fog had settled in overnight. I dressed in layers, knowing that I would warm up later. I could peel off the outer layers as the temperature climbed.
As I crawled out of the tent, my groggy brain protested. The voice in my head said, “Are you nuts? Go back to bed!” I tried to ignore it.
I dragged myself up into my waiting chair. My back and arm muscles were tight and sore. I slowly wheeled toward the campfire where the pullers were gathering.
The ground crew had cooked up eggs and bacon for us. They’d also put a cast-iron pot of coffee on the campfire. I needed something to kick-start the brain cells, so I got an empty mug and moved closer to the fire. This would be my first taste of something my parents drank every morning.
A member of the ground crew poured some of the thick black liquid into my outstretched cup. Steam rose from the mug, so I gave it a few minutes to cool down. I grabbed a plate of the hot food and found a picnic table to roll myself to.
The food was great. The coffee, on the other hand, was the worst tasting thing I’d ever put in my mouth. Next to liver.
I must’ve made a terrible face as I swallowed the caffeinated drink, because Jessy laughed at me as he sat down beside me. He had a plate of food and a cup of coffee, too.
“You look like you just took a bite of liver,” he said.
“Is this the way coffee is supposed to taste?” I asked.
“No. You should’ve asked me about it first. I could’ve warned you.” He took a big swig of his coffee.
“How can you drink it?” I asked.
“There are a lot of things you’ll eat and drink if you’re cold and hungry enough,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. It helps if you fill half the cup with that hazelnut-flavored cream over there.”
“Now you tell me,” I complained.
After breakfast, everyone in our camp gathered near the canoe to have a prayer for the day’s journey.
“When you’re out there on the water today, remember who you are,” Mr. Franks said. “If you don’t know who you are, this is the time and place to figure that out.”
“How do we do that?” one of the young pullers asked.
“Pay attention to your surroundings. Listen to the birds and the splashing of the water. Smell the ocean and the forests nearby. Notice the warmth of the sun and the feel of the rain on your skin. Then close your eyes and go deep into your own mind to see what Spirit has waiting for you to discover.”
That was heavy. Everyone was quiet for a few moments.
“And have fun!” he said as he ended his little talk with a smile.
With that, we scattered to begin performing our assigned tasks. The pullers either climbed into the canoe or onto the support boat. The ground crew began breaking down the camp and packing it up. We would see them at the next stop, on the Tulalip Reservation farther up the coast.
And so the daily pattern repeated itself. After an overnight stay at Tulalip, we pushed on to the Swinomish Reservation, the Samish Reservation, and then to Lummi. We shared stories, songs, and accounts of our trip at each stop. So did other canoe families.
And the number of canoes and people grew with each stop as more and more groups caught up with the tribal canoes coming from the south.
Each night we’d take a look at the maps and charts the canoe family had prepared. On the map you could see that tribal canoes were coming from the far northern regions of western Canada. Others were coming from farther south along the Washington State coast. Everyone’s trip was timed so we’d all arrive on the same day on the shores of Cowichan Bay.
Chapter 11
Crossing the Straits
On the seventh morning of our journey I woke up on the Lummi Reservation. This tribal community was located on the northwest coast of Washington State. It was only about thirty miles from the Canadian border. But our final destination was located on Vancouver Island, a huge piece of land off the western coast of Canada.
So in order to get there, all the southern canoes had to cross the open waters of something called the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
“What’s a strait?” I had asked Jessy before we left Seattle. I figured he’d know since he’d been on the last Tribal Journey.
“It’s a narrow passage of water that connects two larger bodies of water,” he’d answered. “This strait connects the Pacific Ocean to the Salish Sea.”
“We have a sea named after us? That’s cool!” I looked at the map Jessy had.
“What’s a Juan de Fuca?” I followed up.
“That’s a who, not a what,” he replied. “Juan de Fuca was some explorer who supposedly found this strait in the 1500s.”
“Was it lost?” I asked.
“Ha-ha, very funny,” Jessy said. “No, he found it for the Spaniards when they were exploring over here. We knew where it was all along.”
“Oh.” I nodded.
“Do you have any more dumb questions?” Jessy asked.
“As a matter of fact I do. When and where do we cross the borderline that separates the U.S. from Canada?”
“The international border between the two countries runs down the middle of the strait.” He pointed to a small dotted line on the map.
“How do people know when they’ve crossed the border?” I asked. “Is there a line floating out in the water?”
“These are dumb questions,” Jessy said. “Of course there’s no line floating in the water. When we arrive at our first stop on Vancouver Island, we all have to show our passports.”
“Now I get it. I was wondering when we’d need those.”
“The Sockeye skipper will have all our passports locked in his safe on the support boat. Any more dumb questions?”
I thought for a minute. “No, not now, but I’m sure I’ll have more dumb questions later.”
So now we were pushing off the shores of the Lummi Nation, headed west. The morning was again cold and foggy.
I spent the morning shift on the Sockeye while other pullers had their turn on the Raven. I got to ride in the main cabin with the skipper, who was answering more of my dumb questions. How else is a fella going to learn anything?
The skipper had been watching the skies and listening to the weather reports for the area. He didn’t like what he saw in either. The fog was not thinning out. The wind had picked up. The ocean’s surface was choppy. The pullers were not getting very far and were exhausted.
“These are dangerous waters,” the skipper said. “We’re very close to the international shipping channel. That’s where large freight carriers move shipping containers in and out of Vancouver. One of those monsters wouldn’t see a little thirty-foot canoe in the fog.”
So the skipper made a decision for safety’s sake. He radioed the skipper of the Raven. He told them they needed to come aboard the Sockeye for the remainder of the morning. He’d tow the canoe
as we crossed the stormy strait.
None of the pullers really wanted to get out. But Tribal Journey rules allowed canoes to be towed for short distances during bad weather or dangerous water conditions. After everyone was on board the Sockeye, the Raven was tied on behind. The skipper set off across the strait.
Meanwhile, fresh from the water, the pullers warmed themselves with blankets, coffee, and hot chocolate. I sat with them while they talked about how hard the going had been. As I listened, I noticed the fog getting even thicker. You could only see about thirty or forty feet in front of you.
All of a sudden a moving, rusty red wall broke through the fog and headed right for us. I didn’t know what it could be. It scared me and I yelled.
“What’s that thing coming right at us?”
Everyone turned to see the bow of a freighter ship as it became visible. It was barreling down on us. It must’ve been seven stories tall! The skipper saw it, too, and jumped into action.
“Hold on!” he commanded through the Sockeye’s loudspeaker.
He punched the throttle at the same time he blasted the boat’s horn. The Sockeye tilted backward as the engines cranked to full speed. I hadn’t had time to grab anything to hold on to, so my wheelchair sped across the deck. I yelled again.
Luckily I was able to grab the handrail that surrounded the deck. That kept me from rolling to the stern and overboard. I held on as tight as I could.
Jessy saw what was happening and bolted across the deck to help me.
Our support boat easily moved out of the path of the freighter. But the Raven, being towed behind, just barely missed being hit. A huge wave crashed over the canoe, flipping it upside down. Of course, our paddles and spare life jackets were scattered in all directions.
Just as Jessy reached me on deck, the huge wave crashed into the side of the Sockeye. Our boat tipped sideways a little and then rolled back. The same wall of water hit Jessy and me full on. I had a firm grip on the handrail, but Jessy didn’t.
The force of the water knocked him down and swept him toward the back of the boat. The stern had an opening in the handrail that allowed people to get on and off the deck. The water pushed him through that opening and into the ocean. Now Jessy was the one who needed help.
I spotted the Lifesling hanging on its rack not too far from me. That gizmo had been used daily to get me into and out of the canoe. It was time to use it for what it was designed to do—save someone who’d gone overboard.
The Sockeye was still rocking back and forth in the rough sea. But, wheeling my chair with an experienced hand, I was able to grab the Lifesling and head for the stern. We’d all learned how to use it. I first attached the rope to the crank. Then I flung the U-shaped loop out in the water toward Jessy.
He was just pulling himself up out of the water and onto the top of the overturned canoe. The water was very choppy. The canoe wobbled furiously in the turbulence. But he was able to hang on. Our trainer had been right: the canoe would float, no matter what.
“I’m all right,” he shouted over the noise of the rolling sea. “I don’t need the Lifesling.”
The other pullers arrived at the stern to see what had happened to their beloved Raven. They watched as Jessy examined the bottom of the canoe.
“I don’t see any cracks or breaks in the hull,” he shouted after a few minutes. “Who wants to help me flip it upright and gather up our paddles?”
A couple of the adult pullers jumped into the cold water. Each grabbed a life jacket from the water and put it on. Jessy got hold of one and put it on as well.
All three worked to turn the Raven over. Once the canoe was upright, they gathered up the scattered paddles and life jackets. Within a few minutes, all was back to normal. We used the Lifesling to get the three of them back on board the Sockeye.
And that ordeal served as our welcome to Canada. The rest of the trip was a piece of cake, as they say. We made three more overnight stops at Canadian Native communities. They were just as welcoming and friendly as the tribes south of the border.
But the closer we got to our final landing site, the more excited we all got. I heard from Jessy and others who’d been on journeys before that the feeling you get is bigger than Christmas, your birthday, and graduation from school all rolled into one. That’s big!
Chapter 12
Landing Day
The night before Landing Day we stayed with the people of the Malahat First Nations. In Canada, tribes are often called First Nations. The Malahat Reserve was about ten miles, as the canoe travels, from Cowichan’s landing site.
The Cowichan canoe officials had decided to have canoes come into their shores in groups. These groups were defined by the direction they’d come from. The Duwamish canoe was part of the southern group. We’d all come from the Puget Sound area.
So, while we were camped at Malahat, all the southern canoe families held a meeting. We picked a time and place that we’d all gather before entering the landing area. That gathering place was about a mile from the landing site.
I really couldn’t sleep much that night. The sounds of hundreds of pullers and ground crew members floated in the air until the wee hours of the morning. They were singing, and talking, even dancing. Were our tribal ancestors watching us? Were they as excited as we were about the coming day?
The clamor of pots and pans awoke me the next morning. It was still dark, but our valiant ground crew was up and at ’em. As I was struggling out of my tent, Mr. Franks came up to me.
“We wanted to wait until this morning to tell you,” he said.
“Tell me what?” Did I miss something?
“The family has voted to have you ride in the bow of the canoe when we arrive.” He was smiling a big grin.
“But that’s your place,” I protested.
“I’ll be right behind you,” he replied. “But you’ve been an inspiration to all of us. You have some surprising gifts given to you by the Creator.”
“A few things have happened that really surprised me,” I admitted.
“I think the surprises in your life are just beginning,” he said. “Anyway, we’re proud to call you a member of the Raven Canoe Family.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said.
“Just say yes.”
“Yes.” I repeated.
“Good. I have some regalia for you to wear. We’ll have it on the support boat. You can ride there this morning. Later, we’ll put you in the canoe.”
“Thank you, Mr. Franks.”
“Have some breakfast. I’ll see you on board the Sockeye.” He headed back to the main group as Jessy stepped up.
“I’m here to help you with anything you need today,” he said.
“Really?”
“You’re like a dignitary today. That’s why you’re riding in the front.”
“Okay then,” I said. I wanted to take full advantage of the situation. “I’ll have pancakes, maple syrup, and hot chocolate with whipped cream. On the double!”
“Don’t push it,” Jessy said with a laugh. I laughed too.
It turned out to be a calm day out on the water. The sun was shining. A slight breeze cooled the air. The pullers were quiet for the most part. After two weeks of hard work, sometimes in dangerous conditions, everyone was thinking about the journey. We all had mixed emotions: both glad and sad that it was coming to an end.
As the Raven approached the gathering place for the southern canoes, it slowed. The Sockeye pulled in beside it so I could be lowered into the front seat. I’d put on the regalia Mr. Franks had for me. It included a red and blue blanket with small shells sewn all over it. And there was a cedar branch wreath that went on top of my cedar hat.
Mr. Franks, also dressed in his regalia, took the seat behind me.
When all the southern canoes were ready, we began pulling the last mile of our journey. We formed a single line of about twenty-five canoes.
As we neared Cowichan Bay, we began to see the clusters of canoes from the other dir
ections—the north, east, and west. I was startled as I began to understand the grand size of the whole scene. How many canoes were there?
Our skipper signaled that it was time for us to start our arrival song. We’d practiced this many times along the way. Our paddles stroked the water in sync with the song. Other canoes began their arrival songs as well.
The Raven was about in the middle of the line of southern canoes as we approached the shores of the Cowichan First Nation. Again I was startled to see the size of this event. There must’ve been five thousand people lining the shore. They were clapping, singing, hollering, whistling—you name it.
The southern canoes circled past the main area where the Cowichan leaders and elders stood on a raised platform. In front of the platform, closer to the water, was a large group of singers who belted out a Salish honoring song. Several used hand drums to pound out the beat of the song.
Mr. Franks helped me to stand in the bow of the Raven. Leaning on my aluminum crutch, I stood as proudly as my broken body would allow.
I sang our arrival song as loudly as I could. In that moment I felt the power and emotion of thousands of people all focused on one joyful celebration. We were all celebrating what was once banned. We were celebrating the rebirth of our identity as Salish people, the rebirth of our ancient culture.
I’m embarrassed to admit that tears rolled down my cheeks as this feeling overwhelmed me. I quickly recovered my cool and dried my eyes, hoping that no one had noticed.
The only word I could think of to describe what was happening was “spectacle.” This was certainly a spectacle. Several TV news crews were filming the event. Many personal cameras also recorded the arrivals.
An M.C. on shore described the scene over loud speakers. “Canoes have been coming into the bay for quite some time now. More are coming. I can’t see the end of the line. Can anyone see the end?”
The canoes from the east were the first ones invited to come to shore. Ten or twelve canoes from that group lined up side by side in the water. As a unit, they moved toward the shore until their bows touched land. One by one, a dignitary from each canoe introduced the canoe and announced where the people in it were from.
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