On Lasqueti, fish traps, clam gardens and middens are ‘part of everybody’s history. It’s human history,’ says one Elder.

[Editor’s note: This article was originally published by Hakai Magazine. Read the original story on their website.]

The Tyee: Tiny fountains rise, sparkle and splash back down on the intertidal zone of Xwe’etay, also known as Lasqueti Island. It’s as if the clams squirt in response to the beat of the Salish drums.

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Over 70 people have gathered amid the sharp shells and algae slicks of this low summer tide. Our circle includes Indigenous people, island residents, anthropologists, archeologists and visitors. We’re here to get a sense of the deep human history of this place and ponder how we might live with it together.

Following a welcome ceremony of stories and song, we pick our way across the foreshore as False Bay continues to drain. Tla’amin Elder Betty Wilson leans on her walking stick beside me. Her expression is both focused and serene. She wears water shoes, rolled-up jeans and a cedar-green T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Xwe’etay/Lasqueti Archaeology Project.

Host of today’s public education event, XLAP also surveys and studies the island’s archeological sites. Instead of relying on a traditional top-down structure of experts arriving from some ivory tower to define the history of a place, XLAP includes a diversity of people, such as Indigenous Elders, students and landowners — anyone with a connection to the island.

Volunteers take part in low-impact archeology, such as helping take core samples, and they help interpret what they find. They’re active participants in uncovering the past, not just passive observers of work carried out by academics. It’s an example of “community archeology,” part of a movement gaining momentum around the world.

Wilson’s home is on the mainland, just 43 kilometres northwest of Xwe’etay. A retired schoolteacher, she’s a fluent speaker and tireless promoter of ʔayʔaǰuθəm (Ayajuthum), her people’s Coast Salish language. Despite her physical limitations, she’s eager to walk the land of her ancestors, add to her understanding of the island’s human and natural history and meet other people with an interest in or connection to this place.

Here, she sees more than scattered shells and stones. She sees the remains of ancient fish traps, clam gardens and homes. She imagines her ancestors and other Indigenous people constructing, harvesting and meeting here, prior to European contact, building their lives and a vast trading network that once stretched all the way south to Oregon. It’s a vision she’s keen to share.

While settling land claims and territorial recognition are important to First Nations, Wilson says helping others gain an understanding of these archeological sites is also vital. “It’s a part of your history,” Wilson says. “It’s part of everybody’s history. It’s human history. And if you choose to live here, then you need to know that history.”

Wilson refers not only to the nearly 500 or so mostly non-Indigenous residents of Xwe’etay, and not even just to residents of the Pacific Northwest coast, but to newcomers wherever they’ve settled. By uncovering the past together, community archeology takes aim at something big and ambitious, something that seems to elude so many official pronouncements and programs — the reconciliation of Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities here and everywhere.

Xwe’etay, or Lasqueti, is located just to the west of Texada Island and to the east of Vancouver Island. Spear points found at higher elevations suggest people began to visit here about 8,000 years ago as the island crowned, then fully emerged, from the post-glacial sea. Samples from seasonal settlement locations have been radiocarbon dated as far back as 7,500 years, but during a smallpox epidemic in the 1780s, the Indigenous population of the island plummeted. During the 1880s, people of mostly European descent settled here and built their own community and history. Both Indigenous people and settlers are touring the foreshore today.

On the far side of False Bay, we arrive at a ring of barnacle-encrusted stones clearly placed by human hands. Cantaloupe to watermelon sized, the stones form a fish trap big enough to hold our entire group and more. Indigenous people built this structure to corral fish arriving on an incoming tide and stop them from escaping when the tide falls. Throughout human history, coastal peoples around the world have built fish traps to catch fish to feed their communities.

Longtime resident Dana Lepofsky is beaming. She’s in her element — surrounded by curious minds and evidence of ancient ingenuity. A distinguished professor of archeology at Simon Fraser University, she radiates undergrad energy. She, too, sports an XLAP T-shirt, as well as a traditional woven cedar bark hat, a gift from a Tla’amin Guardian Watchman.

Lepofsky is one of the co-leads of the XLAP project, which includes members of the Qualicum, K’ómoks, Halalt and Tla’amin First Nations who have come today to share their stories about how their ancestors used and occupied the foreshore.

Archeological sites indicate that people have used this bay for at least 6,000 years, and the island is claimed as the traditional territory of at least 14 First Nations, although no descendants from these communities currently live on the island. Everyone is encouraged to try to pronounce Xwe’etay (hwa-eh-tie), which means “yew tree” in several Coast Salish languages. In 1791, Spanish naval explorers sailed past here and renamed the island after Juan Maria Lasqueti, one of their own.

In addition to fish traps, today’s tour includes False Bay’s intertidal clam gardens. Here, people built low rock walls, not to catch fish but to trap sediment. The resulting terraces helped moderate water temperatures in both summer and winter, creating optimal clam-growing conditions. Experiments by researchers at other locations in the Salish Sea show clam gardens to be many times more productive than unwalled beaches. These aquaculture artifacts are typical of those found all along the Pacific Northwest coast.

Although numbers are hard to estimate, this managed marine ecosystem — along with camas and crabapple cultivation above the high-tide line — helped support a significant population on the island, Lepofsky explains. Modern development has obscured and damaged much of this archeological record, but the remaining clam gardens, fish traps and oral histories shared by Indigenous volunteers conjure a vibrant scene: dugout canoes lining the bustling beach, rows of longhouses crowding the shore and smoke billowing from hearths.

Lepofsky has been revealing, studying, publishing and speaking about the archeological heritage of this island for over 30 years. For her, the goal of XLAP — which officially launched in 2020 with a team of advisers — is to spark dialogue across communities and cultures. She also sees it as an opportunity to engage with a wider community whose past isn’t reflected in the deep archeological record, a way to recognize that non-Indigenous residents may also feel an emotional connection to this place.

People tend to value the history of their own forebears first and foremost. But hearing from Indigenous people about their connection to the land and sea, helping unearth and identify belongings last touched by human hands thousands of years ago, creates a visceral connection to those who were here before. It also provides an opportunity for non-Indigenous residents to rethink their responsibility toward the land. Community archeology allows for new insights and connections. It helps participants make the history of this place a part of their own story.

On Xwe’etay, residents have been finding artifacts for generations, largely in their gardens.

These include numerous finely crafted projectile points, fist-sized fishing weights and still-sharp hide and fibre scrapers. One discovery was of a stunning chisel point made of jade (nephrite), a tough, beautiful semi-precious gemstone that suggests the chisel point’s owner was among the elite. Local gardeners have also found objects made of obsidian, a hard, dark, glasslike volcanic rock that was a prized resource for making the sharpest weapons and tools.

The trade networks described by Wilson and Lepofsky are revealed in these belongings that researchers have traced to their volcanic origins at Glass Buttes, Oregon, and Timber Butte, Idaho — as far as 730 and 1,000 kilometres south, respectively.

A large part of Lepofsky’s work involves engaging locals in discussions about the ethical and legal responsibilities of land ownership. Each spring, she gets several calls a week from excited local gardeners who’ve dug up something interesting. She also gets calls from landowners wanting to develop their property and wondering how to proceed.

In B.C., if someone comes across an artifact, whether on private property or public land, they should contact their local First Nation and are required by law to report it to the B.C. archeology branch.

For landowners and developers looking to build, the policies and procedures set by the provincial government are designed to prevent damage to archeological sites. Landowners must hire and pay for an archeological assessment and permit before construction work begins. Some First Nations, like the K’ómoks on neighbouring Vancouver Island, have their own guidelines.

Yet many landowners are unaware of the law, willfully ignore it or just dig in and hope they won’t get caught. Private landowners are often fearful that if their land is declared an archeological site it could be taken away or that they won’t be able to build, Lepofsky says. They shouldn’t worry about losing their property, she explains, because private property is not a part of Indigenous land claims in Canada. And finding belongings on private property isn’t necessarily a red light for building plans. It could signal the need for flexibility, such as adjusting a building’s location or building over a crawl space instead of excavating to create a basement.

While it’s true that some First Nations, and even the provincial government, may have limited capacity to respond to referrals in a timely manner, those who violate the Heritage Conservation Act expose themselves to fines of up to $50,000 and/or imprisonment for up to two years. Corporations risk fines of up to $1 million. Failing to work with an archeologist up front is not worth the potential grief, Lepofsky says, and can result in “a social, ecological, logistical and financial nightmare.”

For one local couple, finding evidence of Indigenous history on their property was, instead, an opportunity to establish a deeper connection to the land and those who lived here before.

‘Share this land in a good way’

On the northern shore of Xwe’etay, Dolf Schoenmakers rolls across a bluff just below his ocean-view home. The fat, nubby tires of his all-terrain wheelchair allow him access to much of the property he shares with his wife, Suzanne Heron. While he’s unable to attend today’s gathering down in False Bay, he’s happy to show me his favourite spot, with its stunning view out over Conn Bay. This is the place and perspective that immediately called out to him when he first saw it in 2004, a place he likens to a cathedral.

“There’s this immense sense of history and spiritual connectedness,” Schoenmakers says of this perch above an expansive lagoon. He comes down here to observe, read and contemplate as often as he can.

Originally from Ontario, the couple searched for years before finding and buying a half interest in this 12-hectare property, on which they planned to build their home. They pitched a tent and lived here for a while. “It had a certain feel to it,” Schoenmakers says. “It just felt old, it felt itself, it felt right.”

The close-knit and engaged community they found here felt right, too. Off the grid, both literally and figuratively, Xwe’etay attracts people drawn to living outside the mainstream. Locals look out for each other, listen to differing opinions, compromise and work together on issues that matter to island residents.

Without car ferry service or a full-service grocery store, living here is clearly a group effort. (For example, although I’d never been to the island before, I was asked to pick up a prescription on my way over.)

Schoenmakers is a retired social worker and therapist. Heron studied biology, is a retired community development worker and is currently an artist. Both feel surrounded by kindred spirits here.

When choosing a spot for their home, the couple quickly noticed the obvious clamshell middens along the shore. After consulting Lepofsky, they chose to build well up from the beach, on a rocky promontory above it all. They wanted to ensure that where they built their home wouldn’t interfere with the Indigenous history of the place.

As the years passed, they began to think about building a second home on the property for their daughter and son-in-law. That’s when they turned their attention to Schoenmakers’ favourite spot, just below their home. Well aware of the shell middens along the shore, they invited Lepofsky and XLAP to further investigate what turned out to be an archeological site about four metres above the high-tide line. Lepofsky and XLAP volunteers took numerous core samples that showed the shell midden was 2,800 years old.

The English word “midden” is of Scandinavian origin: mødding means “muck” or “dung heap.” In an archeological sense, it came to describe a place for tossing kitchen waste. Colloquially, a midden is thought of as an old trash pile. This common perception leads some people to disregard the value of the ancient shell middens they encounter along the shores of the Salish Sea. But these layers have a deeper story to tell.

Here, Lepofsky imagines basket load upon basket load of clamshells, carried above the high-tide line, adding up to firm, flat building foundations that offered excellent drainage. As living space, middens can contain house floors, belongings, cooking hearths and storage pits as well as burial sites. Taken together, these layers represent the legacies of thousands of Indigenous people. Studying the layers in situ is vital to gaining the most complete picture of human use and occupancy over time. Removed from these layers, individual belongings become decontextualized and can tell only a small part of more complex histories.

Recently, when the community on Xwe’etay wondered what more they could do to honour the island’s Indigenous past, a member of the Qualicum First Nation suggested holding a ceremonial burning. Tasked with finding an appropriate place, Lepofsky suggested Schoenmakers’ favourite spot. That visit led to the couple’s plans to host a ceremonial burning to honour the ancestors who once lived here.

Over 120 people attended the event — old-time islanders, newcomers and members of local First Nations, including Tla’amin Elder Betty Wilson. Everyone gathered on this spot. And then, as Schoenmakers tells it, Coast Salish Elder Willie Pierre, from the q̓ic̓əy̓ (Katzie) First Nation in the Lower Mainland, started calling out to the ancestors.

“And there’s an echo coming back from the lagoon,” Schoenmakers says. “And then he calls out again, and the song sparrow answers. And then for the rest of the burning he called out and a single song sparrow answered. Just the two of them, going back and forth. It was an indescribable, magical moment.”

Heron concurs. “The message Willie brought back from the ancestors was ‘Share this land in a good way,’” she says. “I love it!”

After the event, Pierre remarked that nothing more should be built on this site. It should be left as a memorial to those who were here before. Heron says the couple checked in with each other and thought, “Yeah. We can live with that.” They would find a spot with a similar view farther up the hill to build a home for their daughter and son-in-law. It was a solution intended to honour the Indigenous history of this place, a choice they realize they were privileged to be able to make due to the size of their property.

Schoenmakers met neither the discovery of the midden nor Pierre’s words as a roadblock. Instead, they were a confirmation, a validation of what he had intuited, but not fully comprehended, from the first moment he saw this place.

“It made it easier to let go,” he says of their plans for the site, because the decision wasn’t part of a struggle. “We’re not giving up something — we’re giving toward something. And that’s a tangible difference.”

This insight, supported through community archeology, is part of an awakening — a personal and collective commitment to the necessary work to improve relations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities.

In Canada, the federal government began official discourse about reconciliation in 1998.

In 2015, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission defined reconciliation as the process of “establishing and maintaining a mutually respectful relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples in this country,” and said that in order for reconciliation to happen, “there has to be awareness of the past, an acknowledgement of the harm that has been inflicted, atonement for the causes, and action to change behaviour.” It’s a concept taking root in other regions with colonial legacies, including Latin America, Australia and New Zealand.

Around the world, community archeology is also being used to help people reconcile with each other and their past in conflict zones. In Cyprus’s Xeros Valley, for example, where the fallout of a violent period between the Greek- and Turkish-Cypriot communities (1959-74) is still deeply felt, community archeology is creating awareness about the archeological and historical significance of the region since antiquity, while inviting local communities and the wider public to reconsider aspects of the more recent, painful past. In Ethiopia’s Tigray region, where conflict broke out in 2020, community archeology is being used to document the destruction of cultural heritage, develop reconstruction plans and bring trauma counselling to rural areas impacted by the conflict.

Lepofsky believes that community archeology offers a “visceral jolt” to the process of reconciliation. You can’t unsee terraced slopes that were shaped by Indigenous people over generations and on which today’s settlers have built their homes, she explains. You can’t unsee the fish traps and clam gardens that reflect the extensive engineering and management of the intertidal zone. You can’t unsee the archeological evidence of past lives lived.

‘We had engineers’

Back in False Bay, the tide has turned. Locals make their way back up from the intertidal zone as guests board boats to other islands and the mainland. Later, I catch up with Betty Wilson. What would she say to newcomers moving to this coast? In the past, she explains, many outsiders came to extract resources, and that brought a certain mindset. Now, people are drawn here for other reasons. This place calls to them.

“It’s nice to have new blood in the community,” Wilson says. “New people, new ideas, fresh ideas. If you choose to live in a location like this [small coastal community] you have a specific kind of personality” — a mindset more inclined to be curious about both the natural and human history of the place you aim to call home. This generally wasn’t the case when she was growing up on the mainland.

“We were always seen as the down-and-outers,” Wilson recalls. “I say no — we had quality, we had ingenuity, we had intelligence, and physics. We had engineers who developed these fish traps, these clam gardens. Someone didn’t just throw rocks and make a pile. It was a method and a schema.”

Wilson has encountered plenty of change in her lifetime, including an increase in newcomers with open minds. “The young people have more interest to learn,” she says. “I’m just so encouraged by that.”

Wilson wants everyone, no matter their age or inclination, to recognize that this part of the world was no “clean slate.” Long before settlers arrived, there were people living up and down this beautiful coast — people who built a civilization. They left mysteries, clues and lessons for us to discover. And they’re still here. 

Brian Payton Hakai Magazine

Brian Payton is the award-winning author of Shadow of the Bear, The Ice Passage and the national bestselling novel The Wind Is Not a River.