The Trail of Graves

Cast up by an angry sea, lying haphazardly on the beach, is a rusty propane tank, detritus of the 9.0 earthquake and tsunami that devastated Japan on March 11, 2011. Approximately 1.5 million tons of debris are still floating in the Pacific Ocean. This tank is a testament to the nearly 16,000 lives lost in the event. A rusty reminder that the Earth is alive and we two-leggeds are not in control. 

Beyond the undulating pebble beach, protected by a pine windbreak, lies the graveyard trail. Cemeteries captivate me. I dragged my daughter all over Ireland, stopping to marvel at names and dates on stones, colossal Victorian crypts, the flowers (tended and not), the weather-beaten toys. This is a human need, this marking and remembering. Even our Neanderthal kin buried their dead with precious bits of life some 250,000 years ago. We need to know where our loved ones lie. We ask that their remains come home. We ask that we be buried together. 

This is a peaceful place, swept by the sea breeze, carpeted by verdant plants. It is private, yet public: the path hikers tread as they begin or leave the Nootka Trail. 

The graves are marked in various ways: etched stone crosses overgrown with moss, piles of beach stones, hand-tied sticks. One bears a carved totem taller than me. 

Twentieth century dates...1919, 1946, 1965. 


The name “Margaret” appears often. 

I am connected to this name, Margaret. When I trace my father’s ancestry back to the Eighteen Century, Bolton by Bowland,Yorkshire, Margaret and Stephen are the two names that appear most often, rippling through successive generations. The name gives me pause.

Margaret “derived from Latin Margarita, which was from Greek μαργαριτης (margarites) meaning "pearl", probably ultimately a borrowing from Sanskrit मञ्यरी (manyari).

Saint Margaret, the patron of expectant mothers, was martyred at Antioch in the 4th century. Later legends told of her escape from a dragon, with which she was often depicted in medieval art. The saint was popular during the Middle Ages, and her name has been widely used in the Christian world.” http://www.behindthename.com/name/margaret

Was the first Margaret given this name by a priest, or when she went to Residential School?


One thing I know. All of the Margarets died young, too young. The oldest of four was only 31 years old. 


There is a tragic beauty to this place that makes me think of those who once walked here, as I do. These women...these pearls.

Further up the trail are several cabins--one that hovers between the sea and an inland lake where the whalers once bathed before venturing out to hunt. From the veranda, you can see these fabulous pine-topped rocks. 

At low tide, starfish and urchins appear between intervals of rushing water.

















One of the cabins has a notice: Jewitt Lake is a sacred place. Do not go there. 

The English blacksmith, christened The White Slave, perhaps by his publisher close to a century later, was adopted by a Maquinna in 1803. His journals publicized this place, these people, and their culture. Now, he is immortalized in the land. 

I wish it were summer, and I could swim here in the pine-swept lake.

The cabin smells like a cedar sauna, and can be rented.

Perhaps, one day I will. 

A Peek at Yuquot

I sit by the beach and try to imagine what this landscape looked like hundreds, or even thousands, of years ago. Surely, rocks are the pillars of the earth, and ocean tides ebb and flow forever. This space cannot have changed much over time. The sea tumbles rocks into pebbles, old trees fall, young trees grow, and totems decay while others appear. 

Courtesy of CTC Bewley Sailing

Carved by Sandford Williams

Yuquot means “where the winds blow from many directions.” Indeed, in the few days I’ve been here tuning into the weather, the winds have shifted often. This is the ancestral home of the Mowachaht First Nation, and the centre of Nuu-chah-nulth Territory. To learn more about the culture, visit Nuuchahnulth Cultureand hear it from the people.

The land juts out into Nootka Sound. I imagine the village houses, framed from solid cedar posts and banked with cedar planks, stretching along the shore of Friendly Cove. It’s said, twenty longhouses once stood here. This sandy sheltered beach fronts them. Behind them, a long pebbled beach stretches from Yuquot Point, northward up the coast. When the waves rock the shore it sounds like cascading marbles.

This was once the summer meeting places of many villages who paddled on the “winds from many directions.” In the fall, the house planks were taken down and loaded into canoes along with provisions, and families paddled northward up Tahsis Inlet to their winter village. If I sail east across the sound, through Zuchiarte Channel and Muchalat Inlet, I will come to Gold River. This is where most of the people relocated. Only the Williams family remains, living in a weathered house on the beach at Friendly Cove.

I just finished reading White Slaves of Maquinna (an ebook published by Heritage House). Essentially, it is a journal written by John R. Jewitt during his two year stay with the people of Yuquot. Young Jewitt was working as a blacksmith aboard the Boston, when Maquinna’s people attacked on March 22, 1803. Twenty-five crew members were killed in retaliation for injuries Maquinna’s people had suffered at the hands of European sailors during the quest for land and furs. Because of his unique skill, that of turning metal into tools and weapons, Jewitt’s life was spared. When John Thompson, the sailmaker, was discovered, Jewitt saved him by by claiming that the man was his father. Even then, Maquinna wanted Jewitt to be happy. 

Although the journal is entitled White Slaves, Jewitt was adopted in Maquinna’s family, offered his choice of a wife, and grew close with both the chief and his sons. The only drudgery he really complains about is having to chop and carry wood. In time, Jewitt is given slaves of his own to fish for him. The armourer becomes a valued member of the village; indeed, he creates stunning daggers, harpoons, and other items for Maquinna.

Naturally, Jewitt brings his own ethnocentric bias to the narrative, especially when he describes his bride. As he did not “fancy any of the Nootka woman” Maquinna purchased her from a nearby village. She was the daughter of the chief. Not exactly the treatment of a slave.

Biased yes, but Jewitt does provide a detailed two year peek into Mowachacht life in the early Nineteenth Century. The Adventures of John Jewitt, edited by Robert Brown, 1896 (with illustrations)You can read it here at  Gutenberg

The Williams family still engage in seasonal activities as did their ancestors. Out in his boat every day, Ray searches for signs of herring, as he eagerly awaits spawning time. Pine branches are cut and laid out on the dock, ready to be sunk in the water. After the herring spawn on the branches, they are raised and cleaned. Herring spawn is a traditional delicacy here at Friendly Cove.

I also await the herring. When they arrive, it’s said, the cove comes alive with whales, seals, eagles, and other creatures eager to fill their bellies with spring protein. Last spring, the herring spawned on March 28. This year, they are late. Come on herring!