MARCH 1997
THE GREAT CANOES, REVIVING A NORTHWEST COAST TRADITION
by David Neel
University of Washington Press, Seattle
Illustrated. $27.95, 135 pp.
Reviewed by John Olson
Paddles raised, several masked figures dance in the bows of cedar canoes, arms held out in a gesture of exuberant greeting, as they approach Victoria's inner harbor. The picture is vivid with color and geometric form: the gracefully entwined ovals and fins, oblongs and eyes, triangles and teeth depicting totemic eagles and ancestral seals. Quileute, Musgama, Tsimshian, Coast Salish, Haida and Kwaguitul. Members from all the linguistic groups that comprise the approximate twenty nations that participated in this particular "paddle" to Victoria. Divisions between these linguistic groupings are marginal. Many First Nations no longer use them. The energy this photograph imparts is not derived from tribal diversity, but cultural regeneration, community and healing: the return of the great canoe.
The Great Canoes, Reviving
a Northwest Coast Tradition chronicles the carving and journeys of the
first great cedar canoes to make the long voyages to Bella Bella and elsewhere
since the end of the nineteenth century. The introduction and photographs
are by David Neel. The photographs are luscious and provide a miscellany
of situation and scenery. People paddling, people carrying the canoes down
a rocky beach to be launched, people drumming and dancing; solemn, muscular
Gerald Stewart, Tsimshian, standing in Bill Reid's LooPlex as it
approaches Clam Beach, British Columbia; or Weiwaikum carver Bill Henderson
putting the finishing touches on a canoe prow or sprinkling sacred eagle
down in the hull of a freshly carved and soon to be launched cedar canoe.
The intent of these photographs is plain: to advance the pivotal importance
of the canoe as a metaphor for community. "Paddling or 'pulling' as
a crew over miles of water requires respect for one another and a commitment
to working together, as the old people did," writes David Neel. "All
facets of the contemporary canoe experienceplanning, building,
fund-raising, practicing, travelingcombine to make our communities
strong and vital in the old ways."
The afterword by Tom Heidelbaugh
vividly recreates the experience of being involved in a long sea voyage
via cedar canoe. Tom is a poet with a paddle. His exuberance is inspiring.
The chop and spray of the water, the deep affections kindled in the magnitude
and rigor of maneuvering these great canoes and muscle and wit required
to keep such community spirit afloat were stirred anew in the afterglow
of Tom's words.
Sandwiched between David
Neel's introduction and Tom Heidlebaugh's afterword are testimonials by
the people involved. "It's really important to be in touch with the
spiritual essence of doing a canoe," observes Nakwaxda'xw carver Simon
Dick, "it should not be simply construction. First of all it means
being clean and sober, not abusing alcohol. And bathing in the creek or
in the ocean every day, fasting, keeping yourself clear."
"Keeping yourself
clear" is not only good spiritual practice but a good prophylactic.
In the old days the middle of a cedar log would be burned out, a process
that took months. Canoes were carved in the moist winter months when the
wood was less dry and brittle. Tools consisted of hand saws and axes and
adzes. In modern times it is a matter of trial and error again. "Because
of the high energy of chain saws and power planers," notes Simon Dick,
"it can come to a point where it's quite dangerous if a master carver
isn't really on top of his crew."
Modern power tools have
accelerated the process of preparing a canoe's general shape, but the old
methods are still often preferred for the finishing touches. The use of
an adze requires tremendous skill. The design of an adze with a narrow blade
allows it to be bounced along the surface of the wood. This rebounding,
writes Hilary Stewart in her book on cedar and Northwest carving, "helps
to set up the steady rhythm that creates a uniform texture as the adze moves
down the grain in parallel, overlapping rows. Handling the adze with such
apparent ease takes a great deal of practice."
Steaming the wood is also
an essential feature. Hot rocks and water are used to steam-bed the sides
outwards, creating a flare at the gunwales which prevents water from splashing
in, and draws the bow and stern upwards adding strength and resilience to
the wood. The widening of the sides also helps displace more water, adding
ballast and stability.
I'm always a little stunned
when I see the ocean for the first time. I tend to go long periods without
seeing it; here in Seattle (the Sound is just a sound, a tranquil tongue
of the sea tasting of salt and tidal flats) a drive to the ocean is about
three hours. Not long, but long enough to prevent you from doing it every
week. The ocean on the Washington and British Columbia coast is rough. The
waves billow at enormous heights and the water is so cold your head aches
if you leave your toe in the water for longer than a minute. The sky and
water often meld together in baleful purples and solemn grays. It is an
expanse of water to be approached cautiously, respectfully. The lives of
the paddlers depended intimately on the skills of the carver.
From a western, Cartesian
point of view, Native American culture both attracts and gives me pause.
It involves so much responsibility. Being raised in a culture where everything
is nicely, neatly compartmentalized, canned goods in the upper left cupboard,
art in the museums, church on Sunday, golf and leisure pursuits on weekends,
the notion of living in a culture where skill, spirituality, and character
are rolled into a minute-by-minute totality is a little intimidating. "Carving
the canoe is a big responsibility," writes David Neel, "the carver
takes the lives of future travelers in his or her hands."
Traditionally, a carver followed a disciplined regime. Before he began, he would prepare himself spiritually through fasting, prayer and sweatlodge. He would abstain from sexual relations and avoid combing his hair so that cracks would not develop in the canoe. After making a test hole with elbow adze and chisel for inside rot, the carver would fell the ancient cedar himself using hand tools, a formidable job. A prayer was then said for the cedar, and an offering of thanks was given for its sacrifice for the canoe builder and his family.
Imagine a Japanese or Detroit
autoworker blessing the engine of an Oldsmobile or Toyota before it left
the plant.
David Neel compares the
carving of the cedar canoes to the dynamics of community life. The smooth
lines and contours of the canoe embody this blend of the practical and spiritual,
visible and invisible. "Under the steady fall of my elbow adze my canoe
took shape, straight saw cuts becoming flowing curves. The goal is to have
each curve, each angle, flow into the next, into an overall form that has
no beginning and no end but is simply a series of sophisticated sweeps with
its roots in the past."
I used to be a carver.
I made wine racks and bookcases. I took my designs from Viking churches,
sinuous arabesques filled with dragons and berries. Every pressure point,
every pound of the hammer is a risk. Wood is tricky. You've got to adapt
your design to the grain of the wood. Since then I've come to perceive writing
is a form of carving. "The Greek gramma means `letter' with
the root gerebh or grebh `to scratch,' " writes Gary
Snyder in The Practice of the Wild. Hence kerf, graph, carve. It
is this carefulness and attention to detail that informs Neel's text.
I do wish there'd been
more pictures of the open sea, baleful clouds dropping veils of rain on
wind-tossed billowing crests, a little more of the Romantic Sublime. Really
Big Stuff. Whales. Dragons. Giant Squids. The crash of waves over a cedar
prow bright with geometric design. But then I belong to the tribe of the
Berserkers. Things just don't seem right unless there's a storm brewing.
Oddly, one of the most
captivating photos in The Great Canoes is a gloved hand pointing
to a dot of blue scribbles. Amid the scribbles is another dot: a peg pounded
into the side of the cedar hull to help the carver achieve the correct thickness
for the canoe's sides and bottom. It's a clever device. The tip of a finger
pokes out of the glove just where it marks the peg. The tight weave of the
glove is interesting, hard to say what the material is, but it looks tough,
enduring. The texture of the wood is startling in its vividness and detail.
The marks of the chisel are fresh. The chips and gouges are even, have an
even flow to them. They look familiar. Like waves.
John Olson's poems have appeared in Antenym, B City, Clearcut Anthology, First Intensity, Lingo, New American Writing, Point No Point, and Sulfur. His reviews/essays have appeared in The Seattle Weekly, The Raven Chronicles, Sulfur, and The American Book Review. His chapbook of poems, "Swarm of Edges" (1996), is available from bcc: press, 2318-2nd Ave., #23, Seattle, WA 98121.
© The Raven Chronicles 1997