Written by Ellie McNairy (University of Minnesota)
What does it mean to know a place? I’m writing this in my pocket notebook, inside my musty tent on a rocky bluff overlooking the Nakina River. The constant drumming of rain on my tent fly has become soothing. This sound, along with the river’s soft roars, is life nourishing. The water hydrates the Saskatoon berries, which in turn are eaten by the grizzly bears. The water feeds the Nakina River, which creates a passage for Pacific salmon to continue the tail end of their remarkable life journey. The water restores and sustains this delicate ecosystem.
Kuthai Lake.
In my short time on the Nakina, I have noticed that this place radiates a calm, enveloping energy. You can even see it in the animals. The salmon steadily tread water, appearing frozen in time. The mother bear patiently guides her cub across the river and into the cottonwoods. The bald eagle soars languidly in graceful loops above my head. Even the beaver we saw this morning was in no rush, as he lazily paddled upstream, letting eddies guide his path. It is clear to me that the biota here is not merely surviving¾ it is thriving. Grandfather River, as Tlingit elder Jackie Williams calls the Nakina, nourishes all of his children in one way or another.
The view from the Nakina Trail.
My time on the Nakina has offered me the most intimate view into an ecosystem that functions free of human intervention. So, where do I fit in to this place? The Taku River Tlingit First Nation has lived in this area for generations. For them, the Nakina is a sacred place to receive valuable sustenance and offer thanks to Grandfather River.
In his essay “A Literature of Place,” Barry Lopez writes: “If you’re intimate with a place, a place with whose history you’re familiar, and you establish an ethical conversation with it, the implication that follows is this: the place knows you’re there. It feels you. You will not be forgotten, cut off, abandoned.” Thus, the Nakina is aware of the Tlingit people, and all others who have made the pilgrimage to this sanctuary of wilderness. While I am not native to this land, I do interact with the ecosystem during my brief time here. The river feeds me, the river bathes me, and the trees shelter me.
At times, I believe we are living not too differently from the grizzly bears that roam this territory. We utilize the same trails for transport, we eat the same delicious salmon, and we both sleep under the stars at night. We both leave our mark on the landscape: we transport seeds and create disturbances as we trek through the forest, and we provide the riparian shoreline with valuable nutrients from the remains of our salmon meals. We also both give thanks. For me, this means offering Grandfather River a pinch of sacred tobacco. For the bear, this blessing comes in the form of enacting the duties on an apex predator, which eventually cascade down the biotic chain and improve the health of the river.
If only humans could learn from the bear and remember their own duties to the environment, as the Tlingit do. Barry Lopez emphasizes this mutualistic connection with the land. He declares, “It may be more important now to enter into an ethical and reciprocal relationship with everything around us than to continue to work toward the sort of control of the physical world that, until recently, we aspired to.”
Making dinner at camp the 2nd night, in a big meadow.
Perhaps my connection to this place has developed so rapidly because I walked 30 miles down the traditional Tlingit trail to get here. The first two days of this backpacking journey consisted of hiking through boreal forest and meadows dotted with wildflowers. I was humbled as I trekked among this vast biome towards a far-off, spiritual destination. However, on the third day of this expedition, my attitude towards the walk shifted. After waking up at John’s camp at 6 am, I was mentally prepared for the arduous 10-hour, 13-mile trek. As we drifted along into hour 7, the well-behaved boreal forest transitioned into an unruly tangle of coastal temperate vegetation. The sun beat down on us as we slogged through meadows of devil’s club and stinging nettle, which towered over our heads.
Then, at hour 9, rain fell as we shuffled across steep rocks, trudged through slick mud, and scurried over slippery, downed trees. Lugging a 40-pound backpack the entire time definitely did not ease the situation. As hour 10 approached, it became clear that we weren’t reaching the Nakina any time soon. The last 5 hours of the trek consisted of a combination of all elements¾ rain, rocks, and stinging plants. Nature is not always so kind to us. However, by hour 12, whether out of fatigue, sheer willpower, or a combination of both, my reality shifted. My alertness heightened, and my vision dialed in on the path of least resistance. All five of my senses blended together to complete the arduous task of arriving at the Nakina.
Suddenly, I was aware of each rock beneath my feet, each mud pit to dodge, and each stinging plant to deflect out of my path. It was not without struggle, but with perseverance that I plowed through each patch of seemingly 10-feet-tall devil’s club, batting away the stinging stalks that I began to stop feeling. It became second nature for me to crawl on all fours ¾pack and all¾ beneath a downed tree, or hoist myself over low logs. My body and mind have never operated so closely together to keep the other from giving up. I’ve also never been so absolutely present and aware of my surroundings. I imagine this is how a bear conducts herself. We took the route of the animals, migrating miles and miles to reach our oasis of nourishment.
Finally, we reached the Center for Aboriginal Living and Learning (Nakina CALL) after 15 hours of strenuous hiking. Sleep came easily that night, and the next morning, we awoke to the serenity of nature¾ eagles calling, salmon jumping, and grizzlies lumbering along the shoreline. This is why I am so replenished by the Nakina; I have experienced the trials and tribulations of living and travelling among the wilderness, and I am ever more appreciative of Grandfather River for taking care of me.
