4. Heroes and Villains of the Ancient America - Northwest Coast Cultures

My Name is Gwelk’in – The Cedar Shaper and Clan Builder I was born when the trees whispered louder than the people, when our villages were just beginning to stretch their roots into the edge of the sea. The forest was not just our home—it was our elder, our protector, and our library. I came into the world during the time of the salmon bloom, and my name, Gwelk’in, means “she who listens to cedar.” My mother told me the trees had chosen me, that I would speak to them and learn their wisdom. I did not know then what it meant, but I would learn to shape their skin into homes, tools, and sacred things.

Learning the Shape of the Land

As a child, I followed my grandmother deep into the moss-draped woods. She showed me how to peel the cedar bark in long, even strips—never taking more than we needed, always thanking the tree. I remember the smell of damp earth, the taste of pine on my tongue, and the quiet weight of the forest pressing down like a story waiting to be told. The trees gave us baskets, mats, cradles, ropes, and clothes. And I learned that if you twisted the bark just right, it would hold a newborn like a lullaby or bind a canoe like a promise.

The Clan Grows Strong

When I came of age, my role in the clan changed. I was no longer just a learner. I became a maker. The longhouse we built from cedar beams stretched the length of seven grown men, and I carved the beams with patterns from the dreams of our elders—raven’s flight, salmon’s journey, the wave’s curl. Inside it, families sang, children laughed, and fire crackled beneath the breath of ancestors. In that place, I taught others how to weave the bark, how to shape the planks, how to feel the grain before cutting. Cedar became the heartbeat of our clan.

The Potlatch and the Power of Giving

One winter, our village hosted a great potlatch. The sea had been generous that year, and the cedar had not split in the rain. We invited our kin from up and down the waterway. I wove a cloak from cedar and mountain goat wool, dyed with berries and bark. It told the story of our clan’s founding—how we followed the heron to the cove, how we traded with the river people, and how we became many from one. When I placed the cloak on the shoulders of the visiting chief’s daughter, I was not giving her a gift—I was giving her the story of our people. That is what cedar lets us do.

The Spirit of the Tree

As I aged, I was no longer the one climbing the trees or splitting the planks. My hands shook, but my voice grew strong. I told the children about the cedar spirit—how the tree stands tall even in the fiercest wind because it bends but never breaks. I taught them that to build a clan is to build like the tree: patient, rooted, and always giving. We are not the owners of the land, I told them. We are the caretakers, like the bark wrapped gently around the trunk.

What Remains Beyond Me

Now the fire burns low, and I watch the next generation shape the wood with sharper blades and more certain hands. But the old ways remain. The longhouses still stretch along the inlets, the potlatches still echo with drumbeats, and the cedar still whispers to those who listen. My name may fade, but the trees remember. And so long as one child learns to peel the bark with reverence and twist it into something useful, I will still be here. I am Gwelk’in. I shaped cedar, but it shaped me.

When Ice Ruled: Separation from Paleo-Indian Culture – Told by Gwelk’in

My grandmother’s grandmother spoke of a time when the world was still hard and cold, when the rivers stood still beneath the sky and mountains of ice ruled the land. Back then, the people were few and always moving. They followed the mammoth, the ancient bison, and the great elk through valleys carved by wind and hunger. There were no longhouses, no names for villages, no carved posts to mark the seasons. Just fire, stone, and the silent trust in the trail ahead. We were one with the land then, wandering with it as it healed from the last breath of the long winter.

The Waters Rise and the Trails Disappear

But the ice did not stay. It cracked, groaned, and slowly melted into rivers that fed the trees and filled the lowlands. Where there was once a frozen plain, now there were deep fjords and winding inlets. The sea reached farther and farther into the land. Salmon returned to the rivers in numbers too great to count. Shellfish lined the shores like gifts waiting to be gathered. With the rising of the waters came the birth of the coast as we know it. The old trails of the land-based hunters were swallowed by the sea, and the people began to change.

Leaving the Hunt Behind

There was a time when we no longer needed to chase the great beasts through snow and brush. One by one, the herds grew smaller, and the mammoths did not return. But we did not mourn for long, for the sea had become generous. My ancestors turned their eyes from the open plains to the tidepools and river mouths. They learned to read the currents, to follow the moon’s pull on the water, to build traps for fish and drying racks for seaweed. The spear gave way to the net, the bow to the paddle. The land no longer moved beneath our feet, and so we learned to stay.

The Roots of Home

That is when the cedar began to speak to us. With it, we built the first great longhouses—timber stacked thick and wide to hold whole families under one roof. We carved canoes that carried us beyond the horizon and back again. Fire pits warmed us through the dampest seasons, and smokeholes opened like mouths to the sky. With each moon that passed, our houses grew, our stories deepened, and our children stopped asking when we would leave. The coast had given us all we needed, and we repaid it by planting our roots deep.

Becoming the People of the Coast

This is how we became something new. We were no longer only hunters of the land. We became keepers of the tide, watchers of the trees, gatherers of the sea’s wisdom. The great migration had ended, and a new journey began—one not of steps, but of belonging. Our hands remembered the movement of the chase, but our hearts had learned to build. I am Gwelk’in, born of cedar and salt. The old ways made us strong, but the land’s change made us many. And in that change, we found the beginning of home.

My Name is Natsilane – The Maker and Sea Hunter

I was born where the forest gives way to waves, where the islands rise like the backs of ancient whales sleeping in the ocean. My people called this place home, but I always believed it belonged to the sea first. My name is Natsilane. It means “he who watches with purpose,” though I earned that name later, after the sea tested my courage and the animals accepted me as kin. I was born of the Raven clan, but I learned early that my true family extended beyond the shore.

Learning from Water and Bone

My first lessons were not given in words. I learned to hunt by watching the seals dance below the kelp beds. I learned to carve by studying the bones of fish, the curve of their ribs, the way their bodies moved through the current. My uncles taught me to shape wood into spears and tools, to lash canoes tight with sinew and cedar bark. I was told that every object must be balanced—strong enough to endure the sea, light enough to return. Our survival was tied to precision, and the ocean showed no mercy to those who made mistakes.

The Test of Brothers

As I grew stronger, my brothers grew jealous. They mocked my care, my carving, my questions. But I did not raise my voice—I raised my hands to the trees and the sea. I shaped paddles that cut like knives through the water, fishhooks that sang with copper light, and a canoe so smooth it seemed born from the tide. But when the time came to prove myself on the hunt, my brothers betrayed me. Far from the village, they left me behind on a lonely island, thinking I would perish. But the sea had other plans.

The Seal Brothers and the Promise

Stranded and hungry, I lay beneath the cold stars. But then they came—shapes moving through the fog, bodies gliding over rock and tide. A family of seals, curious and unafraid. They did not speak, not with words, but I understood their kindness. They brought me fish, guided me to fresh water, and stayed near through every storm. I began to carve again—this time, not for people, but for them. With driftwood and patience, I shaped the likeness of the seal spirits into a great creature: long, sleek, and born to swim the depths. It was the first killer whale.

The First Orca

The night I placed the final carving into the sea, the winds stilled. The whale blinked its cedar eyes, moved its carved flippers, and then slid into the water as if it had always lived there. It swam beside me, waited for my words. I whispered its name, and it understood. I did not command it—I released it. And in return, it carried me home. When I arrived at the village, my brothers turned pale, for they thought me a ghost. I told them nothing. But the whale remembered.

Justice with Mercy

I did not take revenge in anger. I asked the whale to find them, and he did. One by one, he carried them out into the sea—not to drown them, but to frighten them, to teach them the weight of betrayal. When they returned, they fell to their knees before me. I forgave them, though the wound remained. Forgiveness, like carving, takes time. But it shapes the world with smoother edges.

Carver of Balance

From that day, my people no longer saw me only as a hunter. They came to me for guidance, for stories, for tools that honored the sea. I taught them how the killer whale is both hunter and protector, and how we must live like him—strong, swift, but always aware of our place in the deep web of life. I carved many more whales, though none ever swam as the first did. He was a gift, a bridge between worlds.

The Sea Still Watches

I am old now, but I still sit by the water’s edge and listen. Sometimes I see a dark fin rise in the distance, and I wonder if it is him—the first orca, my brother of cedar and spirit. If you ever see a killer whale near your canoe, do not be afraid. He may be watching to see if your heart is steady and your hands are honest. I am Natsilane. I carved what could not be caged. I was shaped by betrayal, but made whole by the sea. And the sea, as always, remembers.

The Breath Beneath the Waves: Gifts of the Sea – Told by Natsilane Speaking on The Gift of the Sea: Fishing, Whaling, and Ocean Life

Before I was a carver, before I was even called by the sea, I was a boy who sat at the edge of the shore and listened. The waves spoke in rhythms older than fire, and the wind carried stories across the water. The sea was never just a place to catch food. It was a living spirit, deep and wise, with moods that could change faster than a gull’s wing. My people knew this well. We were born from the mist and the tide. Everything we had—our tools, our feasts, even our songs—was shaped by the breath beneath the waves.

The Returning Salmon

When the salmon returned to the rivers each year, it was like the earth had exhaled. The streams turned silver with their bodies, and the forest rang with the voices of children running to greet them. We did not simply catch the salmon—we honored them. The first fish was always returned to the river, its bones cleaned and buried with care, so its spirit would tell the others we were respectful. Salmon gave us their flesh, their oil, even their bones, which we carved into hooks and needles. Without them, the winter would be longer and our fires smaller. They were not just food—they were promise.

Halibut and the Patience of Depth

Out beyond the kelp beds, where the water darkens and the land disappears, we found halibut—great flat creatures that waited on the sea floor like sunken stones. Catching them was not about speed or strength. It was about patience and knowledge. We carved special hooks—bent just right, baited with herring, and dropped with quiet hands. Sometimes we waited hours, motionless in the canoe, until the line twitched with the weight of a fish that could feed a clan. These fish taught us discipline. They reminded us that what lies deep is not easily won.

The Seal and the Gift of Flesh and Fur

When the ice still clung to the high places, we turned to the seal. They came to the rocks to rest, to molt, to bear their young, and we watched them with respect. My uncle taught me to approach without noise, to wait for the moment when the wind masked our scent. When the time came, we struck swiftly—but always gave thanks. Their meat fed us. Their oil lit our homes. Their fur warmed our elders. But they were more than resources. The seal was a relative, a guardian, one whose eyes seemed to hold something not quite of this world. Some said they were once people. I believe that.

The Canoe as Lifeline and Legacy

No story of the sea can be told without the canoe. We carved ours from red cedar, choosing only trees that spoke with straight trunks and quiet strength. We hollowed them with fire and stone, shaped their hulls with care, and named each one when it was done. A canoe was more than transport. It was our lifeline. We traveled to distant islands, fished in open waters, traded with neighbors, and sometimes fled storms by its strength. I once carved a canoe so light and swift it outran the falling sun. The sea rewards those who respect it, and punishes those who forget their place.

The Spirit of the Sea

Everything that lived in the ocean had a spirit. The orca, the salmon, even the smallest shellfish—they each had their own purpose, their own power. We told stories of Raven pulling the first fish from the sea, of the Thunderbird whose wings stirred the waves. When we paddled into deeper waters, we left offerings of tobacco or cedar boughs. We painted our faces and sang prayers, not to ask for success, but to show we understood who we were beneath the sky. I carved masks to honor these spirits—some fierce, some playful, all sacred. Each time we took from the sea, we gave something in return.

I Am of the Water

I have hunted the seal, sung for the salmon, and watched the breath of the whale rise like a mountain of mist. I have drifted in still waters so calm I could see my ancestors in the reflection. The sea is not something I conquered. It is something I joined. When I carve, I think of waves. When I speak, I hear the gulls. I am Natsilane. The sea gave me my strength, my wisdom, and my place among my people. And when I return to it, I will not be lost. I will be home.

Tamokwa – The Spirit Watcher and Sky Reader I was born during a winter when the tides pulled strangely and the stars blinked in patterns my grandfather had never seen. My mother said I entered this world without crying, only staring—wide-eyed, silent, listening. That is how they knew I was different. In our village by the mouth of the Skeena River, elders believed some children were born closer to the spirit world than to this one. They called me Tamokwa, “he who watches the light behind the clouds.” I did not speak often, but when I did, even the fire seemed to listen.

Whispers of the Ancestors

My early years were spent among the old ones. While other boys learned to fish and carve, I sat beside my grandmother as she burned cedar and eagle down, watching the smoke curl toward the heavens. She taught me how the spirit world echoes through dreams and silence, not just through words. She showed me how to speak with the ancestors—not in voice, but in presence. I remember when the salmon run failed one summer, and she traced its absence not to the river, but to a forgotten prayer. That was the first time I felt the tremble between the worlds, a warning unspoken yet fully heard.

The Watcher’s Path

When I was old enough, I went alone into the mountains. For three moons I fasted beside a glacial stream, speaking to no one but the wind and the stars. There, the sky taught me its secrets. I learned to read the shifting patterns of the northern lights, to see omens in the flight of crows and the stirring of the sea mist. When I returned, the village welcomed me as a halayt, a shaman. It was not a title of pride, but one of burden. From that day, I carried the sickness, dreams, and worries of my people on my shoulders, like a raven bearing the weight of dusk.

Healing and Ceremony

They came to me in times of birth and death, in fever and confusion. I did not heal with herbs alone—though I knew them well—I healed with balance. I sang the names of lost children into the wind. I danced in the firelight until spirits showed me the way. I used the rattle to call the guardian animals, the drum to awaken memory. Once, when a child fell ill with no wound or cause, I fasted and smoked for four days until the answer came: he had walked over an ancient grave without knowing. We made offerings, and he awoke the next day laughing, as if the earth had forgiven him.

The Potlatch of the Spirits

When the moon hung low and the clan needed strength, I led the great potlatch. Not one of feasting alone, but of vision. I carved masks that reflected the soul—half bear, half man—because that is what we are. I told the stories of the sky-wolves who chase the sun, and the spirit canoe that carries the dead over the foggy water. Through masks and song, I reminded my people that we are never alone. Every stone, every tree, every star remembers us. The potlatch was not just to share wealth, but to renew the thread between the seen and unseen.

Reading the End and the Beginning

I am old now, bones hollow like cedar bark, eyes cloudy like glacier melt. But I still hear the world breathing. I know change comes. I have seen canoes from lands beyond the horizon, and strange metals and men with different fire in their eyes. I have warned the chiefs: not all spirits wear feathers—some wear armor and questions. Still, I do not fear. The ancestors are watching, and we have left signs in the stars, in the tide-lines, and in the stories carved in totem and bone. They will know who we were.

My Journey Continues

When I leave this world, I will cross the mist with my rattle in hand, calling to the old ones. I will become the whisper in the cedar smoke, the shadow behind the aurora. And someday, when a child looks up at the sky and feels the air pause, he will know I am near. I am Tamokwa. I watched the sky not to control it, but to remind us that we belong to something greater—something that listens even in silence.

The Sacred Cedar: The Tree of Life - Tamokwa

Long before we carved totems, long before we stitched the edges of cedar bark into robes, the tree was already here—watching, waiting, whispering. We did not find the cedar. The cedar found us. I was still a boy when my grandmother took me into the forest and placed my hand on its bark. “This tree listens,” she said. “It knows who comes with respect, and who comes with greed.” That day, I learned that the cedar was not just wood. It was memory. It was breath. It was life.

The Body of the Village

The cedar made our homes. It gave us the beams for our longhouses—massive trunks carved and raised by many hands, each one smoothed by stone and shaped by prayer. These were not just shelters from the rain. They were living spaces, sacred places where clans gathered to tell stories, where children were born, where the elders sang the history of the stars. The walls echoed with laughter and mourning, and the cedar held it all. The scent of its wood lingered long after the fire died, wrapping our lives in the same breath.

From the same tree came our totem poles, the great storytellers of the earth. With every carving—eagle, wolf, bear, frog—we honored a lineage, a lesson, a law. We did not carve for decoration. We carved to remember. I was called to bless many of these poles before they rose into the sky. I chanted the names of the ancestors, painted the mouths of the spirits, and asked the tree to stand tall and speak for generations to come.

Wearing the Tree’s Blessing

Cedar clothed us, too. The inner bark, when softened and woven, could be twisted into robes, skirts, and capes. When I danced at the edge of the fire in the moon’s white gaze, I wore cedar strands woven with mountain goat wool and eagle feathers. My headdress bore the scent of the forest, and the spirits knew I carried their story. Even the babies slept in cedar cradles, swaddled in bark softened by smoke and water. From the first breath to the last, the cedar touched us.

We used it to make rope, baskets, mats, paddles, fishing lines, even masks for our ceremonies. It gave, and gave again, never once asking why—only that we take what we need and no more. If ever someone took too much, or cut the tree without offering thanks, the forest grew silent. Animals left. The dreams turned restless. We learned quickly to walk gently, to speak to the trees before lifting the axe.

The Ritual of the First Cut

Before a cedar tree could be harvested, we held ceremony. I would lead the way into the forest with song and fire. We brought offerings—shells, dried berries, eagle down. We placed them at the base of the tree and spoke aloud to its spirit. Only when the tree accepted did we begin the work. The first cut was never rushed. We sang as we worked. We thanked the tree as each layer fell away. The tools were bone, stone, and patience. The rhythm of the axe was like a heartbeat—steady, careful, reverent.

Even in death, the cedar remained alive. We burned its shavings for purification. We scattered its bark to bless the waters. And when a child was sick, we steeped its leaves to draw out the fever. Cedar was healer, teacher, protector. I have seen warriors hold it to their chests before battle, and mothers press it into their hands as they birthed new life.

The Spirit Within the Grain

When I carve, I do not begin with my own thoughts. I listen to the wood. Sometimes the spirit is restless—it wants to be shaped into a mask, a pole, a rattle. Other times it is quiet and must be coaxed gently. The cedar holds stories in its rings. You can feel them if your hands are steady and your heart is still. My grandfather once told me, “Each tree is a library. But not every reader knows how to open the pages.”

A Promise Made in Bark and Wind

I have walked among the oldest groves, where the trunks are wider than a canoe is long, where the light filters through the canopy like green fire. These are the places I go to remember who we are. When the world begins to turn too quickly, I return to the trees. They do not rush. They do not forget. And neither must we.

I am Tamokwa. The spirits guide me, but the cedar holds me. It shaped our homes, our tools, our clothing, and our souls. The sea gives us food, the sky gives us signs—but the cedar gives us memory. And memory, in our world, is everything.

Begins with Mothers: Clan System and Social Structure – Told by Gwelk’inWhen we speak of our people, we do not begin with warriors or chiefs—we begin with mothers. In our way, it is not the father's name that guides a child, but the mother’s clan. Our names, our crests, our places in the longhouse are passed down through her. I am of the Raven, and so were my mother, my grandmother, and her mother before her. It is through her that I know where I belong. This is how we trace our inheritance—not through land or objects alone, but through stories, responsibilities, and the breath of those who came before. Every child is born into a house group, tied not only by blood, but by duty.

The Shape of the Longhouse

Each longhouse is more than just timber and smoke. It is a living body made of people who share ancestry, crest, and ceremony. A house group is a family, yes, but also a political force, an economic hand, a sacred thread in the larger village. We eat together, carve together, mourn together. The front of the longhouse may be carved with our animal crest—a bear, a wolf, a heron—but inside, it is the matriarchs who hold the memory of every child who ever slept beneath that roof. They guide the flow of knowledge like rivers in cedar channels.

The Three Layers of the People

Not all were born to lead. Some came from noble lines—those who could trace their names back to ancient events, those whose crests hung high on totem poles, those who gave the most during potlatch. Nobility was not only a title; it was a responsibility. The noble one must give more, speak wisely, and carry the weight of the clan’s voice in gatherings. Then there were the commoners, whose work sustained the house: fishermen, weavers, carvers, singers. Their value was not less—it was simply different. And yes, there were slaves too, taken during raids or traded from distant lands. They lived in the shadow of our houses, but even they became part of the household, often remembered and sometimes even adopted into the clan over time.

The Potlatch and the Flow of Wealth

Wealth, in our world, was not kept—it was released. The potlatch was the beating heart of this belief. When a child was named, when a marriage was sealed, or when a chief died, we gave. Blankets, coppers, carvings, dried fish, and stories all flowed from one house to another. Wealth was how we honored the spirits and elevated the living. To give was to rise. A chief might become great not because of what he held, but because of what he gave away. And it was the women—those who held the clan lines—who ensured that the giving followed tradition, that every gift matched the memory of what came before.

Marriage and the Crossing of Clans

We did not marry within our own clan. That was known to disrupt the harmony of the lines. Raven does not marry Raven. We sought partners from other houses, other crests. In this way, marriage was not just about love—it was about alliance, peace, and balance. When I married my wife, an Eagle from the village up the inlet, our union tied two rivers together. My children were born into her house, not mine. I guided them, yes, but it was her family who named them, who shaped their place. This was our way, and it kept our clans strong, our names respected, and our world ordered.

A Line That Never Ends

Now, as I sit near the hearth and watch my grandchildren play, I see the strands of cedar bark they twist into rope. I think of our clans like that—many fibers, woven together, holding fast even under weight. The line of my mother continues through my sister’s children, through the stories I have passed down, through the house posts I helped raise. The shape of our society is not rigid, but it is known, and it has held us for longer than memory alone can reach.

I am Gwelk’in. My name may one day be forgotten, but my line will not. For it moves through every cedar beam I carved, every name spoken in potlatch, and every child born into the quiet strength of a mother’s house.

My Name is Kawatsi – The Carver and Storykeeper I was born in the shadow of a totem pole, beneath the thunder of raven wings. My people lived where the mountains met the ocean, and every rock, every tree, every gust of wind carried a memory. My mother said I came into the world during the tide’s highest pull, when the village echoed with the cries of newborn salmon and children’s laughter. They named me Kawatsi, meaning “voice of the wood.” My grandfather said it was the cedar who whispered that name into his dreams. From that day forward, I was bound to the stories that shaped our world.

The Knife and the Song

My earliest memories are of watching my father carve—his hands steady, his eyes filled with reverence. He did not just shape wood. He revealed spirits trapped within it. One day, I asked him how he knew what lay hidden in a log. He looked at me and said, “You must listen longer than it takes to speak.” So I listened—to the elders, to the wind, to the ravens squabbling over clamshells. When I was twelve, he placed a carving knife in my hand. I cut my thumb the first day, bled onto the cedar, and they said the tree now carried my spirit too.

The Totem and the Truth

By the time I was a young man, I had carved my first house post—a great bear with a salmon in its mouth, symbolizing our clan’s strength and generosity. Each figure on a totem told a chapter of our history. We did not write with ink and paper. We wrote with chisel and mallet, through the grain of cedar. My carvings remembered those who came before us: the one who wrestled the sea serpent, the woman who fed her village through winter by speaking to the whales. They were not just stories; they were proof of who we were, etched into the bones of our homes.

The Keeper of Crests

It was not enough to carve what looked true—I had to carve what was sacred. Every family crest, every animal figure had meaning passed down through the potlatch. I became the memory keeper for my people. When a child was born, I carved their name into a small panel, hidden inside the longhouse. When a chief died, I carved their story onto a towering pole that touched the sky. My role was not just to remember—but to make sure others did too. For we knew, once a story was forgotten, part of the soul was lost with it.

The Potlatch Flame

There came a winter when we hosted a great potlatch, more grand than any before. We gave blankets, carvings, fish oil, and stories. That night, by the fire, I unveiled a mask I had carved for the chief’s final ceremony—a mask that showed his ancestor, the Thunderbird, lifting the mountains with its wings. As the dancers moved, wearing my masks, I saw the children’s eyes widen. I saw elders nod. I felt the fire of belonging warm the cold corners of my chest. This was the moment I lived for—to bring our ancestors into the present, to honor their breath in our own.

The Weight of Change

In my later years, I noticed different canoes arriving, canoes made of things not born from cedar. Men came with pale skin and eyes that looked like distant rain. They asked about our totems, our dances, our gods. Some came to learn, others to erase. I carved faster. I taught more children. I buried extra masks in secret caves, hidden from those who wished to silence us. I knew the storm was coming, but I believed the stories could outlast the storm if we planted them deep enough.

When the Carver is Gone

Now I am old. My hands shake like the trees in a spring wind, but I still carve, even if only in my mind. I walk through the village and see my poles standing tall. They are not decorations. They are voices. And as long as one child runs a hand along a carved beak or a cedar feather, the ancestors will speak. I am Kawatsi, carver of memory, voice of the wood. My stories are not mine alone. They belong to the people, to the trees, and to those not yet born. Listen, and you will hear them still.

When the Spirits Took Shape: Told by Kawatsi

Before I ever touched a carving knife, before my hands knew the weight of red cedar, I heard the stories. Not from books, but from breath. Around the fire, my grandfather would speak of the first beings—animals who walked as men, spirits who taught us to fish, to fight, to live. These were not just tales to pass the time. They were truths carved into the marrow of who we were. Each clan has its crest, drawn from these spirit-beings. Ours is the Bear. Others carry the Raven, the Orca, the Thunderbird. These crests are not just symbols. They are the bones of our identity, linking us to the spirits that first shaped the world.

The Birth of the Pole

In the beginning, we carved these spirits into masks, small boxes, and house posts. But as the clans grew and time moved forward, the poles grew taller. We began to stack our stories high, each figure resting on the one before it, each animal telling a part of the journey. The first totem poles were simple—one crest, one story. But soon, they became grander, reaching into the sky, layered with legends and ancestors. I remember helping raise a pole that stood taller than the trees around it. It took the strength of many hands, but it held the weight of generations.

The Masks That Dance

Carving does not live in stillness alone. Our masks are carved to move, to breathe, to speak. In the longhouse during winter ceremonies, the dancers put on these sacred faces, and the spirits return. I have carved masks that smile, snarl, and split open to reveal other faces hidden inside. Each mask has a voice, a rhythm, a path through the smoke. When the dancers wear them, they are no longer themselves. They are the Raven stealing the sun. They are the Wild Man of the Woods calling to the mountains. And in their dance, the stories live again.

The Carving of Memory

I have carved the face of a great chief, not days after his passing, but years after, when only the children remembered his laugh. I have carved the figure of a whale that saved a family from drowning, based on a story told only once by a bent old woman in the corner of the longhouse. Carving is not just art. It is memory made solid. The cedar holds what our voices might forget. Every gouge, every curve, every painted line is a sentence in a language older than writing. When a visitor sees our poles and asks what they mean, I do not answer with a sentence. I tell them to sit, to listen, and to hear the wood speak.

From One Carver to the Next

The tools I use are not just mine. They were given to me by my teacher, and to him by his. The blades are sharpened with care, the handles wrapped with hide, and the knowledge that guides them flows through the wrist like a river. When I teach a young one to carve, I do not just hand him a piece of wood. I tell him the story first. If he cannot feel the spirit in the tale, the carving will never come alive. I have seen boys with strong hands fail, and girls with gentle fingers reveal the soul of a bear in a single stroke.

The Pole That Outlives Me

When I am gone, my name may vanish in the tide. But my carvings will remain, at least for a time. The rain will soften their edges. The moss will creep up their feet. The wind will hollow their insides. But even when they fall, the stories they carry will find new breath in another carver, another pole. That is how it has always been.

I am Kawatsi, the one who shapes the cedar. I do not carve for glory. I carve so that the children will know who they are, and so the ancestors will know we did not forget. Each totem, each mask, each line in the wood is a bridge between what was and what still lives. Listen, and the pole will speak. Look closely, and you will see your own face in the grain.

The Fire That Feeds the Village: Potlatch Traditions – Told by Gwelk’in

There are many kinds of power. Some gather it like stones, stacking it high in dark corners. Others give it away, and with every gift, their strength grows. Among my people, power is not held—it is shared. That is the heart of the potlatch. I remember my first one clearly. I was a boy, and the chief’s daughter had just come of age. The longhouse was full of smoke and laughter. Blankets lined the walls. Salmon dried above the flames. As guests arrived from up and down the inlet, the hosts gave more than food—they gave themselves. That was the lesson I never forgot.

The Table Without End

The earliest potlatches were simple. A family might share extra fish with another during a lean winter or pass down a carved paddle to a younger cousin. But over time, these acts grew into ceremony. Feasts became a stage where families proved their honor. A potlatch was called for births, name-givings, marriages, and memorials. During these gatherings, we gave away blankets, woven robes, copper shields, tools, and even canoes. Not because we were told to. Not because someone demanded it. But because generosity showed who you were. The more you gave, the more respect you earned. A man who gave away his finest goods wasn’t left poor—he was remembered.

The Rise of the Giver

You might think that to give away your wealth is to fall behind. But in our way, it is the opposite. Wealth is like a cedar tree: if it grows without being trimmed, it loses its shape. But if it is tended—cut, shared, re-given—it becomes useful to all. Those who gave the most in the potlatch gained the highest status. Chiefs measured their greatness not by what they held, but by what they had released into the hands of others. That is why our greatest leaders also became our greatest givers. The feast wasn’t just food—it was a declaration of strength, of memory, of legacy.

Words That Carve the Mind

The potlatch is not only about giving things—it is about giving stories. During the ceremony, we do not just eat and watch. We listen. Elders tell the history of the clan, names are spoken into life, and dances remind us of who we are. I have seen children hear their own name for the first time while a dancer in a carved mask brought their ancestral crest to life before their eyes. We do not write our past in books—we dance it, sing it, speak it in front of fire and clan. Each performance is a lesson. Each chant is a history book. And when it is finished, the story lives inside the next generation.

Freely Given, Deeply Rooted

No one tells you how much to give. No one counts your gifts and demands more. Each offering comes from the heart, from a desire to honor, not to outdo. A true potlatch is not a show—it is a spirit. When I hosted my first potlatch, I gave away half my winter stores. Some thought I gave too much. But years later, those who received returned when I needed them most. That is the unseen gift: trust, kinship, a name carried far beyond your own hands. And no one could force that out of me. I gave it because I believed in it. Because the cedar gives its bark without being told. Because the salmon returns to the stream even after death.

A Tradition That Breathes

Now I teach the young ones not just how to carve or shape cedar, but how to give. Not because they must, but because giving keeps the world in balance. When the potlatch fire is lit, when the first song rises into the smoke, I see the ancestors gather behind the dancers, nodding. They know. The power of the potlatch is not in the food or the copper—it is in the freedom to give. That freedom binds us stronger than law, stronger than rope.

Between the Worlds: Spirit Worlds and the Role of the Shaman – Told by Tamokwa

Some people walk with both feet on the ground, always looking at the earth beneath them. But there are others—few—who walk with one foot in the world of breath and bark, and the other in the world of shadows and song. I was one of those. As a child, I saw things others did not. I watched the mist curl across the water like a hand, and I knew it was more than fog. I heard the cry of the owl and understood it as a message. We Tsimshian have always known that the world we see is only half the story. The other half lies just beyond the firelight, where spirits move like wind through cedar branches. That is the place I learned to listen.

The Journey Inward

To walk between the worlds, I had to first leave my own. I fasted for four days beside the cold edge of a glacial stream. I drank no water, spoke no words, and slept with my back to the earth and my face to the stars. When my body grew weak, my mind opened. I saw the bear spirit standing in the flames. I saw the salmon spirit leap from the stream without making a sound. I felt myself pulled into a great dance of animals, ancestors, and stars. This was trance—not sleep, not dream, but the doorway to understanding. When I returned, I could feel the sickness in a man’s breath or the sorrow behind a woman’s eyes. The spirits had shown me how to see.

The Tools of Healing

A shaman does not heal with bark alone, though I know every root and leaf that grows near the river. My hands know how to grind devil’s club into a poultice or steep wild rose hips into a calming tea. But the true healing begins when the spirits arrive. I used a rattle made from deer hide and pebbles to call them. I wore a robe of cedar bark, softened by smoke and touched with feathers from the raven and hawk. When I moved around the fire, I was no longer Tamokwa—I was the one who listens for the spirits. I called them with chant and rhythm, with breath and stillness. They did not always answer. But when they did, I felt them settle over me like snow on mountain stone, quiet and powerful.

The Animal Guides

Each spirit chooses its own path. Some came to me in dreams—wolf, raven, whale. Others came in times of great need. Once, during a deep winter, a child was dying from fever. I sat beside him through the night, chanting the old songs. Just before dawn, I saw the flicker of a hummingbird in the firelight, though none should have flown in that season. I took it as a sign. I crushed dried cedar tips, burned them into the air, and wrapped the child in a blanket soaked in herbal steam. By nightfall, the fever broke. I do not say I saved him. The hummingbird did.

The Resting of Bones

When our people pass into the other world, it is not the end—it is a return. We treat the body with care, washing it in cedar water, painting the face with ochre, placing feathers or shells with the hands. The body may be placed in a bentwood box and raised into a tree, or buried in a secret place marked only by the memory of the family. But more important than the bones is the name. We call the names of the dead during the potlatch so their spirit may rise with honor. Sometimes I have felt them near, watching from the edge of the smoke. Not all spirits go easily. Some cling, confused or angry. When that happens, I am called to help them find the way. A rattle, a chant, a cedar fire, and a steady heart can open the path home.

The Ancestors Never Leave

I do not walk alone. None of us do. The ancestors are with us—in the whisper of wind across the salmon stream, in the light that moves between tree branches, in the dreams that come just before dawn. When I carve a mask, I feel my grandfather’s hands guiding mine. When I chant, I hear the echo of voices that once filled longhouses now returned to earth. The spirits are not far. They are just listening, waiting for us to remember them.

I am Tamokwa, the one who walks in both worlds. I was not chosen by people, but by the spirits. I do not speak for myself—I speak for the wind, the bear, the fire, and the ones who came before. To live well is to walk with balance, to listen more than you speak, and to remember that every breath you take was once part of a story far older than you. That is the way of the shaman. That is the way of the spirit watcher.

The Tide as Teacher - Seasonal and Ecological Knowledge – Told by Natsilane

If you live beside the sea, as we have always done, then you know that the tide speaks a language of its own. It does not rise and fall by chance—it follows the moon, the wind, the breath of the earth. From the time I was a boy, I learned to listen to the water. We knew when the salmon would begin their journey upstream by the coolness of the morning fog. We knew when the clams were ready by the smell of the beach at low tide. The animals moved with the seasons, and so did we—not as wanderers lost in the woods, but as careful listeners who followed the world’s rhythm.

When the Land Tells You to Stay

Our villages were not made to chase food. We had permanent homes—longhouses built from cedar beams that withstood years of rain and wind. These stood near the best salmon rivers and safe harbors. There, we carved, stored food, and raised children. But these places were not always full. When the seasons shifted, we left for the camps. We knew better than to ask one place to feed us all year. To stay in one spot and take too much would be to drain it of its life. So we moved, and by moving, we gave the land time to breathe.

The Camps Between Seasons

In spring, we traveled to the outer shores for halibut and early seaweed harvest. In summer, we followed the salmon and dug for clams in tidal flats. Fall brought berries and the drying of fish in the cool wind. Winter, we returned home to the longhouses—full of food, stories, and the sound of carving tools. Each camp had its purpose. We left them clean, never taking more than we needed. When we returned the next year, the fish were still in the river, the berries still clung to their branches, and the animals still remembered that we came with respect.

The Balance of the Hunt

When I hunted seal, I did not take the first one I saw. I waited, watched the group, and chose carefully. If I took too many, they would not return. If I hunted during the wrong moon, their young would starve. We knew the signs—tracks in the sand, patterns in the stars, calls of birds overhead. Our elders taught us that the world does not belong to us. We belong to the world. To live well was to give it time to grow again. We fished one river, then moved to another. We gathered from one grove, then let it rest. This was not rule. It was relationship.

The Maker’s Responsibility

Even in my carving, I followed the seasons. Some woods were best gathered in spring, when the sap was rising. Others I cut in fall, when the grain was tighter. I never cut a tree without prayer. I never carved without first hearing the story it held. My canoe was not made to conquer the sea, but to glide gently across it. When I built, I built with the knowledge that every plank came from a tree that gave its life. That is not a gift to waste.

The Wisdom of Return

People ask me how we lived so long in one place without ruining it. I tell them, we never stayed in one place too long. And when we returned, we treated the land as a guest returning to an elder’s house—with humility, gratitude, and care. The land remembered our footsteps, and because we listened, it welcomed us again and again.

I am Natsilane. I am a hunter, a carver, a follower of tides. I do not live by taking, but by rotating, by watching, by learning. That is how the sea has always fed us, how the forest has always clothed us, and how we have always walked the edge of the seasons without falling through.

Stories Begin: Oral Histories, Myths, and Storytelling   – Told by Kawatsi

Some say the world was born in silence, but I know it was born in story. Before there were longhouses, before we carved cedar poles or shaped stone blades, there were the voices of the elders rising over firelight, telling of beings that shaped the land, the sea, and all of us. These were not just tales to fill the night—they were maps for how to live. I sat at my grandmother’s feet while she wove words into memory, and I learned that to carry a story is to carry the soul of our people.

The Raven Who Stole the Light

One of the first stories I ever heard was about Raven. He was clever and greedy, bold and curious—a being who often caused trouble but also brought great gifts. In one tale, he stole the sun, moon, and stars from a selfish chief and released them into the world. If not for Raven’s mischief, we would still live in darkness. But the lesson was not just about light. It was about courage, trickery, and the cost of selfishness. Raven showed us that change often comes from unexpected places, and that even flawed beings can do great things.

The Whale Brother and Natsilane

Later, I was told the story of Natsilane, the young carver who was betrayed by his brothers and left to die on a distant shore. Instead of seeking revenge, he carved a great sea creature—what we now call the killer whale—and sent it to teach justice, not through destruction, but through fear and mercy. That whale became his brother, born not of flesh but of cedar and spirit. Natsilane’s tale is one I tell often when carving a canoe or mask. It reminds us that the sea remembers who we are, and that the tools we shape can carry our heart across great distances.

Thunderbird and the Power of the Storm

Then there is Thunderbird—the giant winged being who lives in the mountains, whose wings create thunder and whose eyes flash lightning. When he flaps his wings, the whales rise from the sea, and storms shake the sky. Thunderbird is more than a creature of power—he is a guardian, a judge, and sometimes a punisher. When storms come suddenly, when waves crash harder than expected, we do not say it is the weather. We say Thunderbird is flying, watching, warning. His story keeps children close to home, and reminds hunters to travel with respect in their hearts.

The Storyteller's Burden

To be a storyteller is not to entertain. It is to teach, to remember, and to guide. We do not choose to carry these stories. They are placed in our mouths by the elders, and we must hold them with care. I have told tales to calm grieving mothers, to warn reckless boys, to heal the broken spirit of a warrior returned from the sea. Each story has a purpose. Some teach kindness. Others teach consequences. All of them remind us who we are. When the drums beat and the masks come out, we do not pretend. We remember.

The Land Remembers Too

Every hill, every rock, every bend in the river holds a memory. There is a place near our village where the stones are shaped like a bear’s paw. That is where the First Bear stood when he taught our ancestors to fish. Another place holds a deep pool with water so still it mirrors the sky. We say that is where Raven first dropped the stolen moon. These aren’t just stories. They are rooted in the earth. Our myths are tied to the land, and the land, in turn, holds our myths. When I carve a pole or paint a mask, I always include these places, these echoes of story.

Breath into Wood, Voice into Time

Now I am old, but I still speak the tales. My voice is not as strong, but the stories do not need strength—they need truth. When I carve the eye of Raven into a pole, when I shape Thunderbird’s beak into a mask, I am not just making art. I am making memory. And when a child listens with wide eyes and still hands, I know the story will live on.

The Canoes That Came Before: The First Outsiders: Ancient Trade and Cultural Exchange - Told by Natsilane

Long before strangers crossed the ocean in boats of iron, we had our own ships—canoes carved from red cedar, strong as bone and sleek as salmon. We paddled them through misty inlets and open sea, guided not by compass, but by wind, tide, and memory. I was not the first to paddle far. My grandfather told me that his grandfather once traded stories and goods with people from beyond the tall mountains. He said the sea is not a wall—it is a pathway. And so we followed it, north to the Tlingit, east to the inland rivers, south to the nations who lived where the whales do not swim.

The Path of Exchange

Our trade routes were like threads in a great woven robe. We gave what we had and received what we could not make ourselves. We brought fish oil, carved boxes, seaweed, and stories. In return, we took obsidian from volcanic lands, elk hides from deep forests, and mountain copper hammered thin as birch bark. The coast was rich in spirit and sea, but the inland peoples had firestones and flint. So we met in quiet coves, placed our goods on shared blankets, and spoke without raising our voices. Trade was more than survival. It was trust.

The Currency of Respect

Some items were more than goods—they were symbols. Dentalium shells, long and spiraled like the wind’s memory, were worn by the noble and carried between villages like tokens of alliance. Copper came next, rare and sacred. A single sheet of hammered copper could hold the weight of a story, a name, even a chief’s pride. Obsidian—dark, sharp, and alive with fire—was never taken lightly. It came from far away, yet we shaped it into knives and points as if it had always been ours. Whale oil, heavy with the scent of salt and fat, lit our fires and flavored our feasts. These things became more than objects—they became a language.

Tales of the Distant Ones

I have heard stories from old men who swear they saw canoes that came from beyond all maps. They say the paddlers wore cloaks made of woven reeds and had no crests to mark their clans. Some say they traded quietly and left without speaking. Others say they disappeared in the fog like spirits. I do not know if those visitors were real or dreamed, but I believe every legend carries a shadow of truth. Even now, I sometimes see carvings in ancient stone—symbols not of our making—buried in places only the tide remembers. The world is wide, but not as empty as it seems.

Gifts Across Waters

Every time I traded my carvings for a piece of obsidian or wrapped smoked salmon for a stranger’s bundle of beads, I felt something deeper pass between us. It was not only goods. It was knowledge. Songs, tools, words we hadn’t heard before. A new knot in the net, a different pattern of basket weave. These exchanges shaped us, made us more. We did not become others—we became ourselves, but broader, wiser, more aware of the world’s size and rhythm.

I Am the Maker, and I Listen

Now when I shape a canoe or carve a figure into the prow, I do so not just for my people, but for all those we have touched and who have touched us in return. Every smooth shell I inlay, every copper strip I wrap around a mask, carries not only beauty, but memory. A memory of a world where the sea connects more than it divides.

I am Natsilane. I was born of salt and cedar, but I have held the obsidian, worn the shells, and sung the songs of distant camps. The sea has brought many things to our shores, and not all of them come with sails. Some arrive as gifts. Some as questions. But all of them remind us—we are not alone. We never have been.

Canoes That Crossed the Sky: Connection with the Polynesian Peoples - Told by Kawatsi

There are stories whispered among our elders, old ones that speak of canoes arriving from beyond the edge of the world. Not from the north or the inlets we know, but from the west, across the open ocean, far beyond where the sun sinks into the sea. These stories say the visitors came in double-hulled canoes with tall sails like wings, their bodies warm-skinned and strong, their eyes dark and wise. Some thought them spirits. Others knew better. They were sea-people, travelers like us, drawn by stars and wind, by the hunger for connection and the call of distant shores. We call them cousins.

When the Winds Aligned

I was told once, by an elder whose name no longer echoes in the longhouse, that long ago there was a season of strange tides. The whales moved differently, the salmon came early, and the stars flickered in patterns we did not know. That was when they arrived—people from far away, who greeted our ancestors with open hands and songs that sounded like our own, yet carried different rhythms. They brought gifts—feathers not from our birds, shells shaped like moons, and stories of volcanic islands that rose from the sea like great turtles. We gave them carvings, cedar robes, smoked fish, and songs of our own.

A Shared Way of Knowing

As a carver, I see the world through patterns—through the curve of a raven’s beak, the spiral of a shell, the lines of a canoe prow. And what I saw in their tools, their ornaments, their dance—it felt familiar. Their paddles were shaped with the same thought. Their tattoos carried the same reverence. Their chants echoed with the same belief that the spirit world and the living walk hand in hand. How can this be, if not from shared memory or meeting long ago? Some things are taught by the earth itself—others are shared by the people who listen well. We both listened.

Signs in the Wood and the Sky

There are times I sit before a cedar log and feel the pull of a story not yet told. I carve without knowing why, and the face that emerges is not one I learned from my grandfather. It is broader, with curved eyes and symbols that feel older than our village. Perhaps it is from that meeting. Perhaps our blood remembers more than our tongues can say. I have seen stones on distant beaches carved in ways our people do not carve. I have found rope knots we do not use. These are not accidents. They are echoes.

The Paths Between Islands and Forests

The Polynesians are masters of the ocean. They read the stars as I read the grain of cedar. They knew how to ride waves that would crush smaller men. To believe they reached us is not to dream wildly—it is to honor their skill. We, too, were travelers, though we stayed closer to land. But the sea does not belong to any one people. It belongs to the wind and those who trust it. Our cousins crossed vast waters to find us, just as we traveled far in our own way to find those inland.

Cousins of the Water

I believe the spirits led them to us—not with intention, but with harmony. We are different, yes. But we are alike in the way that matters. We carve our stories, we sing to the ancestors, we paddle with our hearts in rhythm with the tide. When we met, I believe there was no need for many words. The way we offered food, the way we shared tools—that was enough. They stayed for a time, then left, as all tides do. But they never left completely. They remain in our memory, in a chant that sounds older than it should, in a carving that doesn’t quite match our hand.