Tribal Journey (7 page)

We had enough volunteer pullers to make up two full teams if needed. That way the canoe would be able to keep on schedule.

While we were stopped, sack lunches were also lowered into the canoe so everyone could eat.

“How was your first shift aboard the Raven?” Jessy asked as he steered my sea chair toward me. My own sack lunch was resting in the wheelchair seat.

“Absolutely amazing,” I replied, eyeing the sack hungrily.

He started to lift me into the chair, but I stopped him. I rolled the wheelchair up beside me and tried to pull myself into the chair. My
muscles were too tired and shaky from pulling all morning. I almost crashed to the deck.

Jessy grabbed the chair and steadied it. He then scooted me into the seat.

“Thanks,” I said humbly. “I could do it if I wasn't so tired.”

“I know you could,” he said.

After fifteen minutes the lunch break was over. The support boat moved away from the canoe. We took up a position about a hundred yards away.

I watched the pullers as they continued the northward journey. It was an awesome sight. The log canoe, powered only by a group of determined people, crept along. It was so small when compared to the ocean and the coastline. It looked like a toothpick floating in a swimming pool.

During the afternoon, several other people switched from the support boat to the canoe. That way all of the pullers got to take part in the first day of the trip. In the late afternoon, we took another break. The Sockeye again slipped in beside the Raven.

Mr. Franks had been riding in the Sockeye. Now he spoke to everyone on both the support boat and the canoe.

“We are approaching the shores of our brothers, the Suquamish people. We will spend the night at their campground. But first we have to follow the canoe Protocols before we set foot on another tribal nation's land. Other canoes will be arriving from other tribes that are headed to Cowichan too. Each one follows the Protocols when it arrives. That means the Protocols will take awhile. So you have to be patient. Is everyone ready?”

As if with one voice, we jointly hollered, “Yes!”

I got to get back into the canoe for arrival at our first stop. So did Jessy. When we were close enough to see the Suquamish campgrounds, we began to sing our arrival song. A couple of other tribal canoes had already landed. A few more were coming in behind us.

These activities would be conducted every night we camped on another tribe's lands.

Mr. Franks stood up in the bow of the Raven. When we were close enough to be heard, he announced the name of our canoe, what tribe we were from, and who he was.

That was the first time I'd heard he was a direct descendent of Chief Seattle. That made him kind of like tribal royalty.

When he was finished with the proper announcements, he asked permission for us to come ashore to rest and feast. Permission was, of course, given.

We steered the Raven parallel to the shore. That's when I noticed my land chair sitting there waiting for me. Jessy must've read my mind. He jumped out of the canoe and ran to the chair.

Pulling the crutch out of the back pocket, he unfolded it and brought it to me. He then carried me to the shore. From there I hobbled toward our camp. Jessy pushed the empty wheelchair beside me.

But the ground was very uneven. That made it hard to walk with the crutch. Jessy saw the problem.

“What do you want to do,” Jessy asked. “Walk or ride?”

“I want to drive,” I said.

And with that, he turned the chair so I could slide into the seat. Folding the crutch, he placed it back in the chair's pocket. My muscles were sore, but I wanted to arrive at camp under my own power.

So I wheeled myself from the water's edge across a grassy area to the campground where our tents were waiting. Our ground crew had done a great job of setting up everything ahead of time.

Our hosts, members of the Suquamish Nation, greeted and welcomed us. A few people wanted to know all about how a kid in a wheelchair got to be a puller. I enjoyed telling a little of my story to the three or four people standing nearby.

The Suquamish people had prepared a wonderful feast for all the canoe guests who'd stopped there for the night. Singing and sharing went on for hours. But I was so exhausted, I had to make my way to my tent
and my sleeping bag. I was so thankful for that ground crew.

I faded off to sleep with the sounds of laughter and Salish songs drifting across the camp.

Day two of the journey began early. We were up and at it by six o'clock. A cold fog had settled in overnight. I dressed in layers, knowing that I would warm up later. I could peel off the outer layers as the temperature climbed.

As I crawled out of the tent, my groggy brain protested. The voice in my head said, “Are you nuts? Go back to bed!” I tried to ignore it.

I dragged myself up into my waiting chair. My back and arm muscles were tight and sore. I slowly wheeled toward the campfire where the pullers were gathering.

The ground crew had cooked up eggs and bacon for us. They'd also put a cast-iron pot of coffee on the campfire. I needed something to kick-start the brain cells, so I got an empty
mug and moved closer to the fire. This would be my first taste of something my parents drank every morning.

A member of the ground crew poured some of the thick black liquid into my outstretched cup. Steam rose from the mug, so I gave it a few minutes to cool down. I grabbed a plate of the hot food and found a picnic table to roll myself to.

The food was great. The coffee, on the other hand, was the worst tasting thing I'd ever put in my mouth. Next to liver.

I must've made a terrible face as I swallowed the caffeinated drink, because Jessy laughed at me as he sat down beside me. He had a plate of food and a cup of coffee, too.

“You look like you just took a bite of liver,” he said.

“Is this the way coffee is supposed to taste?” I asked.

“No. You should've asked me about it first. I could've warned you.” He took a big swig of his coffee.

“How can you drink it?” I asked.

“There are a lot of things you'll eat and drink if you're cold and hungry enough,” he said. “You'll get used to it. It helps if you fill half the cup with that hazelnut-flavored cream over there.”

“Now you tell me,” I complained.

After breakfast, everyone in our camp gathered near the canoe to have a prayer for the day's journey.

“When you're out there on the water today, remember who you are,” Mr. Franks said. “If you don't know who you are, this is the time and place to figure that out.”

“How do we do that?” one of the young pullers asked.

“Pay attention to your surroundings. Listen to the birds and the splashing of the water. Smell the ocean and the forests nearby. Notice the warmth of the sun and the feel of the rain on your skin. Then close your eyes and go deep into your own mind to see what Spirit has waiting for you to discover.”

That was heavy. Everyone was quiet for a few moments.

“And have fun!” he said as he ended his little talk with a smile.

With that, we scattered to begin performing our assigned tasks. The pullers either climbed into the canoe or onto the support boat. The ground crew began breaking down the camp and packing it up. We would see them at the next stop, on the Tulalip Reservation farther up the coast.

And so the daily pattern repeated itself. After an overnight stay at Tulalip, we pushed on to the Swinomish Reservation, the Samish Reservation, and then to Lummi. We shared stories, songs, and accounts of our trip at each stop. So did other canoe families.

And the number of canoes and people grew with each stop as more and more groups caught up with the tribal canoes coming from the south.

Each night we'd take a look at the maps and charts the canoe family had prepared. On the map you could see that tribal canoes were coming from the far northern regions of western Canada. Others were
coming from farther south along the Washington State coast. Everyone's trip was timed so we'd all arrive on the same day on the shores of Cowichan Bay.

On the seventh morning of our journey I woke up on the Lummi Reservation. This tribal community was located on the northwest coast of Washington State. It was only about thirty miles from the Canadian border. But our final destination was located on Vancouver Island, a huge piece of land off the western coast of Canada.

So in order to get there, all the southern canoes had to cross the open waters of something called the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

“What's a strait?” I had asked Jessy before we left Seattle. I figured he'd know since he'd been on the last Tribal Journey.

“It's a narrow passage of water that connects two larger bodies of water,” he'd answered. “This strait connects the Pacific Ocean to the Salish Sea.”

“We have a sea named after us? That's cool!” I looked at the map Jessy had.

“What's a Juan de Fuca?” I followed up.

“That's a
who,
not a
what,”
he replied. “Juan de Fuca was some explorer who supposedly found this strait in the 1500s.”

“Was it lost?” I asked.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Jessy said. “No, he found it for the Spaniards when they were exploring over here. We knew where it was all along.”

“Oh.” I nodded.

“Do you have any more dumb questions?” Jessy asked.

“As a matter of fact I do. When and where do we cross the borderline that separates the U.S. from Canada?”

“The international border between the two countries runs down the middle of the strait.” He pointed to a small dotted line on the map.

“How do people know when they've crossed the border?” I asked. “Is there a line floating out in the water?”

“These
are
dumb questions,” Jessy said. “Of course there's no line floating in the water. When we arrive at our first stop on Vancouver Island, we all have to show our passports.”

“Now I get it. I was wondering when we'd need those.”

“The Sockeye skipper will have all our passports locked in his safe on the support boat. Any more dumb questions?”

I thought for a minute. “No, not now, but I'm sure I'll have more dumb questions later.”

So now we were pushing off the shores of the Lummi Nation, headed west. The morning was again cold and foggy.

I spent the morning shift on the Sockeye while other pullers had their turn on the Raven. I got to ride in the main cabin with the skipper, who was answering more of my dumb questions. How else is a fella going to learn anything?

The skipper had been watching the skies and listening to the weather reports for the area. He didn't like what he saw in either. The fog was not thinning out. The wind had
picked up. The ocean's surface was choppy. The pullers were not getting very far and were exhausted.

“These are dangerous waters,” the skipper said. “We're very close to the international shipping channel. That's where large freight carriers move shipping containers in and out of Vancouver. One of those monsters wouldn't see a little thirty-foot canoe in the fog.”

So the skipper made a decision for safety's sake. He radioed the skipper of the Raven. He told them they needed to come aboard the Sockeye for the remainder of the morning. He'd tow the canoe as we crossed the stormy strait.

None of the pullers really wanted to get out. But Tribal Journey rules allowed canoes to be towed for short distances during bad weather or dangerous water conditions. After everyone was on board the Sockeye, the Raven was tied on behind. The skipper set off across the strait.

Meanwhile, fresh from the water, the pullers warmed themselves with blankets,
coffee, and hot chocolate. I sat with them while they talked about how hard the going had been. As I listened, I noticed the fog getting even thicker. You could only see about thirty or forty feet in front of you.