Indigenous Heritage Stewardship and the Transformation of Archaeological Practice: Two Case Studies from the Mid-Fraser Region of British Columbia

Indigenous Heritage Stewardship and the Transformation of Archaeological Practice: Two Case Studies from the Mid-Fraser Region of British Columbia

Indigenous Heritage Stewardship and the

Transformation of Archaeological Practice:

Two Case Studies from the

Mid-Fraser Region of British Columbia

by

Michael A. Klassen

M.A. (Anthropology), Trent University, 1995

B.A. (Hons.), University of Alberta, 1987

Dissertation Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the

Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

in the

Department of Archaeology

Faculty of Environment

! Michael A. Klassen 2013

SIMON FRASER UNIVERSITY

Spring 2013

Approval

Name:

Degree:

Title of Thesis:

Examining Committee:

Michael A. Klassen

Doctor of Philosophy (Archaeology)

Indigenous Heritage Stewardship and the

Transformation of Archaeological Practice:

Two Case Studies from the

Mid-Fraser Region of British Columbia

Chair: Dr. David Burley

Professor

Dr. Eldon Yellowhorn

Senior Supervisor

Associate Professor

Dr. George P. Nicholas

Supervisor

Professor

Dr. John R. Welch

Supervisor

Associate Professor

Dr. Marianne Boelscher Ignace

Internal Examiner

Professor

Department of Sociology and

Anthropology, and First Nations Studies

Dr. Charles R. Menzies

External Examiner

Associate Professor

Department of Anthropology

University of British Columbia

Date Defended/Approved: April 16, 2013 ii

Partial Copyright Licence

iii

Ethics Statement

iv

Abstract

Over the past two decades, archaeology in British Columbia has been marked by two dramatic changes: the steep rise in forest industry-related “cultural resource management” (CRM) and the concomitant increase in First Nations engagement with archaeology and heritage stewardship.

These trends have led to conflict between indigenous perspectives and CRM practice, but have also led to alliances and collaborations with archaeologists and the implementation of applied archaeological approaches. This dissertation addresses the implications of indigenous heritage stewardship, from the viewpoints of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux nations, in the historical and contemporary context of CRM practice and applied archaeology in the mid-Fraser region of

British Columbia. To place their engagement in perspective, I consider recent theoretical debates in community-based and indigenous archaeologies, as well as the development of participatory action research in archaeology. I also review the involvement of First Nations throughout British

Columbia in CRM, stewardship, heritage legislation, and ethics.

The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux case studies presented in this dissertation relate their outlooks on archaeology and their specific efforts in heritage stewardship, based on literature reviews, interviews, and direct participation. The St’át’imc case study describes their traditional and contemporary views on archaeology and stewardship, relates their involvement in archaeology since the 1970s, and evaluates the process and outcomes of their recent direct involvement in the business of CRM. The Nlaka’pamux case study recounts their experiences with archaeology since the late nineteenth century, as well as their more recent confrontations with CRM practice, and examines their current efforts at defining Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship, particularly from the vantage of landscape. The different approaches taken by these two nations have their strengths and shortcomings, and both continue to aspire to greater participation and authority in archaeology and heritage stewardship. Most important, the standpoints and strategies of both nations provide insights into how applied archaeology practice can be transformed to better serve indigenous heritage stewardship, including in the realms of ethics, indigenous authority, intangible heritage, and cultural landscapes. I contend that archaeologists can best accommodate these perspectives through participatory action research and the concept of archaeological praxis.

Keywords:

Indigenous archaeology; heritage stewardship; cultural resource management, applied archaeology; cultural landscape; St’át’imc, Nlaka’pamux; mid-Fraser region, British Columbia v

Dedication

To Marion, for her unconditional love, unwavering support, and incredible patience

and to Lily and Grace,

who inspired me to be stronger and to do better

In Memory of

Alison Duncan

1975 – 2008

who represented the future of

Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship

vi

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to the Lillooet Tribal Council and Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council for welcoming me, opening their archives, and supporting my research. In particular, former Chief Perry Redan and Susan James of the Lillooet Tribal Council, and Chief Bob

Pasco and Debbie Abbott of the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council, deserve special recognition for making this dissertation possible from the very beginning.

My patient mentors, Marie Barney of T’it’q’et and John Haugen of Lytton First Nation, were indispensable guides, helping me navigate through the complex history, traditions, and relationships of their respective nations. Gilbert Solomon of Xeni Gwet’in first encouraged me to try and see the indigenous landscape.

I would also like to acknowledge all of my Northern St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux colleagues and collaborators for sharing their knowledge, skills, and memories:

From the St’át’imc Nation: Chief Art Adolph, Terry Adolph, Dean Billy, Larry Casper,

Sam Copeland, Chief Michelle Edwards, Andrea Fenton, Randy James, Darwyn John,

Chief Garry John, Albert Joseph, Ervin Joseph, Rodney Louie, Brenda McDonald,

Gerald Michel, Marilyn Napoleon, Cathy Narcisse, Ida Peter, Grand Chief Desmond

Peters Sr., John Terry, Chief Saul Terry, and Kenny Thomas.

From the Nlaka’pamux Nation: Romona Baxter, Harold Bobb, Mel Bobb, Christine

Brown, Jim Brown, Mike Campbell, Chief Phillip Campbell, Amy Charlie, Barry Charlie,

Jeanie Charlie, Marion Dixon, Alison Duncan, Karen Dunstan, Ruby Dunstan, Alfred

Higginbottom, Alexander Hobart, Chief James Hobart, Serena Hunsbedt, Deb McIntyre,

Bernie Paul, Beverly Phillips, Raymond Phillips, Teresa Raphael, Byron Spinks, and

Chief Janet Webster.

Special thanks to family, friends and colleagues that assisted and encouraged me throughout this long process, and to those that shared information and provided comments: Dr. Ursula Arndt, Chris Arnett, Dr. Jack Brink, Rick Budhwa, Tawnya Collins,

Dr. Sean Connaughton, Pauline Douglas, Dr. Howie Harshaw, Alan Klassen, Jessie

Kleeberger, Dr. Andrea Laforet, Dr. Marty Magne, Dr. Nancy Mahony, Kelly Pearce,

Bruce Petch, Dr. Rudy Reimer, Cam Robertson, Jim Spafford, Susan Tanco, Dr. Wendy

Wickwire, my brothers, and especially my mother, Mary Klassen. vii

I would like to thank the staff, faculty, and graduate students at the SFU Department of

Archaeology. In particular, I would like to acknowledge the help, advice, and encouragement of Robyn Bannerjee, Dr. Dave Burley, Merrill Farmer, Dr. Ross

Jamieson, Dr. Dana Lepofsky, Peter Locher, Laura Nielsen, Shannon Wood, and the

SFU grad cohorts of 2004 and 2005.

I am enormously grateful to my “dream team”–my supervisor Dr. Eldon Yellowhorn, and my committee members Dr. George Nicholas and Dr. John Welch–for their wisdom, patience, and careful attention to detail. I would also like to thank my external examiners,

Dr. Charles Menzies and Dr. Marianne Ignace, for their thoughtful comments.

SSHRC, SFU Grad Studies, SFU Department of Archaeology, NNTC, Lytton FN, and

Parks Canada provided financial support.

This dissertation would not have been possible if not for Parminder Parhar and the staff of Renaissance Coffee, the BBC, HBO, and the creators of Lost. viii

Table of Contents

Approval...........................................................................................................................ii

Partial Copyright Licence ................................................................................................iii

Ethics Statement.............................................................................................................iv

Abstract........................................................................................................................... v

Dedication.......................................................................................................................vi

Acknowledgements ........................................................................................................vii

Table of Contents............................................................................................................ix

List of Tables ................................................................................................................ xiii

List of Figures ...............................................................................................................xiv

List of Acronyms ...........................................................................................................xvi

A Note on Terms .......................................................................................................... xvii

Chapter 1.

From Open Conflict to Wary Alliance ...................................................... 1

The Problem ................................................................................................................... 2

The Case Studies ........................................................................................................... 5

The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux ....................................................................................... 8

The Mid-Fraser Region ................................................................................................. 11

Situating My Position..................................................................................................... 13

Organization ................................................................................................................. 17

Chapter 2.

Community Participation and Indigenous Sovereignty in

Archaeological Practice ......................................................................... 19

Community-based Archaeologies.................................................................................. 20

The Parameters of Community Archaeology ........................................................ 22

Implications for Practice ....................................................................................... 25

Problematizing “Community” ................................................................................ 26

Collaborative Practice .......................................................................................... 29

From Participation to Control................................................................................ 30

Indigenous Archaeologies ............................................................................................. 32

Problematizing “Indigeneity” ................................................................................. 34

Archaeology of Opposition ................................................................................... 36

From Theory to Action.......................................................................................... 39

Participatory Action Archaeologies................................................................................ 40

Action Archaeologies............................................................................................ 41

Participatory Action Research .............................................................................. 42

Collaborative Inquiry............................................................................................. 45

Chapter Summary: Models of Community Engagement ................................................ 48

Chapter 3.

First Nations and Archaeological Practice in British Columbia ......... 51

Transformation in Context ............................................................................................. 52

First Nations and Heritage Legislation in British Columbia ............................................ 55

The Archaeological and Historical Sites Protection Act ........................................ 56

The Heritage Conservation Act of 1977................................................................ 57

“Project Pride” and the Amended HCA ................................................................. 59

The First Nation Critique ...................................................................................... 61 ix

First Nation Responses to Legislation and CRM ........................................................... 63

The Delgamuukw Case ........................................................................................ 64

Challenging Heritage Legislation .......................................................................... 65

First Nations and Forestry .................................................................................... 70

Transforming Practice in British Columbia............................................................ 74

From Adversaries to Advocates............................................................................ 80

Ethics and Heritage Stewardship .................................................................................. 81

Conservation Archaeology and Legislation........................................................... 82

Accountability and Responsibility to Communities ................................................ 84

Chapter Summary: Prospects for a Sea Change........................................................... 87

Chapter 4.

The St’át’imc Nation and Archaeology.................................................. 89

Research Methods ........................................................................................................ 90

Traditional Perspectives ................................................................................................ 93

Contemporary Perspectives .......................................................................................... 96

St’át’imc Perceptions of Archaeology ................................................................... 96

Archaeology and Heritage .................................................................................... 98

Heritage Places and the Land ............................................................................ 100

Perceived Benefits and Drawbacks of Archaeology............................................ 103

Heritage, the Law, and St’át’imc Sovereignty ..................................................... 107

Archaeology and Landscape .............................................................................. 110

The Rise of St’át’imc Nation Archaeology ................................................................... 111

Personal Encounters with Archaeology .............................................................. 111

The Stl’atl’imx Heritage and Resource Inventory Project .................................... 121

“Delgamuukw Inn”: The CP 146 Blockade.......................................................... 128

Showdown at Junction Creek ............................................................................. 136

Chapter Summary: Outcomes and Aspirations............................................................ 138

Chapter 5.

St’át’imc Case Study: Heritage Stewardship and the Forest

Industry ................................................................................................. 140

The LTC Cultural Heritage Team ................................................................................ 141

LTC Heritage Assessment Process .................................................................... 142

Strengths and Challenges .................................................................................. 144

From Nation to Community................................................................................. 151

Evaluation of the 2000-2003 LTC Process ......................................................... 154

St’át’imc Archaeology and National Unity.................................................................... 161

St’át’imc Heritage Initiatives ............................................................................... 162

A Strategy for St’át’imc Heritage Stewardship .................................................... 167

Reconciling Archaeology and Indigenous Authority..................................................... 172

The Place of Archaeologists............................................................................... 172

Implications for Archaeological Practice ............................................................. 174

Chapter Summary: From Practice to Power ................................................................ 176

Chapter 6.

The Nlaka’pamux Nation and Archaeology......................................... 178

Looting and Collecting (1877–1927)............................................................................ 181

Culture History and Resource Management (1961–1980)........................................... 190

Nlaka’pamux Activism and Archaeology...................................................................... 195 x

CN Rail Twin-Tracking (1983–1988) .................................................................. 197

The Stein Valley (1984–1988) ............................................................................ 201

NNTC Heritage Research (1987–1994).............................................................. 218

The Nlaka’pamux and Forestry Archaeology (1994–2004) ................................. 222

Chapter Summary: Renewal and Transformation........................................................ 226

Chapter 7.

Nlaka’pamux Case Study: Tradition and Landscape in Heritage

Stewardship .......................................................................................... 229

Nlaka’pamux Perspectives on Archaeology and Heritage ........................................... 232

Research Methods ............................................................................................. 232

Nlaka’pamux Heritage ........................................................................................ 235

Protecting Heritage............................................................................................. 238

Traditional Teachings ......................................................................................... 239

Threats and Challenges ..................................................................................... 241

Priorities for Preserving Heritage........................................................................ 243

The Role of Communities and the Nation ........................................................... 245

Decision-making and Implementation................................................................. 246

Collecting Intellectual and Cultural Property ....................................................... 246

Consequences ................................................................................................... 247

Knowledge and Traditions, Places and Landscape ............................................ 248

The Stein-Botanie National Historic Site Project.......................................................... 250

National Historic Site Designation and the Stein-Botanie ................................... 254

Co-management and Multiple-use...................................................................... 256

The Nlaka’pamux Landscape ............................................................................. 261

Heritage, Landscape, and Archaeology.............................................................. 265

Chapter Summary: Landscape and Practice ............................................................... 270

Chapter 8.

Discussion: Indigenous Aspirations, Better Practices ...................... 271

Measuring Indigenous Engagement............................................................................ 271

Participation and Authority.................................................................................. 275

Situating St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux Practice..................................................... 276

The Evolution of Practice ............................................................................................ 281

Ethics and Stewardship...................................................................................... 282

Authority and Ownership .................................................................................... 286

Intangible Heritage ............................................................................................. 291

The Indigenous Landscape ................................................................................ 295

Chapter Summary: ...................................................................................................... 299

Chapter 9.

Conclusion: From Practice to Praxis.................................................. 301

Practice: The Aspirations of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux ........................................ 302

Praxis: The Responsibilities of Archaeologists ............................................................ 305 xi

References Cited....................................................................................................... 308

!

Appendices ............................................................................................................ 351

Appendix A.

St’át’imc Consultants, Topics, and Research Agreement ................................... 352

St’át’imc Consultants.......................................................................................... 352

Generalized St’át’imc Conversation Topics ........................................................ 353

LTC Research and Information-Sharing Agreement ........................................... 354

LTC Letter of Approval ....................................................................................... 356

Appendix B.

Nlaka’pamux Participants and Research Agreement.......................................... 357

Participants in Nlaka’pamux Heritage Meetings and Community Workshops ..... 357

NNTC Research and Information-Sharing Agreement........................................ 359

NNTC Letter of Approval .................................................................................... 361 xii

List of Tables

Table 1.

Historical Development of Heritage Legislation in British Columbia .............. 56

Table 2.

First Nation Legal Challenges to Provisions and Application of the

HCA............................................................................................................. 66

Table 3.

St’át’imc Definitions of Archaeology.............................................................. 97

Table 4.

St’át’imc Conceptions of Heritage................................................................. 98

Table 5.

St’át’imc Heritage Places on the Land. ....................................................... 102

Table 6.

St’át’imc Perspectives on the Benefits of Archaeology. .............................. 104

Table 7.

St’át’imc Perspectives on Potential Drawbacks of Archaeology. ................. 106

Table 8.

St’át’imc Comments on the Heritage Conservation Act and

Regulations. .............................................................................................. 108

Table 9.

Definition of Cultural Heritage in Draft St’át’imc Land and Resource

Code ......................................................................................................... 111

Table 10.

Strengths and Challenges in the LTC Heritage Assessment Process. ....... 147

Table 11.

Forestry Assessment Results in Northern St’át’imc Territory, 1994-

2003. ......................................................................................................... 156

Table 12.

Comparison of Industry/MoF and LTC Assessment Results. ..................... 158

Table 13.

Questions used in the Nlaka’pamux Community Heritage Workshops. ...... 234

Table 14.

NNTC Workshop Participants. ................................................................... 235

Table 15.

NNTC Community Participation. ................................................................ 235

Table 16.

Categories and Components of Nlaka’pamux Heritage.............................. 236

Table 17.

Indigenous Participation in Heritage Stewardship. ..................................... 278

Table 18.

Indigenous Authority over Heritage Stewardship........................................ 279 xiii

List of Figures

Figure 1.

Generalized location of St'åt'imc and Nlaka'pamux territories. ....................... 9

Figure 2.

Fraser Canyon near Lytton, looking north from the Stein River. ................... 12

Figure 3.

Fountain Valley near Lillooet, looking west towards the Fraser River........... 13

Figure 4.

Collaboration as a continuum of practices, adapted from Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson (2008b:11). ................................................... 30

Figure 5.

Northern St'át'imc communities in relation to Nzwat/Msut (CP 146),

Junction Creek, Pavilion Creek, and Slok/McKay Creeks. ........................... 91

Figure 6.

Albert Joseph in the field, 1999.................................................................. 122

Figure 7. Marie Barney of the SHRI team testing a housepit, Leon’s Creek,

1995. ......................................................................................................... 125

Figure 8.

The LTC heritage team in the field, 2001 (left to right, John Terry,

Ervin Joseph, Terry Adolph). ..................................................................... 142

Figure 9.

Terry Adolph and an “unregulated” cedar CMT, 2001. ............................... 145

Figure 10.

Forestry Assessment Results: 1994-1998 vs. 1999-2003. ......................... 160

Figure 11.

Nlaka'pamux communities (red dots) on the Fraser River affiliated with the Nlaka'pamux Nation Tribal Council (map base courtesy Hope

Mountain Centre for Outdoor Learning). .................................................... 180

Figure 12.

Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Park and associated Lytton First

Nation reserves (map courtesy of Lytton FN)............................................. 202

Figure 13.

The lower Stein River valley. ..................................................................... 203

Figure 14.

Number of archaeology permits issued by decade in Nlaka'pamux territory, mid-Fraser region. ....................................................................... 223

Figure 15.

Alison Duncan and John Haugen of the NNTC ground-truthing place names on Stryen IR 9, 2006. ..................................................................... 230

Figure 16.

A “word cloud” representing the relative frequency of terms used in the workshops. .......................................................................................... 237

Figure 17.

Botanie Valley (dashed line), Skwaha Ecological Reserve, and associated Lytton First Nation reserves (map courtesy of Lytton FN). ....... 252

Figure 18.

The upper Botanie Valley, on Bootahnie IR 15. ......................................... 253

Figure 19.

A generalized view of cultural landscape attributes: place names, archaeological sites (red triangles), and resource areas (yellow polygons)................................................................................................... 267

Figure 20.

Cultural landscape attributes may be discernible within one or more

“layers” of time, but all are perceptible, and meaningful, in the present...... 268

Figure 21.

The striped rock face known as shqueekooTLquaTLt shwuhA-yem

(Entrails Thrown), in the lower Botanie Valley............................................ 269

Figure 22.

De Paoli’s Framework for Indigenous Participation (adapted from De

Paoli 1999). ............................................................................................... 274 xiv

Figure 23.

Forms of practice plotted on axes of participation and authority................. 276

Figure 24.

St’át’imc participation and authority in archaeological practice................... 280

Figure 25.

Nlaka’pamux participation and authority in archaeological practice............ 281

All photographs by the author.

xv

List of Acronyms

Term

AIA

AOA

CHO

CMT

CN

CP

Definition

Archaeological impact assessment

Archaeological overview assessment

Cultural heritage overview

Culturally modified tree

Canadian National [Railway]

Cutting permit

CRM

FLA

FNLC

HCA

HFR

LRMP

LTC

MoF

Cultural resource management

Forest licence area

First Nations Leadership Council

Heritage Conservation Act

Heritage field reconnaissance

Land and Resource Management Plan

Lillooet Tribal Council

Ministry of Forests

MOU Memorandum of Understanding

NAGPRA Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act

NPS

NNTC

National Park Services [U.S.]

Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council

RIC

RISC

SAA

SCC

Resource Inventory Committee

Resources Information Standards Committee

Society for American Archaeology

St’át’imc Chiefs Council

SGS

SHRI

SLRA

SNH

St’át’imc Government Services

St’atl’imx Heritage and Resource Inventory

St’át’imc Land and Resource Authority

St’át’imc Nation Hydro

TSA

TUS

Timber Supply Area

Traditional use study

UN United Nations

UNESCO United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization

WL Woodlot xvi

A Note on Terms

Throughout this dissertation I have attempted to be consistent in my use of terms. I have chosen to use the term “Indigenous peoples” in place of alternate terms such as “Native people” and “Aboriginal people.” I have also adopted the growing international convention of using this term in the plural, and capitalizing indigenous when it is used as a proper noun. However, I do not capitalize it when it is used as an adjective, such as in

"indigenous perspectives." I only use the term “Aboriginal” in the specific context of

Canadian legal and constitutional usage. I use “Nation” when referring to specific traditional indigenous political entities, as generally defined by a common language, and

I use “First Nations” to refer in the collective to nations and bands (as defined under the federal Indian Act). For example, the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux are Nations, whereas

Tsal'alh and Spuzzum are bands within these Nations, but in the collective they are First

Nations. However, I only use First Nation in the context of a specific band when it is part of a formal or official name, such as Lytton First Nation. Last, I use the term “community” to refer to a self-identified group that may or may not correspond to a single band; a single band may be comprised of multiple communities. xvii

Chapter 1.

From Open Conflict to Wary Alliance

Over the past two decades the practice of consulting archaeology in British Columbia has been transformed by two significant developments. One is the surge in the number of forestry-related archaeological assessments beginning in the mid-1990s, with the consequence that this form of cultural resource management (CRM) soon exceeded all other types of archaeology in the province. The second is the concurrent expansion of indigenous engagement in archaeological management and heritage stewardship, resulting in the emergence of various nascent community-based archaeologies.

Together, these related developments led to substantially greater contact, interaction, and tension between First Nations, CRM archaeologists, and the government agencies implementing heritage legislation (see Budhwa 2005; De Paoli 1999; Gould 2005;

Klassen et al. 2009; Klimko et al. 1998; Klimko and Wright 2000; La Salle 2010; Nicholas

2006; Perreault 2002; Schaepe 2007; Welch et al. 2011a). This has thrust Indigenous peoples and consulting archaeologists in British Columbia into the centre of debates involving or contributing to many of the major theoretical and ethical issues facing archaeology today, and in turn has significantly influenced the practice of archaeology in the province.

In this dissertation, I provide theoretical and historical context for these transformative issues. I discuss alternative archaeologies that have the potential for accommodating indigenous perspectives and better serving their interests, including community-based, indigenous, and participatory action approaches. I also review the efforts of First Nations in British Columbia during the past four decades to increase their role in heritage stewardship and their authority over archaeological practice, from the perspective of heritage legislation, court decisions, regulatory change, and transforming ethics. The core of this dissertation, however, is devoted to a pair of case studies that illustrates how this struggle for indigenous participation and control has played out in the

1

political and social spheres, and demonstrates how alternative indigenous perspectives have been applied, both in a CRM context and in landscape stewardship.

In these case studies, I examine the heritage stewardship experiences of two neighbouring nations in the Fraser River canyon–the Nlaka’pamux and the Northern

St’át’imc. Both have been affected by the recent political, ethical, and practical conflicts that have shaped the current practice of archaeology and CRM in British Columbia.

Their engagement with archaeology, primarily in the context of the forest industry, has exposed fundamental differences between indigenous and disciplinary perspectives on heritage stewardship, resource management, and regulatory policy. More important, the struggle of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux in their efforts at increasing their participation and authority in British Columbia archaeology offers lessons for First Nations, archaeologists, and the government as the heritage process evolves and develops in the province. Ultimately, their experiences reveal potential avenues for the resolution of heritage stewardship conflicts from the perspective of ethics and collaboration, authority and control, intangible heritage, and landscape.

The Problem

In British Columbia, CRM and heritage stewardship have become a politically charged components of the greater indigenous struggle over title and rights, with implications for cultural revitalization and political sovereignty. After the forest industry was forced to incorporate archaeological resource management in their practices in the mid-1990s, indigenous concerns with heritage legislation and conflicts with (and within)

CRM increased substantially. When forestry archaeology subsequently mushroomed,

CRM archaeologists were often the first or only resource professionals in contact with

First Nations, who initially reacted to them with suspicion and mistrust (Klassen et al.

2009). They saw them as agents of industry and facilitators of development, and their concern was only heightened as they became aware of the restricted scope of heritage legislation and the limited consequences of impact assessments. In subsequent years, similar issues spilled over into other resource sectors such as mining and hydroelectricity, as well as urban contexts. Through this interaction, First Nations quickly recognized that CRM could work for their interests, as much as against them.

2

In recent years, First Nations in British Columbia and elsewhere have demonstrated that they are strongly interested in archaeology, both as a political and economic tool and as an agent for cultural revitalization and identity. Their initial antagonism and pushback was soon followed by determined efforts for increasing their involvement. They have forged alliances and collaborative relationships with archaeologists, and in many cases they have adapted CRM processes to suit their own needs, remaking it to be more like the idea of applied archaeology–“the application of archaeological research and its results to address contemporary human problems”

(Neusius 2009:19). Certainly, antagonism still exists, but where it does it is not necessarily an issue with the discipline of archaeology itself, but rather with how it is conducted and how it is used. The current legislative regime, and the theory and practice of CRM and applied archaeology, is of significant concern to First Nations in the province. As such, they have increasingly asserted political influence over the archaeological assessment process and demanded a greater role in heritage stewardship.

For Indigenous peoples in British Columbia, control over the process and products of heritage stewardship is important because these are used by the provincial and federal governments to validate or refute assertions of title and rights, which in turn affects First Nation access to land and resources. Thus, claims over heritage clearly have political motivations and practical implications for First Nations. Yet, their concerns with the present state of archaeological practice go much deeper, motivated by strongly held cultural beliefs and values and informed by epistemological and ontological perspectives that often vary from the “authorized heritage discourse” (Smith 2006:4). As a consequence, they reject the CRM model of archaeological resource management, with its connotations of exploitation, consumption, and government ownership, and instead implicitly embrace a model of heritage stewardship, where heritage encompasses a much broader range of cultural and historical attributes than just archaeological evidence, and stewardship implies the safeguarding of a legacy or heirloom on behalf of a descendant community (see Atalay 2006b:299; De Paoli

1999:25; Groarke and Warrick 2006:176; Nicholas 2006:363; Welch 2009:149;

Yellowhorn 1999b:2-3, 2002:66, 73).

The conflicts and concerns arising from the practice of archaeology and CRM in

British Columbia have exposed a number of fundamental differences between

3

indigenous heritage stewardship and disciplinary and regulatory perspectives on archaeological and CRM practice. Many of the issues that have emerged in the province from the historical and contemporary intersection of indigenous activism with archaeological practice, and associated conflicts with regulatory regimes and disciplinary perspectives, touch on key ethical and political issues that currently burden the discipline as a whole. Among these are:

• Indigenous ownership over heritage and knowledge.

• Indigenous authority over the stewardship process.

• Privileging scientific evidence over traditional knowledge.

• The relationship of tangible and intangible heritage values.

• Heritage stewardship in a landscape context.

• Intellectual and cultural property issues, and the ethics of repatriation.

• Legal distinctions in the management of tangible and intangible heritage.

• Management of a “resource” versus stewardship of an inheritance.

Although many consulting archaeologists have adapted to First Nation protocols and perspectives, legislation, operational guidelines, and government policies have not yet reflected this shift in power and orientation. In many cases, private industrial interests have moved more quickly to accommodate indigenous interests in heritage stewardship.

As such, heritage stewardship and decision-making in the realm of resource development, land use planning, and agreements with First Nations have the potential of relegating archaeologists and archaeological bureaucrats to the sidelines of heritage stewardship. If archaeology as an applied discipline is to be relevant to First Nations, indigenous perspectives and aspirations need to be understood, and alternative approaches for bridging the gap between practitioners and communities must be considered.

Although this dissertation focuses specifically on the indigenous experience with archaeology in British Columbia, the situation in this province corresponds to similar issues and trends elsewhere in Canada. It also reflects developments in other settler societies, such as Australia and the United States, where archaeologists and Indigenous peoples have come into conflict (Smith 2004:83). Collaborative archaeological practice with Indigenous and other descendant communities, intellectual and cultural property issues, reconciling archaeological practice with indigenous conceptions of heritage

4

stewardship, and bridging indigenous and scientific epistemologies are all major topics of current discussion within the discipline (see Atalay 2012; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson 2010; Colwell-Chanthaphonh et al. 2010; Hammond 2009; La Salle 2010;

Murray 2011; Nicholas 2010; Nicholas et al. 2011; Welch et al. 2011b; Wylie 2009).

Indeed, Alison Wylie suggests that “ putting archaeological tools of inquiry and insights to work in the context of collaborative ventures with extra-archaeological communities,” and the ethical obligations that go along with these goals, may represent the next major

“programmatic debate” shaping the discipline (Wylie 2009:2). Likewise, Sonja Atalay contends that the participation of descendant communities, and in particular Indigenous peoples, in collaborative archaeological practice represents a “paradigm shift” within the field (Atalay 2012:3). While global developments provide theoretical context to local circumstances, this study highlights practical and theoretical positions that may in turn contribute to the ongoing worldwide evolution of collaborative practice and indigenous approaches to heritage stewardship.

In this dissertation, I consider why and how heritage stewardship is important to

First Nations in British Columbia, and whether the historical engagement of indigenous communities with the discipline has informed their contemporary attitudes to archaeology and archaeologists. Moreover, I examine how their perspectives and specific efforts differ from conventional practice, and what lessons their approaches have for the discipline specifically and heritage stewardship in general. For archaeologists, this leads to questions about why it is important for archaeologists to work with indigenous communities (or, more broadly, with descendant communities), how to make archaeology more relevant to them, and what changes in practice can better serve their needs.

The Case Studies

Two case studies involving the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux nations form the core of this dissertation. These nations were identified for these studies primarily on the basis of my long-term relationship with the communities, and my familiarity with many of the individuals directly involved in heritage stewardship. My participation in many of their heritage stewardship efforts has provided me with privileged insight into community issues and challenges. More importantly, both nations welcomed and supported this research.

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The research approach employed in the case studies borrows from ethnographic methods in order to directly communicate Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc perspectives on archaeology and heritage stewardship, a practice that is becoming more common in the discipline of archaeology (Hollowell and Nicholas 2009). The intent is to give a relatively unmediated emic or internal accounting of their conceptions, and in this regard the case studies loosely conform to the growing application of what has become known as

“ethnographic archaeology” or “archaeological ethnography” (Castañeda and Matthews

2008:3; Edgeworth 2006:12-14; Hollowell and Nicholas 2008:82-83), or perhaps more aptly the “ethnography of archaeologies” (Hollowell and Mortensen 2009:8). This has been described as “the merging of ethnographic and archaeological practices in order to explore the contemporary relevance and meaning of the material past for diverse publics, the politics of archaeological practice, and the claims and contestations involving past material traces and landscapes” (Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos

2009:66). The origin of this practice stems from “challenges to the authority of archaeology by indigenous peoples and other disenfranchised groups, … the emergence of reflexivity as a key epistemological feature of archaeology, [and] the growing realization that archaeology is a social practice in the present” (Hamilakis and

Anagnostopoulos 2009:66); all of these factors are certainly at play in the contemporary engagement of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux with archaeology in the mid-Fraser region of British Columbia.

Although both case studies are broadly similar in structure and content, the specific research methods and topics differ somewhat in each instance. The case study chapters provide specific details on research design and methods, but these are briefly outlined below.

Prior to commencing the St’át’imc case study, a research protocol and information-sharing agreement with the Lillooet Tribal Council was developed and signed, and a list of participants and research topics was reviewed and vetted by the tribal council (Appendix A). The St’át’imc research involved semi-structured one-on-one conversations with twenty-one individuals targeted for their specific experience and knowledge. This approach allowed for a reflexive dialogue between each of the participants and myself that would have been more difficult to achieve with formalized interviews, while at the same time permitting an assessment of the coherence and consistency among the perspectives and impressions of the individual participants. The conversations focussed on personal experiences with archaeology and St’át’imc

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heritage stewardship efforts, and also concentrated on specific events, issues, and outcomes. Each participant had an opportunity to review the conversation notes and the case study chapters, provide corrections and additional information, and meet with me to review the relevant chapters prior to completion of the dissertation.

For the Nlaka’pamux case study, a research protocol and information-sharing agreement with the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (NNTC) was also developed and signed (Appendix B). However, the tribal council requested that my research not involve conversations with individual participants. Instead, I was invited to participate in a nationled initiative to develop an approach to Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship. This process involved a series of group meetings and community workshops led by a facilitator, where almost 60 different participants engaged in discussions of a pre-determined set of broadly defined topics that allowed an open-ended exchange. This approach created a reflexive dialogue between participants and resulted in a general sense of consensus within each group, which better reflected traditional approaches to issue resolution. At the same time, the coherence and consistency of the perspectives between each of the groups could be assessed. The Nlaka’pamux case study also involved my participation in a cultural landscape heritage initiative, whereby I assisted community members with the acquisition and compilation of Nlaka’pamux knowledge and an inventory of significant places. Although establishing a review process for all of the individual participants in the Nlaka’pamux group meetings and community workshops was not possible, most had an opportunity to meet with me during several presentations while specific individuals reviewed the case study chapters before completion of the dissertation. These latter individuals were identified with the assistance of the NNTC.

The overall objective of the two case studies is to provide examples of local indigenous responses to heritage stewardship issues, in the context of global developments in theory and practice. The Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc perspectives and actions described in the case studies are born of specific local contingencies and do not necessarily always correspond to the experiences and aspirations of Indigenous peoples elsewhere in the world. Nonetheless, they serve as a useful source of comparison and counterpoint to the evolving global relationship of Indigenous peoples to archaeology and heritage stewardship. Most important, the research approach taken in the case studies has provided members of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux nations with the

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opportunity to recount their history of engagement with archaeology and heritage stewardship, and tell their side of the story, largely in their own voices.

The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux

The Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc bands in this study are situated in an area known as the Fraser Canyon or mid-Fraser region (Figure 1). Seven Nlaka’pamux bands (as recognized by the federal government) are situated on the Fraser River from Spuzzum to Lytton, with three more on the Thompson River from Lytton to Ashcroft. Another five are located in the Nicola valley near Merritt. Each band is comprised of one or more communities organized on the basis of residency and ancestry. Six bands along the

Fraser River affiliated with the NNTC participated in this dissertation research to varying degrees: Boothroyd, Boston Bar, Kanaka Bar, Lytton, Skuppah, and Spuzzum.

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Two bands affiliated with the NNTC located on the Thompson River and–Ashcroft and

Oregon Jack Creek–had only limited participation in this study. The combined registered population of the eight NNTC bands is 3,348, with 1,420 people living “on-reserve.”

The St’át’imc Nation is comprised of two divisions. The “Upper” or Northern

St’át’imc are located in the vicinity of Lillooet and Seton Lake east of the Coast Ranges, while the “Lower” or Southern St’át’imc are located in the vicinity of the Lillooet River and

Anderson Lake on the leeward side of the Coast Ranges (Figure 1). Participants from the six Northern St’át’imc bands participated in this study: Sekw'el'was (Cayoose Creek),

T'it'q'et (Lillooet), Ts'kw'aylaxw (Pavilion), Tsal'alh (Seton Lake), Xaxli'p (Fountain), and

Xwisten (Bridge River). These bands are all affiliated with the Lillooet Tribal Council

(LTC), as well as the St’át’imc Chiefs Council.

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Like the Nlaka’pamux, each band is comprised of one or more communities. The combined registered population of LTC communities is 3,329, with 1,511 of these people living on-reserve.

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A seventh Nlaka’pamux community on the Fraser River (Siska) is affiliated with the Nicola

Tribal Association (NTA). Other Nlaka’pamux communities affiliated with the NTA are:

Coldwater, Cook’s Ferry, Nicomen, Nooaitch, and Shacken. The Lower Nicola community is not affiliated with either tribal council. None of these communities participated in this study.

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The St’át’imc Chiefs Council represents all eleven Northern and Southern St’át’imc communities. The Southern St'át'imc communities are: Lil'wat (Mt. Currie), N'Quatqua

(Anderson Lake), Samahquam, Skatin, and Xa'xtsa (Douglas). The latter four bands are affiliated with the Lower St’atl’imx Tribal Council, while latter three bands also refer to themselves as the In-SHUCK-sh Nation. The Southern and Northern St'át'imc speak distinct dialects of St’át’imcets. None of the Southern St'át'imc communities participated in this study.

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Figure 1. Generalized location of St'åt'imc and Nlaka'pamux territories.

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The Northern St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux speak related Interior Salish languages, and despite their distinct identities these nations exhibit a number of cultural and historical similarities (see Kennedy and Bouchard 1998; Wyatt 1998). Their identity is strongly defined by their relationship to salmon, and numerous salmon fishing locations line the Fraser River from Spuzzum to Lillooet. Salmon fishing remains a key social and economic activity. Deer hunting, plant and medicine gathering, and root processing in upland areas are also important traditional subsistence activities still practiced by some community members. In the past, the Fraser River Nlaka’pamux and Northern St’át’imc occupied winter villages located primarily alongside the Fraser River, although some villages were found on tributaries and nearby lakes. From spring through fall, the people travelled between the uplands and the fishing stations, according to the seasonal abundance of resources. Today, most Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc live in communities established on the reserves created in the late 1860s, and most participate in the regional economy largely based on forestry, mining, transportation, agriculture, and services. Nonetheless, traditions such as the first salmon, first deer, and naming ceremonies remain important parts of their identity. Despite a long history of contact and post-colonial conflict, their identities remain strong.

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc communities in the mid-Fraser region have had a long, and at times antagonistic, relationship with archaeologists (Carlson 2005). Only in the late twentieth century did they begin to exert greater control and influence over the practice of archaeology. Since the 1980s, these nations have taken distinct approaches to heritage stewardship. The St’át’imc responded to ongoing impacts to their heritage by directly confronting industry, and forcing an alternative, parallel heritage stewardship process engaging community members in the field. Subsequently, they have worked collaboratively with archaeologists to establish an independent presence in cultural resource management. Initially this approach was largely reactive in nature and primarily dealt with potential development impacts on a referral-by-referral basis, and was established before a comprehensive heritage policy was in place. Since 2003 they have been moving towards a broader landscape stewardship approach guided by a draft landuse plan and a draft “tribal code,” which are intended to provide a greater degree of control over the direction of development and the protection of heritage. In 2011, the

St’át’imc successfully negotiated a settlement with BC Hydro and Power Authority, which included a substantial heritage component.

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The Nlaka’pamux, on the other hand, generally reacted to threats and encroaching development in the 1980s and 1990s by blocking specific projects via legal injunctions or political actions, and by focussing on a landscape approach to protect key areas of their territory. Although archaeologists worked with the Nlaka’pamux throughout this time, their primary role was to counter the assessments produced by archaeologists hired by industry, or to provide evidence for ongoing legal actions and specific claims.

Currently the Nlaka’pamux are formally developing an internal, community-based heritage stewardship process that will address development on a project-by-project basis. As such, St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship approaches are converging on a similar outcome, but from two distinct starting points. Both approaches have their strengths and limitations, and both have led to successes and setbacks. The heritage stewardship experiences of these two nations form the basis of the case studies presented in this dissertation, and provide compelling narratives about the indigenous transformation of archaeological practice in British Columbia.

The Mid-Fraser Region

The geographical extent covered in this dissertation roughly corresponds to what is conventionally known in British Columbia archaeology as the mid-Fraser archaeological region of the Interior Plateau (see Fladmark 1997). This area extends along the Fraser River from just north of Yale in the south to approximately Big Bar in the north, incorporating all those watersheds draining into the Fraser River with the exception of the Thompson River above Spences Bridge. This region also extends westward from Lillooet to include the Bridge River, Seton River and upper Lillooet River watersheds.

The mid-Fraser region is rugged and mountainous, transitional in topography, climate, and vegetation between the Coast Ranges to the west and the Interior Plateau to the east (Demarchi 2011). It was heavily glaciated, with many glacial landforms still evident, while most valley bottoms contain more recent floodplain deposits. The Fraser

River deeply dissects the uplands, forming a narrow canyon-like valley lined with high fluvial terraces (Figure 2). Tributaries of the Fraser are generally found in deep, narrow valleys, while many cirques containing small glaciers and snowfields occur at upper elevations. For most of the year, the region lies in the rainshadow of the Coast Ranges, and the climate is strongly influenced by interior weather systems (Demarchi 2011). It

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contains some of the warmest and driest areas of the province, as eastward-flowing air loses most of its moisture on the west facing slopes of the Coast Ranges.

Hot air from the south invades the region in the summer months, while cold Arctic air flows from the north in the winter and early spring. From Lytton northward, sagebrush-steppe and ponderosa pine forests dominate the Fraser valley and lower reaches of tributary valleys, while Douglas-fir, Lodgepole pine, and Englemann spruce forests occur on the upper slopes and higher valleys (Figure 3). South and west of Lytton, moist forests with

Douglas-fir, Western hemlock, and Western redcedar dominate valley bottoms, while drier forests occupy mid to upper slopes. Rolling alpine meadows and dry alpine tundra occur on the highest summits.

Figure 2. Fraser Canyon near Lytton, looking north from the Stein River.

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Figure 3. Fountain Valley near Lillooet, looking west towards the Fraser River.

Situating My Position

In the context of working with Indigenous communities, “archaeologists are not disinterested parties but rather are interested stakeholders” (Daehnke 2007:104; Joyce

2002). Certainly, I am not a disinterested observer when it comes to evaluating the efforts of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux nations to take greater control over archaeological practice and their heritage. In the interests of full disclosure, I provide here some details about my professional and personal relationship with the communities that are the subject of the case studies in this dissertation.

From 1995 until 2005, I frequently worked with the Lillooet Tribal Council (LTC) and other Northern St’át’imc agencies and communities on projects intended to further the heritage stewardship agenda of the Northern St’át’imc. Initially, I participated in one of the first forestry archaeology assessments in Northern St’át’imc territory, which introduced me to the St’át’imc Heritage and Resource Inventory research team at the tribal council (Klassen and Spafford 1996). This cooperative project exposed a number of underlying and contentious issues that would eventually flare up into a major dispute with the forest industry, the Ministry of Forests, and archaeologists (see Chapter 4).

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These concerns reflected the growing uneasiness of First Nations throughout the province with the archaeological assessment process in the mid-1990s. It was also a sign of how the St’át’imc would come to practice archaeology in the future. Despite the shaky start, this first collaboration with the St’át’imc eventually led to many years of working with them.

By 1998, I was working for a different archaeological consulting firm that won a contract to work with the Stl’atl’imx Nation Hydro Committee on an overview of heritage resources impacted by the operations and facilities of the BC Hydro and Power

Authority, in partnership with the tribal council (Klassen 1999). After leaving the consulting firm, I was asked by the LTC in the fall of 1999 to teach a two-week archaeological inventory training course developed by the province, and twelve St’át’imc members obtained certification (Klassen 2000).

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The following spring, the tribal council asked me to assist them to develop a heritage “assessment” process and further train community members, so that the tribal council could start taking on archaeological assessment contracts. From 2000 until 2004, I was closely involved with their heritage assessment process, with my role primarily that of an advisor. In 2001, I also directed the first stage of an archaeological impact assessment of a Ministry of Forests timber sale license (Klassen and Lillooet Tribal Council 2002), and assisted with a trail research and inventory project (Hoffmann 2002), both for the LTC. As the tribal council and member communities gained familiarity and experience with the practice of these assessments, heritage stewardship became a more important issue in nation-wide governance initiatives and in the development of St’át’imc policy. In 2003, I was asked by the St’át’imc Chiefs Council to contribute to the development of a heritage policy that would be linked to a St’át’imc land-use plan and a tribal code. Over the course of that year, I provided the heritage planning team with options for the policy, facilitated a number of brainstorming and drafting sessions with community members and the planning team, helped draft versions of the policy, and ultimately presented it at a community forum.

By 2004, my involvement with the LTC cultural heritage process had diminished as the capacity and experience of the team increased. By this time my attention had also turned to the next phase arising from the recommendations of the 1999 project for

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I delivered additional Resource Inventory Standards Committee (RISC) archaeological training courses in 2000, 2001, 2006, and 2011.

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St’át’imc Nation Hydro. Under their direction, I worked with a team of community members and archaeologists throughout the summer and fall of 2004 on a post-impact assessment of archaeological sites affected by BC Hydro facilities and operations in

St’át’imc territory (Klassen 2005). The results of this project formed the partial basis for the successful 2011 compensation agreement with BC Hydro and Power Authority for past and continuing impacts from hydroelectric developments throughout St’át’imc territory.

Since beginning my Ph.D. program at Simon Fraser University, my professional consulting involvement with the St’át’imc has tapered off. However, I continue to be in touch with many of the St’át’imc colleagues I first worked with from 1995 onwards, and in both 2006 and 2011 I returned to Lillooet to teach another archaeology inventory course.

My work with the St’át’imc over the years has provided me with a first-hand and longterm exposure to their aspirations, objectives, and challenges in the domain of indigenous heritage stewardship.

Coincidentally, as my professional involvement with the St’át’imc decreased, I began working on projects with their Nlaka’pamux neighbours to the south. In the fall of

2005, I was asked by Lytton First Nation to assist with a National Historic Site of Canada feasibility study for the Stein and Botanie valleys. This was followed by a contract to prepare a National Historic Site of Canada application for the Stein and Botanie, which the Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada accepted in late 2007. Work on the detailed Stein-Botanie submission to the Board, which hopefully will lead to formal designation, is ongoing. My involvement with the proposed designation provided me with an exceptional introduction to Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage and landscape. It gave me the opportunity to review in detail the archival and ethnographic material held by the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (NNTC), and gave me access to unpublished oral history interview transcripts and place name research. It has also allowed me to explore two of the most significant valleys in the “cultural landscape” of the Nlaka’pamux.

In the company of Elders and community members, I have had the good fortune of visiting culturally significant places, archaeological and pictograph sites, and spiritual places, and listening to the stories and histories of these living places.

My exposure to Nlaka’pamux communities through the designation process led to my involvement with additional heritage stewardship projects initiated and led by the

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NNTC and Nlaka’pamux communities. In the spring of 2008, and again in 2012, I delivered RIC archaeology inventory courses, leading to the certification of 13

Nlaka’pamux community members. Since 2008, I have been assisting the NNTC with planning, researching, and drafting a heritage law and associated assessment process.

This project involved attending numerous roundtable discussions, community workshops, and technical meetings, providing me with privileged insight into

Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage and sovereignty. Over this period the NNTC has also asked me to review various archaeological assessment projects undertaken by third parties, and I have provided advice on a number contentious heritage stewardship issues involving major hydro and mining developments. In the last few years, I have also been asked by Nlaka’pamux communities to undertake archaeological assessments for a number of small projects in provincial parks where they have a vested interest, and was asked to participate in assessing and developing a heritage trail. Most recently, I was asked by the NNTC and Spuzzum First Nation to lead a major multi-year heritage inventory and assessment in advance of a proposed high-tension power transmission line through Nlaka’pamux territory.

Like my experience with the St’át’imc, my Nlaka’pamux colleagues have shown me exceptional trust and generosity. This was demonstrated most strikingly when they suggested that I consider basing one of my case studies on the heritage experiences and aspirations of the Nlaka’pamux Nation. What the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux projects

I have participated in have in common is that they are more than simply collaborative or community-based projects. In every case, I was invited to participate in their projects, on their terms. Some of these projects came about as reactions to external pressures and processes, but others were initiated and directed by the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux themselves, who set the agenda and objectives, and took responsibility for the results and recommendations. All of these projects were aimed at strengthening heritage stewardship and protection, increasing community capacity, and ultimately addressing

Aboriginal title and rights. They represent their efforts to assert greater control and exercise greater sovereignty over heritage. This collaboration has been an exceptional learning experience for me, and although we have not always agreed on everything, the overall experience has been positive and mutually beneficial.

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Organization

In this chapter I have outlined the research problem and study objectives of this dissertation, as well as presented a background on the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux and my relationship with these nations. In Chapter 2, I present an overview of communitybased, indigenous, and participatory action archaeologies in the context of contemporary indigenous involvement in archaeology. These forms of practice are reviewed and critiqued, and their relative suitability for advancing the heritage stewardship objectives of indigenous communities is assessed. Chapter 3 is an overview of First Nations involvement in archaeology in British Columbia over the past 40 years, focussing on the development of heritage legislation and indigenous responses to CRM, particularly in the context of court decisions and regulatory changes since 1993. The influence of First

Nations in the transformation of archaeological practice is described, and placed in reference to contemporary issues on the ethics of heritage stewardship.

The next two chapters present the results of the Northern St’át’imc case study, derived primarily from conversations with 21 St’át’imc community members and supplemented with information from published and unpublished documents. Chapter 4 describes St’át’imc perspectives on archaeology and heritage stewardship, and their encounter with archaeology from the 1970s through 1990s, including their efforts to assert control over archaeological practice in their territory. Chapter 5 describes the activities of the Lillooet Tribal Council’s cultural heritage team from 2000 to 2006, developed in response to conflicts with the forest industry and province, and reviews the outcomes of its work in the context subsequent nation-based initiatives. The chapter ends with a discussion of the relationship of the St’át’imc to archaeologists, and the implications of St’át’imc perspectives on archaeological practice.

The following two chapters present the results of the Nlaka’pamux Nation case study. Chapter 6 is derived primarily from published and unpublished documents, supplemented with information from individual Nlaka’pamux. It provides a brief overview of the Nlak’pamux encounter with archaeology from the 1870s to the 1970s, followed by a detailed examination of major heritage issues in the 1980s and 1990s, including the

Stein Valley protests and post-Delgamuukw forestry issues. The first half of Chapter 7 is derived from a number of meetings and workshops held with nearly 60 community members, and provides a detailed description of Nlaka’pamux perspectives on

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archaeology and heritage. The second half of the chapter is an examination of these perspectives in the context of my own research related to the proposed Stein-Botanie

Nlaka’pamux Landscape National Historic Site of Canada. The chapter ends with a discussion of the implications of Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage, landscape, and archaeology for heritage stewardship.

Chapter 8 begins with an analysis of the level of contemporary St’át’imc and

Nlaka’pamux participation in and authority over the practice of archaeology in their respective territories. The chapter continues with a discussion of four key issues for transforming archaeological practice and improving heritage stewardship that emerged from this study, involving ethics, Indigenous title, intangible heritage and landscape, all placed within the context of international “best practices.” The concluding chapter suggests that the principles of an applied archaeology that is more responsive to community needs and better serves community interests than conventional CRM practice. This approach puts the stewardship of archaeological heritage ahead of resource management. Moreover, it also offers opportunity for bridging the differences between indigenous, disciplinary, and government perspectives, and ultimately may help mitigate ongoing conflicts between these interested parties. In the end, the experiences of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux nations in the realm of heritage stewardship and archaeological management directly confront contemporary debates on the ethics of heritage stewardship and the theoretical questions underpinning community-based and indigenous archaeologies.

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Chapter 2.

Community Participation and Indigenous

Sovereignty in Archaeological Practice

Interaction and engagement with local and descendant communities has a long history in archaeology, but formal collaborative roles for local residents and Indigenous peoples have only recently become commonplace. An important development in the discipline has been the emergence of alternative archaeologies with distinct forms of practice that emphasize community engagement, collaborative practice, indigenous values, and participatory research. Known as community-based, indigenous, and participatory action archaeologies, they have much in common, but they also exhibit significant differences in terms of practical application, theoretical orientation, and political motivation.

Nonetheless, proponents believe these approaches have the potential to expand or transform archaeology, making it more inclusive, responsive, and ethical for local, descendent, and Indigenous peoples.

Community-based archaeology (also known as community archaeology) refers to archaeological practice in the context of collaboration with local and descendant communities, which may include Indigenous communities.

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Indigenous archaeology, on the other hand, generally refers to archaeological practice solely in the context of

Indigenous communities (however they are defined). Participatory action archaeology is based on the principles of a reflexive relationship between researchers and community

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Although public or outreach archaeology is sometimes discussed in tandem with community and collaborative archaeologies, this form of practice is not addressed in this chapter. Public archaeology, in the narrow sense, involves the participation of non-professionals in archaeological practice, and the dissemination of research to local communities, primarily for building a local stewardship ethic (Moser et al. 2002). In general, public archaeology does not emphasize the incorporation of local or public knowledge and the potential intellectual contribution of local groups, nor does it stress the transfer of power or authority over the research agenda to communities (Tully 2007). Rather than presuming the public to be simply an audience, community archaeology goes beyond public outreach to public engagement

(Silliman 2008).

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members, with the goal of promoting and creating social change. The objective of this chapter is to review the principles of community-based, indigenous, and participatory action archaeologies as modes for encouraging engagement to the discipline and transforming its practice.

Archaeology in British Columbia parallels this global development in collaborative practice, and many features of this transformation are readily evident in the province.

Indigenous peoples’ influence on heritage legislation and policies, archaeological practice, and heritage stewardship has grown in tandem with political, disciplinary, and legal developments. Beginning in the mid 1980s, indigenous political revitalization in

British Columbia intersected with the rapid rise of consulting archaeology and the shifting discourse about theory and ethics in the broader discipline. In the 1990s, court decisions addressed indigenous rights and title, and defined the government’s duty to consult.

These forces both encouraged and provoked archaeologists in British Columbia to establish a dialogue with indigenous communities and participate in various forms of collaborative research and stewardship (Klassen et al. 2009). Although this development within archaeological practice in British Columbia came as a pragmatic necessity borne of local contingencies, it was nonetheless influenced by global trends.

For the purposes of this dissertation, critical issues include the effectiveness of these strategies for increasing indigenous participation in and authority over archaeology and heritage. In this chapter, I evaluate the success of these approaches in meeting the goals of Indigenous nations and responding to the evolving ethics of the discipline. My discussion begins with critical overviews of community and Indigenous archaeologies, a review of the intersection of these practices with other forms of critical archaeology, and the application of participatory and action approaches to archaeological practice.

Subsequent chapters will look at specific examples of First Nations directly engaged in archaeology, evaluate the effectiveness of this engagement in the context of transforming practice, and review potential approaches for bridging differences in

Indigenous and disciplinary goals.

Community-based Archaeologies

Global development in community-based archaeologies has introduced an ethic that attempts to integrate academic and community involvement in research (see Atalay

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2007; Atalay 2012; Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson

2008b; Damm 2005; Hollowell and Nicholas 2009; Little 2007; Y. Marshall 2002; Moser et al. 2002; Nicholas et al. 2011; Silliman 2008b; Tully 2007; Welch et al. 2011b; Wylie

2009). This practice is a deliberate rejection of prior modes of community involvement in archaeology, which consisted of insubstantial participation, other than providing field labour, and little to no voice or authority for communities. Local people were not included in the process of archaeology nor was their knowledge about the past accepted, thereby depriving archaeologists of valuable community allies (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Moser et al. 2002). Local and descendant communities gained few direct benefits from their efforts, and true collaboration proved to be elusive (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson 2008b).

Change began when archaeologists increasingly sought to collaborate with local and descendent communities around the world (and especially Indigenous communities in settler societies), and in the process encountered research partners that were eager to have a more formal and substantive role in archaeology (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008;

Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b; Y. Marshall 2002; Moser et al. 2002;

Silliman 2008b; Tully 2007). This growing engagement can be traced to developments in both the discipline and society at large. To some degree, the emergence of communitybased archaeologies stems from the “postprocessual” critique of archaeological theory and practice, which recognized that multiple voices and audiences have a place in archaeological practice (Moser et al. 2002; Tully 2007). Moreover, many professional groups were debating and developing codes of ethics that explicitly required community involvement, particularly where communities were alienated from their own heritage through the historical experiences of colonialism (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008).

While still in a relatively early stage of development, practitioners claim that community-based archaeology has reached a “critical mass” (Atalay 2007:254; Little

2007:1), while others profess that collaborative practice is now a “global phenomenon”

(Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:1). By engaging with local and descendant communities (including Indigenous peoples), and by advocating the social relevance of archaeology, these contemporary forms of practice represent a major shift in the discipline (Atalay 2012:3; Wylie 2009:2). Engagement with local “stakeholders” means accepting multiple perspectives that avoid confrontational claims, while adhering to the principles of scientific inquiry (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). The

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concept of community-based archaeology continues to evolve, with a distinctive set of principles, practices, and methods while maintaining connections to the larger discipline.

The Parameters of Community Archaeology

Community-based archaeology as a distinct practice is linked to the increasing involvement and ensuing political action of subaltern and descendant communities in archaeological issues since the 1970s (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Moser et al. 2002; Tully

2007). Central to this postcolonial discourse is the indigenous rights movement and the debate over indigenous title that largely remains unresolved in settler societies (see also

Lilley 2000a; Nicholas and Andrews 1997b; Smith 2006). As dispossessed peoples expanded their activism, they lobbied for stronger legislation and demanded a greater stake in archaeology, including any social and economic benefits that it might provide

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Overall, the indigenous critique motivated critical reflection in the transformation of archaeological practice that supported the emergence of community and collaborative archaeologies (Smith 2007).

As an explicitly articulated set of practices, community-based archaeology arguably developed first in Australia and New Zealand, where growing numbers of archaeologists now also self-identify as practitioners (Y. Marshall 2002; Moser et al.

2002). Similar concepts and practices have since emerged in other “settler societies” as well as developing countries (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson 2008b; Damm 2005; Little 2007; Y. Marshall 2002). Practice incorporating similar community-based elements and methods has also existed in North America for many years, although these projects were generally described as collaborative practice in the context of “tribal” cultural resource management and repatriation issues.

Nonetheless, the idea of community-based archaeology is maturing in North America

(Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b; Y. Marshall 2002).

In North America, the principles of community-based archaeology originated in the context of cultural resource management, museums, and repatriation, albeit under the rubric of collaborative practice (see individual chapters in: Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008a; Killion 2007a; Klesert and Downer 1990; Y. Marshall 2002;

Nicholas and Andrews 1997a; Swidler et al. 1997). Although sharing a pedigree with community-based archaeology found elsewhere, it developed under separate circumstances The explicit articulation of its tenets, methods, challenges, and ethical

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issues is rare, but Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T.J. Ferguson (2008b) consider collaborative practice to encompass all projects involving descendant communities that challenge the theoretical, methodological, and ethical foundations of the broader discipline. In this sense collaborative practice shares the transformative goals of community-based archaeology, including reformed ethics, innovative methods, and new insights.

During its early development, in both archaeological research and heritage management settings, community-based archaeologies generally lacked a coherent set of research agendas, methods, and interpretive strategies (Atalay 2007; Chirikure and

Pwiti 2008; Tully 2007). However, recognition of its distinctive approach gained momentum with the publication of a special issue of World Archaeology (Y. Marshall

2002). Despites varied forms and contexts, there have been attempts to define a set of principles to guide its practitioners (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Moser et al. 2002; Tully

2007). Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh and T.J. Ferguson provide one of the more coherent positions for undertaking community-based, indigenous, and public archaeologies–as well as repatriation and decolonization efforts–albeit under the umbrella of collaborative practice in archaeology (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). Projects falling within this approach generally share the following three core principles: facilitating community participation, addressing local issues, and creating benefits for archaeologists and communities.

The core principle of community-based archaeology is the involvement of local and descendant communities in all aspects of a project and at every stage of the research process (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Damm 2005; Little 2007; Y. Marshall 2002;

Tully 2007). Local participation becomes a key part of project design, implementation, and control, including excavation, management, conservation, interpretation, public presentation, and publication (Atalay 2007; Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Damm 2005;

Moser et al. 2002; Tully 2007). Developing social capital and community-building are often specifically identified among the goals of these research endeavours (Little 2007:9; also see Williams and Pope 2005). In order to be sensitive to local concerns and issues, this form of practice attempts to comprehend the social context in order to mitigate the potential impact of research outcomes (Atalay 2007). Since individual communities possess the political and historical links to the local archaeological record, recognizing

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their concerns ensures that these are addressed and negotiated before projects commence (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:8; Damm 2005).

Advocates also stress that communities must accrue some benefit from archaeology, leading to economic empowerment and a broader-based, multi-vocal interpretation of the past (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Moser et al. 2002). The inclusion of

Indigenous peoples, and other communities, in practice and interpretation recognizes marginalized perspectives, and dismantles the traditional elitism of archaeology

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Through research and heritage management, local communities and indigenous groups can find their voices, and by doing so they can enrich their heritage (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). At the same time, collaboration on local initiatives can leave a positive legacy that also benefits academic research well beyond heritage management or stewardship issues, and reveals “unexpected convergences of interest” that create opportunities for reconciliation (Y. Marshall 2002:216). As the community expands its involvement in archaeological projects, researchers must be prepared to “surrender some authority and control” over the objectives of the work

(Moser et al. 2002:229). Indeed, its most important distinguishing characteristic is

“relinquishing” partial control at each stage of an archaeological project to local partners

(Y. Marshall 2002:211), with the effect of shifting a measure of power and authority from archaeologists to communities (Tully 2007).

Community-based archaeology goes beyond simply soliciting consent or engaging in basic consultation, and involves a range of strategies to facilitate public outreach, education, local employment and training, community-based tourism, and the use of local and traditional knowledge (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Damm 2005; Moser et al. 2002; Tully 2007). Some advocates suggest that it requires fundamental change to conventional practice, and they offer a set of seven methodological components (Moser et al. 2002): communication and collaboration, employment and training, public presentation, interviews and oral history, educational resources, photographic and video archive, and community-controlled merchandising. These components range in scope from very specific tasks to very broad concepts. For example, creating a visual archive is a relatively straightforward step, while “communication and collaboration” can describe myriad actions (Moser et al. 2002). This latter step may entail two-way dialogue at every stage of a project, partnerships with local organizations, regular updates to the community in plain language, “openness” on all aspects of the project, acknowledging

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authorship and ownership in terms of artifacts and displays, social interaction with the community, and acknowledging issues and disagreements. Most community archaeology projects already display many of these traits, and include a generalized set of methods applicable in varied contexts, and as such this emerging practice has developed a “sound methodological basis” within the larger discipline (Tully 2007:157).

Although generally synonymous with “marginalized” communities (e.g., Indigenous, postcolonial, minority), its core principles and methods are pliable enough to be relevant to practice everywhere (Atalay 2012; Damm 2005; Moser et al. 2002; Tully 2007).

Implications for Practice

According to its proponents, the collaborative approach fostered by communitybased archaeology is critical for the future of the discipline, and has the potential for transforming and enriching archaeological practice. In this view, this practice transcends the discourse on ethics, and offers the promise of changing how we understand archaeological evidence (Moser et al. 2002). This transformation is not realized by compromising scientific perspectives, but instead comes from recognizing that research is not situated outside of society (Y. Marshall 2002). It emanates from the premise that better archaeology results from diverse voices contributing insight and interpretation

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Y. Marshall 2002). This may lead to questions that would not otherwise be considered, and allows archaeological materials to be seen in novel ways and in new light (Y. Marshall 2002).

Community-based archaeology is also socially and politically relevant to communities (Tully 2007). During the 1990s, the “post-processual” critique pointed out that the strategies used throughout a research project and the knowledge derived from archaeological research is itself constructed through selective interpretation within a social, economic, and political matrix (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). In this sense, community archaeology challenges conventional academic perspectives on archaeology, and provides insights about the meaning and symbolism of significant places (Greer et al. 2002). Collaboration with descendant communities creates new interpretive frameworks, and novel modes for explaining patterns of material culture, while posing unsettling questions that challenge the status quo (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). This approach is interactive, as opposed to reactive, thus empowering local communities to craft their local identity (Greer et al. 2002). This

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interaction informs methods and practice, and places shared research interests ahead of those only benefiting academics.

Community-based archaeology offers an additional social context for practice that goes beyond the characterization of nationalist, colonialist, and imperialist archaeologies first articulated by Bruce Trigger (Trigger 1984). By engaging indigenous, descendant, and local communities, it provides them with an alternative discourse not envisioned by Trigger (Moser et al. 2002). As such, it harbours the potential to contribute a mandate for Indigenous peoples in settler societies and for the diverse peoples of

“post-colonial” nations such as Papua New Guinea and Bangladesh (Y. Marshall 2002).

Indeed, the emphasis on collaborative practice and the incorporation of the worldviews of subaltern peoples in most (but not all) forms of community-based archaeologies can be seen as evidence of the ongoing “decolonization” of archaeology.

Despite the obvious potential for ethical, academic, and social benefits, the successes and failures of community-based archaeology have yet to be fully assessed

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Moreover, this concept faces a number of potential problems and limitations, such as issues of power, authority, and control. However, a central challenge confronting archaeologists engaged in collaborative practice is the identification and definition of community.

Problematizing “Community”

Once a straightforward concept, communities are now considered diverse and contingent entities that are both self-defined and ascribed (Atalay 2012:91; Y. Marshall

2002). They are bound as much by geography as by social identity (Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). They can be insular and homogenous, or cosmopolitan and heterogeneous, and exist at local, national, regional, or international levels (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). They can be social entities connected to geographical space (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b), or they can be imagined constructs (Tully 2007). The complexity of expressions means that establishing a relationship with a community (or communities) can be a complicated and problematic endeavour, and trying to satisfy everyone sometimes creates more problems than benefits (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008).

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Within the relevant archaeological literature, communities have been described as local (based on residence), descendant (based on ancestry), or stakeholder (based on interest). A local community derives from extant relationships, and consists of a group of individuals who live on or near a site, while a descendant community is founded on ancient relationships, and consists of the descendants of the people who created or used the site, especially in the case of Indigenous peoples (Y. Marshall 2002).

Stakeholder communities, on the other hand, originate with individuals connected by interests or beliefs, and they may or may not have a connection to a specific place (Tully

2007). In reality, of course, these three forms of community often overlap (Y. Marshall

2002), and the simplicity of each definition belies the complexity of their reality.

While the location-specific residency concept is often the starting point (Tully

2007), the interests of descent-based communities often supersede the relationships of their residence-based counterparts (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Descendant communities may or may not reside in the vicinity of a site or place of archaeological interest, and their interests do not necessarily coincide with the broader community. The relationship of local and descendant communities to a place must be understood in connection to their historical experience, in terms of migration, immigration, displacement, exclusion, and colonialism (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). For example, when determining the hierarchy of competing interests, length of residency is often a factor in the claim to tenure among local people (Tully 2007).

Each “community of place,” whether residence or descent-based, may share a common ancestry, heritage, and culture, and often exhibits internally heterogeneous traits (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; McGuire 2008). While community cohesion may be derived through common interest in a shared locale, it may hide the underlying presence of dissenting voices and intersecting identity constructs, such as class, gender, religion, economic status, ethnicity, and sexuality (Tully 2007). In these situations, identifying the individual or group with authority to speak for the common interest presents a challenge to archaeologists involved in collaborative practice. Even subaltern groups, such as

Indigenous peoples, are subject to “oppressive internal relationships of power” (McGuire

2008:8), and political, social and economic imperatives can at times lead to the exclusion or inclusion of factions and groups (Dombrowski 2002).

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Stakeholder communities may coexist with those of place and members may or may not occupy a common geographic space, although by definition its members must interact (McGuire 2008). Professionals, landowners, politicians, managers, and business owners are among those stakeholders competing with local and descendant communities, and their interests may collide when their views are contradictory

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Often, however, “lived” or shared experience underlies their common interests, building on complex social factors such as class, gender, age, and residence. This shared experience in turn encourages them to engage in collective action that best serve their interests (McGuire 2008:87).

Perhaps the most difficult aspect of community-based archaeology is sorting through the complex web of authority, rights, and claims emanating from locals, descendants, and stakeholders. Some practitioners place local and descendant claims above the many “publics” with an interest in archaeological heritage (Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). In this view, public or outreach archaeology caters to a limited constituency defined by civil institutions, such as residents or tourists.

Community-based archaeologies, on the other hand, are better able to address the interests of local and descendant communities most closely linked to archaeological heritage, with Indigenous peoples the primary “stakeholder” in settler societies. From this perspective, descendant communities may not necessarily have more rights to archaeological heritage, but they have the most compelling interests (Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b).

Of course, multiple descendant communities may contest affiliation with a particular place, as each puts forward its case for the strongest claim (Daehnke 2007).

The repatriation issue in the United States is one example where competing claims over cultural links to sacred places and ancestral remains is a real world issue with significant social and political implications. However, the principles of collaborative practice have brought some resolution between indigenous communities and archaeologists in North

America as they grapple with issues of identity and cultural affiliation in repatriation contexts (Adler and Bruning 2008; Welch and Ferguson 2007). As such, the principles of collaborative practice itself may hold the solution to issues of identity and interests.

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Collaborative Practice

The principles of collaboration, which undergird all forms of community-based archaeology, warrant further discussion. Although in its most rudimentary form collaboration begins by communicating with stakeholders, advocates are quick to stress that its objectives go well beyond narrowly-defined or legally-mandated “consultation,” such as obtaining consent for archaeological projects (Atalay 2006b:292-293; Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). While often legally required, consultation does not necessarily provide opportunities for community engagement in the entire research process. Collaboration generally means people working together on all aspects of a project, particularly when projects exist outside of an academic setting. Furthermore, it involves a range of strategies linking practice with different publics, with the intention of creating a more accurate, inclusive, and ethical result. Collaborative practice responds to the shortcomings of scientific research that prioritizes its own agenda over that of the affected community (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). Ideally, collaborative practice should lead to benefits for both practitioners and the “subjects” of research.

On the continuum of practices suggested byColwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson (2008b:10), collaboration is found at the opposite end from “resistance”

(Figure 4). Both create “community” in the sense of empowering and representing a group of people with shared interests (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:12).

In the resistance mode, community is created through oppositions and competing groups, while power is derived from conflict and questions of legitimacy. Resistance produces power through concealment, dishonesty, and disrespect, while knowledge production is linked to the forms associated most closely with the primary “stakeholder,” i.e., scientific versus traditional conceptions of the past (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson 2008b:13). In the collaborative mode, on the other hand, community is formed through cooperation and convergence, wherein power and action emerges from a synergy of common interests. In this mode, participants enter into a professional relationship that embraces trust, honesty, mutual respect, and a deepening of virtues, while knowledge production links science and tradition, producing a more holistic view grounded in the experience of the community members and not in abstract frameworks.

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Greater Resistance

Goals develop in opposition

Information is concealed

No stakeholder involvement

No voice for stakeholders

No support is given/obtained

Participation

Goals develop independently

Information is disclosed

Limited stakeholder involvement

Some voice for stakeholders

Support is solicited

Greater Collaboration

Goals develop jointly

Information flows freely

Full stakeholder involvement

Full voice for stakeholders

Support is tacit

Needs of others unconsidered Needs of most parties met Needs of all parties realized

Figure 4. Collaboration as a continuum of practices, adapted from Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson (2008b:11).

As collaboration is not always more ethical in all situations, resistance or oppositional tactics still have a place in research and practice (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:10). Indeed, resistance may better achieve moral outcomes when used to confront illegitimate or hegemonic forces (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson

2008b:13-14), although this often entails other complications. In a similar conceptualization, the interaction of archaeologists and communities falls into four approaches: opposition, education, consultation, and collaboration (McGuire 2008).

Opposition involves “contesting and thwarting the interests of a community” (McGuire

2008:8), and resembles the resistance mode described above. Collaboration, on the other hand, entails social groups cooperating to pursue common goals, interests, and practices so that each group benefits from their actions. Collaboration creates an environment where multiple “virtues” exist for all stakeholders, and is seen as the ideal form of archaeological research in terms of fairness and justice (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:12).

From Participation to Control

The primary objectives of community-based archaeology are about equity and participation, while making practice relevant and beneficial. The response to collaborative practice by indigenous communities has been generally positive, and in many cases partnerships with archaeologists have been welcomed. Nonetheless, despite examples of constructive collaboration and promising results, descendant communities continue to harbour serious concerns about the limited input they have in heritage stewardship (Damm 2005; Hollowell and Nicholas 2009), and the true extent of collaboration has been questioned (La Salle 2010). Overcoming the lingering legacy of

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scientific elitism inherent in colonialist archaeology requires understanding and respect for alternative perspectives on the past (Anyon et al. 1997), with corresponding equity in power relations and access to decision-making (Nicholas and Hollowell 2007). Given the long-standing prejudices against the profession among many indigenous communities, archaeological collaboration remains fraught with issues of power, authority, and voice

(McGuire 2008).

Larry Zimmerman has remarked that the benefit of community-based archaeology is that “[c]ommunity members become true collaborators in the work, even

to the level of helping set the research agenda” (Zimmerman 2007:104, emphasis added), the implication being that helping to set the research agenda is simultaneously the ultimate end point of “true collaboration” and a goal that is not universally reached.

For their part, Indigenous peoples would probably consider setting the research agenda as their starting point, and not the ultimate goal. Indeed, community archaeology first and foremost needs to be dedicated to the needs and interests of those affected, rather than existing research priorities (Moshenska 2008). Yet some feel there are few cases where research questions are genuinely proposed or even altered by local communities

(Damm 2005).

Collaborative practice in the context of community-based archaeology must also contend with issues and assumptions of authority and power. Implicitly or not, professionals continue to embody privileged authority, presuming to offer something to a local or descendant population in the wider context of research (Moshenska 2008).

Problems arise when archaeologists view communities as passive audiences accepting the largesse of research that trickles down to them (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Indeed, approaches that involve “relinquishing” partial control of each stage of an archaeological project to the local community (Marshall 2002:211), or where researchers are prepared to “surrender some authority and control” over the objectives of the project (Moser et al.

2002:229), reveals two things: one, that archaeologists are reluctant to give up full control over projects, and two, that they see themselves as being in the position to relinquish control in the first place. Such hubris ignores the possibility that archaeology might be instigated, controlled, or even carried out in its entirety by “the community”

(Moshenska 2008). In other words, an assumed asymmetry of power and knowledge in the relationship between archaeologist and community still remains (Moshenska 2008): community is understood to be subaltern, while archaeologists reserve for themselves

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the position of gate-keeper. Yet communities do not consider themselves to be simply stakeholders, but rather owners of heritage with custodial rights (Chirikure and Pwiti

2008). “True” collaboration goes beyond superficial participation and involves a transfer of decision-making powers and a commitment to full multi-vocality (Chirikure and Pwiti

2008; Damm 2005; Nicholas and Hollowell 2007). As such, most community-based archaeology does not go far enough to satisfy the interests of many affected parties

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008).

For many archaeologists, community partnerships are the desired endpoint of collaboration, and this strategy ensures their continued relevance and ultimately better serves their own interests. From a community’s perspective, however, engagement in archaeology may be less about collaboration, and more about exercising control. For instance, indigenous communities may insist on a veto over projects and methods, control over the research agenda, or authority over the disposition and dissemination of results. Community-based heritage management that addresses power inequities and accepts alternative voices is a feature of decolonization (Hollowell and Nicholas 2009), while community authority over heritage stewardship plays a role in enhancing overall sovereignty (Welch et al. 2006). Ultimately, control is what many Indigenous peoples expect to gain from their engagement with archaeology.

Indigenous Archaeologies

For Indigenous peoples, greater control over archaeology may come from the indigenous practice of archaeology. The idea of a formalized indigenous archaeology–a distinct approach to archaeology from an indigenous perspective–arose in the late 1990s

(Nicholas 2008). Although a number of earlier publications explored the political and practical relationship of Indigenous peoples to archaeology, primarily in North America and Australia, the concept was still absent from the ground-breaking volume Native

Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground (Swidler et al.

1997). The first published reference to Indigenous archaeology as a distinct practice within the discipline as a whole appears to have occurred in 1997 (Nicholas 2008), when it was defined as “archaeology done with, for, and by Indigenous peoples” in the volume

At a Crossroads: Archaeology and First Peoples in Canada (Nicholas and Andrews

1997a:3). Subsequent expanded definitions have characterized indigenous archaeology as: “a discipline developed with the control and influence of indigenous populations”

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(Watkins 2000:xiii) and “informed by Indigenous values and agendas” (Smith and Wobst

2005a:15). It is an approach “that critiques and deconstructs Western archaeological practice as well as research that works toward recovering and investigating Indigenous experiences, practices, and traditional knowledge systems” (Atalay 2006b:292), and a practice that applies “Indigenous ways of relating to the human beings that created the objects, ideas, and sites under investigation” (Lippert 2007:153), so that archaeologists

“behave respectfully with regard to the cultural sensibilities of native peoples” (McGuire

2008:80).

5

Importantly, indigenous archaeology and collaborative practice are not synonymous, as the former goes beyond collaborative methods to integrate “Indigenous concepts and cultural knowledge to improve how archaeologists interpret archaeological materials” (Atalay 2012:39).

The concept of indigenous archaeology, as an entity unto itself, has now filtered into the mainstream of archaeological thought, alongside the related and coeval concepts of critical theory and “decolonization” (Atalay 2007; McGuire 2006, 2008;

Nicholas 2008; Smith and Wobst 2005a). This adoption has created a “quiet revolution” in archaeological practice (Smith 2007:35), that represents a major shift in the discipline

(Atalay 2007:254). Accordingly, indigenous archaeology is collaborative and communitybased, but with indigenous knowledge and experience informing Western archaeology and heralding the promise of decolonization (Atalay 2007:253). Despite its emphasis on

Indigenous peoples and knowledge, as a socially responsible practice it offers a model for collaboration that can be applied to descendant communities globally (Atalay

2006b:292, 2007). With growing acceptance and influence has come a legion of conference sessions and publications, including several edited volumes (Peck et al.

2003; Silliman 2008a; Smith and Wobst 2005b), special issues of the journals Public

Archaeology (Sillar and Fforde 2005), American Indian Quarterly (Atalay 2006a), and

Archaeologies: Journal of the World Archaeological Congress (Smith and Modzelewski

2007), and incorporation of the term into contemporary sourcebooks and encyclopaedias

(Bahn 2004; Gosden 2005; Muckle 2006; Nicholas 2008; Watkins and Nicholas 2013).

By addressing the historical power imbalance between non-indigenous archaeologists and Indigenous peoples in the practice of archaeology, and by challenging prevailing theories and practice, the emergence of Indigenous archaeology

5

For a comprehensive definition that encompasses all of these points, see Nicholas

(2008:1660).

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is a positive and long overdue development. The practice of indigenous archaeology generally leaves space for the participation of both Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples, and the inclusion of their respective positions and approaches (Nicholas

2008:1660). Nonetheless, this form of practice involves a considerable transfer of authority and capacity to Indigenous communities (Atalay 2006b; Lippert 2007; McGuire

2008), although this shift is not without its challenges and complexities.

Problematizing “Indigeneity”

Indigenous archaeology is implicated in wider debates concerning indigeneity and questions of authority in archaeological heritage stewardship. Indeed, the ambiguity adhering to indigenous identity leaves the practice of indigenous archaeology open to criticism. In the anthropological and archaeological literature, the relatively recent concept of “indigenous” is highly contentious (for discussion of this f, see Asch and

Samson 2004; Bowen 2000; Bray 2003; Chirikure and Pwiti 2008; Colchester 2002;

Gosden 2005; Greene 2004; Haber 2007; Karlsson 2003; Kenrick and Lewis 2004a;

Kuper 2003; McIntosh 2002; Nicholas 2008; Niezen 2003; Ouzman 2005; Parker

Pearson and Ramilisonina 2004; Sillar 2005; Watkins 2005). Like ethnicity and gender, defining indigeneity can be contentious in the context of its contemporary political application. Indigenous identity has its origins in the international Indigenous peoples’ movement, which in turn was a response to dispossession and discrimination encountered by peoples in colonial settings (Kenrick and Lewis 2004b; Niezen 2003).

Although the definition of Indigenous peoples has been the subject of considerable internal debate within the United Nations (Sillar 2005), it has never officially codified.

Instead, the UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations has long had a “working definition” (Saugestad 2004; Sylvain 2002), which includes both objective criteria

(ancestry, culture, language) and subjective criteria (self-identification and group acceptance) (Martínez Cobo 1987). Even the recent UN Declaration on the Rights of

Indigenous Peoples does not offer an explicit definition, but rather states that

“Indigenous people have the right to determine their own identity or membership in accordance with their customs and traditions” (United Nations General Assembly 2007).

Since the 1980s, international instruments and political discourse have revealed four recurrent criteria that are used to mark indigenous identity: 1) a genealogical or historical connection to prior or first occupation of a region, 2) social, economic or

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political marginalization, 3) cultural distinctiveness, and 4) self-identification (Sylvain

2002). Although these criteria are highly flexible and generic, the tendency to essentialize them creates problematic categories of inclusion and exclusion. For example, they are often interpreted to imply that Indigenous peoples must maintain some sort of ongoing or “spiritual” connection to an original homeland, and that losing this connection erodes indigeneity. Other criticisms focus on the preoccupation with sorting out who originally inhabited a land, wherein distinguishing cultural traits privilege

“primordialist” categorizations (Asch and Samson 2004; Kenrick and Lewis 2004a; Kuper

2003; McGhee 2008).

In Sub-Saharan Africa, for example, almost all groups call themselves indigenous, regardless of their history of migration, conquest, and dispossession, rendering the term meaningless (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). The history of southern

Africa is characterized by a series of pre-colonial migrations that marginalized the original and subsequent inhabitants, but all of these groups were essentially

“indigenized’ during the colonial periods (Sylvain 2002). With the end of apartheid in

South Africa, the question of indigeneity became even more problematic, and even some descendants of the first European colonists now consider themselves indigenous

(Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). Throughout southern Africa, a preoccupation with primordialist conceptions, where indigeneity is equated to an ongoing traditional way of life connected to the land, has prevented disenfranchised San groups from being recognized as indigenous (Ouzman 2005; Sylvain 2002). In India, on the other hand, the concept of indigeneity is complicated by cross-cutting ethnicity, class, and religion, and because many of the groups have shifted locations over time. However, some “tribal” groups are now politically realigning themselves around the idea of indigeneity (Béteille

1998; Karlsson 2003).

Although the distinction between colonial and indigenous identities may seem more clear-cut in North America, these conceptions inevitably contain shortcomings when based on essentialized criteria. In Canada, the federal Indian Act uses a complex set of genealogical criteria to establish a legal basis for indigenous identity, but this is an unsatisfactory approach for addressing cultural and historical contradictions. For example, complex situations arise when considering mixed ancestry, or the culturally and territorially open nature of Métis identity. However, a 2013 decision of the Supreme

Court of Canada ruled that self-identification and group recognition were sufficient

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criteria for identifying “Indianness,” regardless of genealogical relations and territorial occupation, a controversial decision that was disputed by governments and other

Indigenous peoples (Freisen 2013).

Some anthropologists question whether indigenous identity is a valid concept, arguing that it perpetuates obsolete anthropological notions, and in effect privileges the rights of some over those of others (Béteille 1998; Kuper 2003). Counter arguments point out that the term and concept did not originate in anthropology and was never intended to guide anthropologists toward an essentialized and bounded concept (Childs and Delgado-P. 1999; Karlsson 2003); instead, the concept grew out of a political need for self-identification in the context of colonialism. Through this process, disenfranchised peoples could organize themselves politically and advocate for their rights in order to address economic and social inequities brought on by colonialism (Kenrick and Lewis

2004a). The irony, of course, is that the concept of indigeneity is itself a product of colonialism, and used to distinguish the colonizer from the colonized (Haber 2007).

The essentialist critique of indigenous identity is ultimately circumvented because the colonial conception of indigenous has been replaced by a relational identity (Haber

2007). Indigeneity, as conceived in the modern context, is a shifting concept manifested by the subjective criteria of self-identification and group ascription. The flexible and fluid nature of indigeneity reflects the postmodernist milieu that provided the context for the indigenous movement in the first place, and it mirrors other contemporary markers of identity, such as ethnicity. Due to its origins and open-ended nature, indigenous identity can shift according to political, social and economic imperatives, at times leading to the exclusion or inclusion of factions and groups (Dombrowski 2002). Recognizing the political origins and flexible characteristics of indigeneity sheds light on the origins, motivations and objectives of indigenous archaeology.

Archaeology of Opposition

Some contend that conventional archaeology practice is by its nature a colonialist endeavour, favouring Western values over indigenous ones, and privileging secular over religious explanations (Smith and Wobst 2005a). This characterization is unnecessarily broad, and over-simplifies the many ways that archaeology and politics intersect and at times collide. A more nuanced characterization parses nationalist, colonialist, and imperialist influences on archaeology (Trigger 1984). Nationalist forces

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have used archaeology to strengthen the pride of nations and ethnic groups, in the same way that colonialist policy exploited its narratives to perpetuate differences and disparities between the colonized and colonizer. Imperialist ideologues, on the other hand, tend to impose universalizing conceptions of the past to normalize particular worldviews.

In “settler societies,” there is no doubt that archaeology has strong historical links to colonialism that survive to this day (McGuire 2008). Cultural resource management in

North America, for example, maintains the trappings of colonialist archaeology on a number of levels, including the statutory expropriation of indigenous rights to heritage and the accompanying disparities in power and authority (Ferris 2003). On the other hand, much research-based archaeology practised in North America in recent decades has been imperialist in nature; by universalizing the past it has lumped all groups– indigenous or otherwise–together and denied special rights to descendent communities, thereby achieving much the same effect as colonial archaeology but by other means. In all three cases, the danger rests in the misuse of archaeology to further a political agenda (McGuire 2008). Against this backdrop, the emerging political conception of indigeneity created the opportunity for the development of a distinct indigenous archaeology.

In an extension of Trigger’s nationalist, colonialist, and imperialist archaeologies, some writers propose an additional category to acknowledge the “archaeology of protest” (Silberman 1995) or the “archaeology of the disenfranchised” (Scham 2001).

This category originates with subaltern groups opposing the nation-state and other hegemonic forces, with the intention of developing archaeological narratives that challenge the official story, and thereby attempting to shift the political structure and challenge the dominance of powerful factions (Bray 2003; McGuire 2006). Indigenous archaeology, like Marxist and feminist archaeologies, mirrors the underlying political and theoretical ideals espoused by the “archaeology of opposition.” Indigenous, feminist, and

Marxist archaeologies, emerged from the intersection of post-modern thought and shifting political structures, and represent a natural by-product of “critical archaeology”

(McGuire 2008). While processualist adherents were satisfied with simply acquiring knowledge, post-processualism emphasized critique in order to demonstrate how political and social interests construct knowledge (McGuire 2008:52). Indigenous archaeology has been effective at challenging “the colonialism of archaeologies in which

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the descendants of conquerors study the ancestors of conquered native peoples”

(McGuire 2008:7).

Despite its rapid growth as a force in the discipline, the practice of indigenous archaeology still labours under the constraints of an imposed “management” and legislative system (Ferris 2003; Watkins and Beaver 2008), and out of necessity it relies on the assistance and expertise of non-Indigenous peoples. As such, it displays the openness implied by the original definition as “archaeology done with, for, and by indigenous peoples” (Nicholas and Andrews 1997a), and collaboration has been considered the foundation to this success (Atalay 2006b; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

Ferguson 2008b; McGuire 2008:7). Some advocate indigenous archaeology as a relevant and valuable collaborative model for application in non-indigenous communities and contexts (Atalay 2007). But, as an archaeology of opposition, its practice has inevitably shifted towards the exercise of greater control over archaeology by Indigenous peoples with an accompanying diminished role for non-Indigenous peoples. This trend will likely continue, as the disenfranchised enhance their political authority, work closely with trained professionals, and augment their skills with formal education. Indigenous archaeology will ultimately be transformed as indigenous professionals wrestle with the dilemmas and contradictions inherent in Indigenous peoples practicing a “colonial” enterprise (see Atalay 2006a, 2006b; Lippert 2006; Million et al. 2005; Nicholas et al.

2008b; Norder 2007; Two Bears 2006; Watkins 2000; Wilson 2007). This indigenizing of archaeology may well contribute to the eventual transformation of the overall discipline as it is practiced in North America and in other areas with a colonial legacy. As this process continues, indigenous archaeology may shift to one practiced “by”–and no longer one practiced “for” and “with”–Indigenous peoples.

Even so, decolonizing the practice of archaeology in North America is difficult to imagine, so long as Indigenous peoples exist within a nation state that insists on asserting legislated authority over “archaeological resources.” Even in situations where

Indigenous peoples have achieved putative control over the “management” of archaeological heritage through the transfer of powers or through nominal selfgovernment, in reality the nation state has simply delegated management of heritage and also continues to exercise that power “off-reserve.” Some contend that the nation state is unlikely to ever cede full control over archaeological heritage (Ferris 2003), and as such full “decolonization” will never occur–the best-case scenario in this view is some

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sort of co-management arrangement. Indeed, some suggest that this may be for the best

(Ferris 2003; Trigger 1997), as any other arrangement would simply be shifting control from one interest group (archaeologists) to another (Indigenous peoples). The implication is that stewardship over archaeological heritage is a matter of universal concern, and that non-Indigenous peoples continue to be only one group of stakeholders with rights and obligations. However, indigenous communities generally consider themselves to be owners with custodial rights (Chirikure and Pwiti 2008). As they are generally most closely linked to archaeological heritage in settler nations, indigenous communities continue to have the most compelling interests, if not rights, to heritage stewardship (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b).

From Theory to Action

Indigenous archaeology possesses a range of meanings and applications almost as varied as the communities that practice it (Gosden 2005; Nicholas 2008; Smith and

Wobst 2005c). Yet its political origins, influenced by the multi-vocality of postmodernism, contributes to the elusiveness of its theoretical voice. In practice, it largely appropriates the methods of conventional archaeology, and grafts them onto an indigenous discourse. However, methods occupy a low level of abstraction, and tinkering with them is a distraction from productive debate and development (Yellowhorn 2002).

The real potential offered by indigenous archaeology is bridging to higher levels of abstraction involving epistemology and ontology, along with identity, authority, and ethics. As it develops and gains acceptance, its practitioners will undoubtedly develop and articulate stronger theoretical positions (Bray 2003).

Indigenous archaeology invokes critical theory, in a manner similar to feminist and Marxist archaeologies, because of its theoretical openness and its concern with shifting the balance of power to the subaltern (Conkey 2005; McGuire 2006; Nicholas

2008; Nicholas and Hollowell 2007). This is largely a product of its origins as an instrument of opposition and a political reaction against mainstream practice. Yet, there are indications that the practice of indigenous archaeology is growing beyond a fixation on methods, and that theoretical tenets are now crystallizing that herald its ongoing maturation. Indeed, its underlying theoretical basis may begin with its commitment to collaboration, multi-vocality, and action (Atalay 2006b, 2007). By emphasizing

“partnership,” this view goes beyond the tenets of community-based archaeology,

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ensuring that Indigenous peoples are the owners and regulators of their own heritage, while non-indigenous archaeologists undertake their research as guests.

Another aspect of a theoretical direction taken by indigenous archaeology is the growing support for oral traditions as a valid and productive source of contextual information, as well as a source of hypotheses and explanation (McGuire 2008; Nabokov

2002; Nicholas and Hollowell 2007; Whiteley 2002; Yellowhorn 2002). The outcome of this development is an “internalist” approach to archaeology (Yellowhorn 2002, 2006), which uses the methods of archaeology to research meaning transmitted by oral traditions, in order to illuminate the origins of cultural practices within the context of an indigenous ontology. This shift from a politicized practice to one that is more grounded in indigenous theories provides yet another layer of distinctiveness to Indigenous archaeology that better reflects indigenous perspectives and values.

How the growth of indigenous archaeology will ultimately affect the discipline as a whole remains to be seen. The bulk of literature discussing it continues to be the product of non-indigenous practitioners, and its practice continues to be inclusive and collaborative. For the moment, participation and collaboration with non-indigenous practitioners is commonplace, but as their autonomy and capacity grows, indigenous communities will have less reason to collaborate with non-indigenous archaeologists unless they can see benefits from this practice. Moreover, the growing influence of indigenous archaeology is an indication of shifting power that mirrors developments in broader society. In this unstable setting, archaeologists will need to recognize the implications of these changing relations and respond positively to demands for action.

Participatory Action Archaeologies

Community-based and indigenous archaeologies have focussed primarily on their relevance and their implications for practice in research-based agendas, but as yet have paid little attention to archaeology in its applied format. Yet this is the realm where alternative forms of practice have the greatest opportunity to put collaborative theory into action. Although “applied archaeology” and “cultural resource management” are often used synonymously, the former generally encompasses a broader meaning and involves the “application of archaeological research and its results to address contemporary human problems” (Neusius 2009:19). This definition incorporates cultural resource

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management, heritage tourism, human-environment interactions, public education and outreach, land claim and treaty research, repatriation efforts, and heritage stewardship.

It crosscuts issues of community participation and sovereignty, particularly at the intersection of cultural resource management, repatriation efforts, and indigenous title and rights. This has fostered the nascent development of new forms of collaborative practice in the context of community-based and indigenous archaeologies.

Action Archaeologies

Among these new forms is “action archaeology,” which refers to “involvement or engagement with the problems facing the modern world through archaeology,” or in other words, “archaeologists working for living communities, not just in or near them”

(Sabloff 2008:17).

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While applied archaeology encompasses many types of collaborative projects, action archaeology is explicitly and specifically linked to working on behalf of communities. Its intellectual pedigree extends back to the “action anthropology” first espoused by Sol Tax and others in the 1950s (Tax 1958). Specifically, Tax advocated that anthropological research take place within a community simultaneously with providing practical assistance; neither component is sufficient on its own, and both are equally important. Although Tax’s brand of anthropology, with its dual emphasis on theory creation and ethical action, did not have a large influence on the discipline

(Rubinstein 1986), it foreshadowed other forms of collaborative and advocacy anthropology that have gained some traction in archaeology. Although Sabloff does not acknowledge such a link to Sol Tax, other writers point to his action anthropology as a template for “tribal” archaeology, as those working in CRM on behalf of indigenous peoples implicitly actualize the principles he articulated (Stapp 2000; Stapp and Burney

2002). For instance, “helping tribes develop programs that exist for the tribe, that will be staffed by tribal members, and that will be run according to tribal needs, values, and principles” are all hallmarks of action anthropology (Stapp 2000:74). However, for tribal archaeology to fully embrace action anthropology, it “must remain engaged with the academy and bring their experiences back through its scholarly associations,” while

6

Sabloff (2008) traces the origins of the phrase “action archaeology” to a short paper by

Maxine Kleindienst and Patty Jo Watson published in 1956 in the journal of the University of

Chicago Anthropology Club. Although certainly influenced by Sol Tax’s conception of action anthropology, “action archaeology” as used in Kleindienst and Watson (1956) refers more specifically to the concept of ethnoarchaeology, and is not equivalent to Sabloff’s use of the phrase.

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indigenous communities “need to be active participants in theoretical and methodological development” (Stapp 2000:74-75).

Academic discourse on action archaeology now appears in the literature with some frequency, though generally without reference to Sol Tax and action anthropology.

Indeed, the ongoing ethical transformation of practice independently reiterates the basic tenets of action anthropology. For instance, the Native American Graves Protection and

Repatriation Act and other CRM laws have fostered a “new kind” of applied anthropology in the United States that better addresses the needs of indigenous communities

(Thomas 2007:72). Likewise, close association with Indigenous peoples has transformed many archaeologists into applied anthropologists, who see potential solutions to real world problems in their research, produce positive benefits for communities, and create social change (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:5-6; Kelley 2008:187).

Others discuss the practice of archaeology as a tool of civic engagement pursuing social justice for disenfranchised people (Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2007; Little 2007; Mullins

2007; Smith and Wobst 2005c). All of these action-oriented approaches seek to move archaeology out of the university and into the community.

Participatory Action Research

Although rarely acknowledged or recognized, the evolution of community-based archaeology, action archaeology, and other forms of collaborative practice parallels the development of a form of practice known in other disciplines as participatory action research (PAR).

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PAR involves “researchers and participants working together to examine a problematic situation or action to change it for the better” (Kindon et al.

2007a). Researchers and participants see common enterprise in constructing knowledge through a co-learning process, and promoting awareness that leads to individual and collective social change (McIntyre 2008:5). PAR not only identifies the benefits of research, but also exposes the process for producing it.

After more than four decades of development (Hall 2005; Kindon et al. 2007b;

McIntyre 2008; McTaggart 1997; Whyte et al. 1991), PAR now attracts much interest in

7

In this paper, PAR and other variations referred to as Action Research, Participatory

Research, Community-Based Research, Community-Based Action Research, and

Community-Based Participatory Research, are treated as largely equivalent approaches, despite the subtle differences identified by their adherents (see Bray et al. 2000:31-37;

Kindon et al. 2007b; McIntyre 2008:4).

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the social and environmental sciences (Kindon et al. 2007a). It’s influence reaches fields as diverse as anthropology, education, health and medicine, development studies, geography, environmental studies, political science, and Native studies (Atalay 2007;

Austin 2004; Kindon et al. 2007b; Lamphere 2004; McIntyre 2008; Menzies 2001, 2004;

Robinson 1996). This practice in its contemporary incarnation is characterized by a number of underlying tenets (McIntyre 2008:1-2):

• A collective commitment to investigate an issue or problem.

• A desire to engage in self- and collective reflection to gain clarity about the issue under investigation.

• A joint decision to engage in individual and collective action leading to a successful solution that benefits the people involved.

• Building of alliances between researchers and participants in the planning, implementation, and dissemination of research.

Although its philosophy embraces full collaboration between researchers and participants, a “recurring question in PAR is whether a researcher needs to be requested as a resource by a community or a group, or whether a researcher can approach a particular group inviting them to explore a particular issue” (McIntyre 2008:8). Although the latter is the norm, the key to negotiating the researcher/participant divide is engaging in reflexivity (McIntyre 2008), so that both sides reflect on how their perspectives effect the research. In practice, PAR involves a recursive process of questioning, reflecting and investigating, developing an action plan, and implementing and refining it (McIntyre

2008:6). In this sense, PAR differs from most community-based archaeology, which primarily involves researchers approaching a community with a proposal for undertaking a research project (see Atalay 2012:106).

A few authors recognize the beginnings of PAR in the action anthropology of Sol

Tax and other forms of applied anthropology (Austin 2004; Kindon et al. 2007b).

Development of contemporary PAR has been influenced by Marxism, post-structuralism, critical theory, and feminism, and among these a major influence on some practioners has been the work of Paulo Freire (Kindon et al. 2007b; McIntyre 2008). A Brazilian

“emancipatory” educator, Freire “developed community-based research processes to support people’s participation in knowledge production and social transformation”

(Kindon et al. 2007b:10). Freire also believed in critical reflection as essential for individual and social change, the unification of theory and practice, and counter-

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hegemonic approaches to knowledge production in oppressed communities (McIntyre

2008:3). One of Freire’s key concepts is conscientização (conscientization), wherein marginalized groups gain awareness of oppression and use this knowledge to actively eliminate it (Austin 2004:421; Kindon et al. 2007b:10).

PAR concepts are now filtering into archaeological theory and practice, and presently appear with some frequency in the literature. In one of the earliest references,

Michael Robinson pointed out how archaeologists have been closely engaged with indigenous communities in Canada’s north for some time, but have not explicitly recognized or adopted the principles of PAR in their work (Robinson 1996).

8

A subsequent review of community-based archaeology in Canada noted the parallel with

PAR and identified Tax and Freire as its forebears (Carr-Locke 2004:36), and elements of PAR were identified in a number of community-based archaeology projects in Canada and elsewhere. Even though the principles and methods were not explicitly distinguished in these projects, they bear a closer resemblance to the principles of community-based archaeology than to those of PAR (Carr-Locke 2004:93).

Elsewhere, published accounts of the formal application of PAR in archaeology are rare. One of the few relates to a historical archaeology project in a working-class neighbourhood in Baltimore, with the researchers “consciously locating [their] work within a tradition of community-based research” guided by PAR principles (Gadsby and

Chidester 2007:223-224). Its use in the context of building theory and method for indigenous archaeology has also been advocated (Atalay 2006b; 2007; 2008, 2012). In particular, Paolo Freire’s participatory research model holds great potential “to address the challenge of collaboration and engagement with diverse Indigenous communities”

(Atalay 2006b:298). It offers “a way for oppressed groups and, as Freire puts it, those who are in true solidarity with them to struggle for equality and the ability to take an active role in effective change and improvement in their own communities” (Atalay

2006b:298). Its potential for informing community-based projects modelled on indigenous archaeology is considered the same wherever they are employed, whether in

Turkey or the United States (Atalay 2007; 2008). One advocate also deconstructs the

8

Although he makes a salient point, Robinson’s flippant appeal to market the products of archaeology (as in “rainforest shampoo”) in order to benefit descendant communities and fund archaeological research minimizes the political and cultural values placed on archaeology in these communities.

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role of archaeologists as authority figures, such as when mediating contested indigenous views on the analysis and disposition of an archaeological collection recovered from tribal lands in Massachusetts (Kuns 2008).

In their introduction to First Nations Cultural Heritage and Law: Case Studies,

Voices, and Perspectives, Catherine Bell and Val Napoleon describe seven case studies documenting indigenous perspectives on heritage (including archaeology) as representing collaborative research consistent with PAR (Bell and Napoleon 2008b:9; see also Hollowell and Nicholas 2009). Elements are indeed evident in the case studies, though none of the authors themselves make explicit reference to PAR or describe how their research process and outcomes specifically incorporated its methods and principles. Other similar projects have also been described as examples of “communitybased participatory research” or PAR (Hollowell and Nicholas 2009), although the specific methods are not described in detail. Nonetheless, some researchers now advocate PAR, combined with ethnographic methods, as “relevant, useful, and potentially emancipatory in helping a community define its needs regarding the protection and care of tangible and intangible heritage” (Hollowell and Nicholas

2009:144). Most recently, Sonja Atalay (2012) has reviewed the contributions of Sol Tax and Paolo Freire to the development of action archaeology, provides a detailed articulation of the principles of what she calls community-based participatory research, and describes five projects where she has successfully applied the principles of PAR.

Collaborative Inquiry

Collaborative Inquiry (CI) is a participatory model similar to PAR that some champion as the “ideal form of social science practice” and the best formal model and best-developed vision for collaborative archaeological research (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:9). Collaborative Inquiry is described as research conducted with people, as opposed to on or about people as research subjects (see Bray et al. 2000). It requires that scholars endorse transparent partnership throughout the entire research process, adhering to the principles of participation and democracy. It encourages teamwork, wherein a group of peers from multiple communities aim to find answers to questions important to all of them. Through repeated cycles of reflection and action, often during group meetings, these peers correct each other’s reasoning, perceptions, and attitudes. Last, they submit questions that they all deem important, “although

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typically the individuals initiating the work pose a question that is then negotiated among the participants” (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:9). In practical terms, CI follows four basic steps: “forming a group of co-researchers, creating the conditions for group learning, acting on the inquiry question, and making meaning by constructing group knowledge” (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:9).

Although some contemporary forms of PAR and CI are notably similar (see

McIntyre 2008), the latter “aspires” to go further (Bray et al. 2000:38; Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:9-10). PAR focusses on “liberation” and communal

“problem-solving,” but it still gathers “conventional data on populations” and depends on standard scientific method to answer research questions (Bray et al. 2000; Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b). Its vocabulary of liberation and communal action bears the strong imprint of Paulo Freire, but what works in marginalized Brazilian communities may not be suited to other jurisdictions where political struggle and social development concerns are less paramount. Conversely, CI springs forth from personal reflection, with “understanding and constructing meaning around experience” leading to personal development, enhanced practice, or problem-solving (Bray et al. 2000:38).

John Dewey’s idea of human experience and reflection as the essential conditions for learning and knowledge and Husserl’s phenomenological concept of “life-world” are cited as philosophical influences on the practice of CI (Bray et al. 2000:20-23). Moreover, participants consist of a group of peers in which no individual has greater authority or leadership. As such, Collaborative Inquiry “extends collaboration by focusing on the personal experiences of the researchers in addition to standard scholarly methodologies, building broad understanding, not merely specific problem-solving, and explicitly establishing the group of co-researchers as a group of peers (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008:10).

In contrast, the PAR model often involves better-educated researchers transferring knowledge, skills and abilities to participants (Bray et al. 2000). CI attempts to break down the researcher/participant distinction inherent to most forms of PAR, and puts researchers and community members on equal footing as participants. This latter point of peers vs. authority figures is perhaps the most significant difference between these forms of practice.

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Despite some initial applications of participatory practice, the full potential of PAR and CI “is a more ambitious vision of collaborative practice than is typically advocated in archaeology” (Wylie 2009:7). Although community-based archaeology has much in common with the concepts of PAR, the former is generally more weighted towards answering research questions, while the latter is more explicitly directed towards “real world” problems. To some degree, the emphasis on research questions in communitybased archaeology serves the interests of academics to a greater degree than it does the interests of communities. As such, PAR and CI surpasses the goal of “equal participation” advocated by collaborative practice by potentially transferring a greater degree of authority to the community.

Participatory action research in archaeology shares a theoretical foundation with community-based and indigenous archaeologies in that it too is a form of critical archaeology, one that is based on both gaining knowledge of the world, and critiquing the world (McGuire 2008:3). However, PAR goes beyond some critical archaeologies by advocating taking action in the world, to effect political and social change, what McGuire

(2008:3) calls “praxis” or “theoretically informed action.” Praxis becomes “emancipatory” when it advances the interests of the marginalized and oppressed against those of the dominant and powerful (McGuire 2008:3), but it is collaboration that is key to (McGuire

2008:8). Thus, participatory action archaeologies, like indigenous archaeologies, offer strong examples of how praxis can be achieved in contemporary archaeology, in that they have the potential to transform and decolonize the discipline while supporting the interests of indigenous and descendant communities. They are at once politically selfconscious as well as collaborative with local people (McGuire 2008:36). Moreover, through such “emancipatory” and “liberating” forms of practice, local communities can deconstruct the myth of a single, common, national heritage, and replace the legacy of oppression and exploitation with one that respects their dignity and rights (McGuire

2008:36). Likewise, the key facets of successful praxis in the context of Indigenous peoples include serving the interests of communities, relying on collaboration, promoting multi-vocality, and creating tangible benefits for people (McGuire 2008:80). The principles of participatory action, collaboration, and praxis offer perhaps the best options for archaeological practice to accommodate indigenous perspectives, and for indigenous communities to make archaeology their own.

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Chapter Summary: Models of Community Engagement

In this chapter, I have reviewed the principles and criteria that characterize the practice of community-based, indigenous, and participatory action archaeologies. Each approach serves as a potential model for transforming practice and enhancing indigenous engagement in archaeology, but a number of observations emerge illustrating the advantages and disadvantages of each form of practice. Communitybased archaeology, as currently practiced and portrayed in the literature, originated in an academic setting, is advocated by professional (but generally non-indigenous) archaeologists, and, despite its good intentions, still tends to serve the interests of the discipline. In North American and Australia, on the other hand, collaborative practice originated from the intersection and interaction of CRM with indigenous communities, often in the context of repatriation issues. Although this precipitated a substantial degree of engagement for Indigenous peoples, collaboration remains largely reactionary to outside interests and objectives, while the archaeology itself is generally practiced in the service of regulatory and resource management aims.

Community-based archaeologies share many elements and objectives with the emerging practice of indigenous archaeology, but important differences exist.

Community-based archaeology in the context of indigenous communities encourages participation and equity, whereas indigenous archaeology emphasizes control and sovereignty. Even though the initial conceptualization of indigenous archaeologies may have originated in the academic and CRM realms, its primary motivation stems from the political struggles of marginalized communities. Practicing indigenous archaeology is often overtly political and partisan, and has the potential for excluding equal participation and minimizing inter-stakeholder discourse. This exposes an underlying dichotomy in terms of the social and political objectives of these practices: community-based archaeology can be seen as serving research and career interests of academics, while indigenous archaeology addresses the political aspirations of Indigenous communities.

Given underlying issues of power and authority, the perspectives and aspirations of indigenous communities are more often in line with the political orientation of indigenous archaeology. The intent of their involvement in archaeology fits better within a

“resistance mode,” used to confront illegitimate or hegemonic forces (Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b), and less so the ideal of collaboration. Further, to some, the idea of collaboration has the unsavoury connotation of traitorous cooperation

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with an enemy, which could undermine its equitable intent (Silliman 2008b:4). In this sense, the ideals of collaboration could be seen to be at odds with the goal of shifting the balance of power from the research community to the descendant community.

Conversely, participatory action archaeologies attempt to mediate between the tension of collaboration versus control through the vehicles of reflexive inquiry and emancipatory action. These archaeologies explicitly attempt to dissolve the distinctions between researchers and community participants, and use research as a catalyst for action to create social change. Its principles go some way to breaking down the role of archaeologists as authority figures, so that “true” collaboration with equitable power relations and consensual decision-making becomes the ultimate goal. Even so, collaboration in PAR projects may often be less democratic than alleged, with the greater part of power and benefits still residing with the outside researcher. Likewise, unreflexive participatory research can also reinforce the interests of the already powerful within communities (Cooke and Kothari 2001). For participatory action archaeologies to be truly effective, then, “potential power imbalances must be identified and challenged”

(Hollowell and Nicholas 2009).

Some forms of PAR explicitly advocate counter-hegemonic action even if it sacrifices the ideal of collaboration, creating the conundrum of shifting power to communities at the expense of equitable power-sharing. This manifestation may better serve the political and social aspirations of communities, with a transfer of skills as well as authority. Conventional archaeological practice tends to avoid issues of indigenous participation and control. Confronting the issue of power relations through participatory action archaeologies has the potential to address the aspiration of “control” over heritage often present in indigenous communities, while bridging the research interests of archaeologists and communities and maintaining a place and role for non-indigenous practitioners. Ultimately, it is through the principles of PAR and emancipatory praxis that we may find space to reconcile archaeological practice and indigenous aspirations for participation and control.

Recognizing the tension between participation and control is a key aspect of conceptualizing and understanding indigenous engagement in archaeological practice and heritage stewardship. One of the objectives of this dissertation is evaluating the degree and effectiveness of St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux engagement in archaeological

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practice, both historically and in the present, and identifying potential approaches for better meeting the heritage stewardship aspirations of these nations. Although community and indigenous archaeologies are useful models for contextualizing this engagement, participatory action archaeology may offer a better model for transforming practice and bridging the heritage stewardship agenda of indigenous communities and the discipline of archaeology.

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Chapter 3.

First Nations and Archaeological Practice in British Columbia

Ethical and political trends affecting the discipline of archaeology worldwide have had an impact in British Columbia, changing the relationship between Indigenous communities and archaeology, and contributing to the transformation of practice. By the late 1970s,

Indigenous political revitalization had coincided with the rise of conservation archaeology and cultural resource management (CRM) in British Columbia (Mohs 1987; Schaepe

2007; Spurling 1986), just as it did elsewhere in Canada, Australia, and the United

States (Smith 2004). As Indigenous peoples in the province were exposed to the discipline and its practice, the potential application of archaeology to issues of indigenous title and rights was recognized (Mohs 1987; Wickwire 1992). In turn, First

Nation organizations actively lobbied for the protection of their archaeological and heritage, calling for greater participation in heritage stewardship and petitioning the province for heritage laws that better reflect their values and concerns (Apland 1993:18;

De Paoli 1999:38). Despite this political involvement on the provincial level, most individual indigenous communities in British Columbia had little direct involvement in archaeology until the 1990s.

Over the last two decades, indigenous communities in the province have increased their involvement in CRM and the archaeological assessment process, with this shift arising from a number of political, legal, and disciplinary developments (Budhwa et al. 2008; Klassen et al. 2009). Significant legal decisions defining indigenous title and rights and the fiduciary duties of the Crown resulted in changes in heritage regulatory requirements in the resource sectors (primarily in the forest industry). This in turn led to escalating conflicts between First Nations and CRM practitioners, industry, and the province, culminating in responses that involved direct actions, legal challenges,

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negotiated protocols (including treaty negotiations), land-use agreements, and community-based heritage departments and protocols.

This history of community activism has shifted power relations, and forced CRM

(and academic) practitioners in the province to take steps to reform ethics and transform practice. Significant strides have been made to recognize concerns expressed by

Indigenous peoples and improve their participation in and contributions to research and management (Klassen et al. 2009). While these trends are now filtering into the archaeological discourse in British Columbia, the provincial experience did not evolve in isolation. Coinciding with these local changes has been the global development of collaborative and indigenous archaeologies, which are at once complementary and contradictory in terms of their goals and motivations (see Chapter 2).

In this chapter, I provide an overview of indigenous involvement in archaeology in

British Columbia from the 1970s onwards, and describe the impact of this engagement on heritage legislation, CRM practice, and archaeological ethics in the province. I begin with a brief historical and theoretical context for this transformation, focussing on the practice of CRM in North America. I then provide a short history of heritage legislation in

British Columbia and the indigenous critique of these laws. Next, I review First Nation responses to the process and practice of CRM in the province. I end the chapter with a discussion of evolving stewardship ethics and its potential impacts on archaeological practice in British Columbia. These developments chart an evolving relationship between

Indigenous peoples and the practice of archaeology in British Columbia, a practice that has increasingly transformed from demands to dialogue.

Transformation in Context

The indigenous encounter with archaeology in North America has existed for as long as the practice of the discipline on the continent. For much of this time, this experience has been characterized by an imbalance of power, where little direct involvement or control rested with the people whose past was being studied. With their growing political organization and influence from the late 1960s onwards, Indigenous peoples in North America and in settler societies around the world have increasingly demanded a greater role in, and more control over, archaeological practice and its

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products (Atalay 2006b; Ferguson 1996; McGuire 1992, 2008; Nicholas 2008; Smith and

Jackson 2006; Smith 2006; Trigger 1997; Watkins 2003, 2005; Yellowhorn 1996, 2006).

In the United States, the critique of archaeology by Indigenous peoples and their subsequent demands for greater control over archaeological practice emerged from issues of repatriation of sacred objects and reburial of ancestral remains (see Atalay

2006b; Downer 1997; Ferguson 1996; Killion 2007a; McGuire 2008; Smith 2004;

Watkins 2000, 2004). In this contentious environment, anthropologists and archaeologists were often vilified, and the potential benefits of archaeology dismissed and at times misrepresented (Custer 2005; Ferguson 1996; Lippert 2007; Nicholas and

Andrews 1997b; Norder 2007; Trigger 1997; Watkins 2005; Zimmerman 2007). As the repatriation debate raged, Native Americans were also exposed to the practice of cultural resource management (CRM), encouraging a number of groups to develop programs designed to protect their own heritage (Stapp 2007; Stapp and Burney 2002;

Watkins 2000; Zimmerman 2007).

Following the passage of the federal Native American Graves Protection and

Repatriation Act in 1990 and amendments to the National Historic Preservation Act in

1992, Native Americans in the United States began exercising even more influence and control over the practice of archaeology, particularly on federal and reservation lands

(Stapp and Burney 2002; Watkins 2000, 2007). This shift in power has reached the point where some tribal groups now control archaeology on their lands, albeit within the larger strictures of authority imposed by the state and largely within the parameters of conventional archaeological practice (Stapp and Burney 2002; Watkins 2007; Welch

2000; Welch et al. 2006). Numerous tribes have established Tribal Historic Preservation

Offices and have assumed the responsibilities of the State Historic Preservation Officers for their tribal lands. However, the rise of Native American control over heritage is more than just about power or motivated by politics, but stems from deeply held cultural values about sacred places, objects, and ancestors (Lippert 2006; McGuire 1992; Nabokov

2002; Watkins 2000:xi). Informed by these values, the repatriation and reburial debate has had a significant impact on archaeology in the United States and elsewhere, by shifting ethics, transforming practice, encouraging collaboration, and contributing to the development of what has become known as indigenous archaeology (Colwell-

Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b; Killion 2007b; Lippert 2006, 2007, 2008; Watkins

2007; Zimmerman 2007); indeed, some believe repatriation and related processes will

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“rank with other historic movements that have acted to change the face of the field”

(Killion 2007b:5).

A similar trend, shifting the balance of participation and control, has been underway in British Columbia, though following a somewhat different trajectory. Although conflicts over ancestral remains and ownership of heritage also have played a part here, the practice and politics of archaeology in British Columbia is entangled within the greater battle over Aboriginal title and rights (Bell 2001; Nicholas 2006; Nicholas et al.

2008a).

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Within most of Canada, historic treaties have severely curtailed indigenous jurisdiction, on- and off-reserve, and archaeological heritage and CRM is primarily governed by provincial legislation. As a consequence, archaeological issues have rarely been high on the political agenda elsewhere in this country, with the notable exception of the northern territories. On the other hand, few treaties have been signed in British

Columbia due to the historical particulars of its colonial past and its subsequent late entry into confederation, making the history of indigenous engagement in archaeological practice and heritage stewardship in this province unique from other jurisdictions in

Canada and North America (Apland 1993; Bell 2001; Ferris 2003; Klimko and Wright

2000; Nicholas 2006; Schaepe 2007; Watkins 2005). The lack of treaties has led to frequent court challenges relating to issues of Aboriginal title and rights, and archaeological issues have been raised occasionally in negotiations with the province

(Klassen 2008a; Klassen et al. 2009). A formal treaty process was not established until

1993, and although only a few treaties have been successfully negotiated, “heritage chapters” have been an integral part of all the agreements.

In the absence of treaties (with their putative legal certitude over heritage

“resources”), the contemporary indigenous dispute with archaeology in British Columbia began with critiques of provincial heritage legislation, and has escalated in the context of increasing resource development and land use conflicts (Klassen 2008a; Klassen et al.

2009; Nicholas 2006). As a result, indigenous criticisms over the use and abuse of archaeology in British Columbia have been largely directed at provincial resource ministries, industrial developers, and the overall practice of CRM. In this context,

9

This is not to suggest that repatriation and reburial is not important to First Nations in British

Columbia or that it has not been a contentious issue; however, the impact on archaeological practice has been arguably less dramatic, and it has not led to substantive regulatory changes.

54

jurisdiction over heritage stewardship, and its legislative basis, has become part of the greater ongoing battle over Aboriginal title and rights in the province (Klassen 2008a;

Klimko and Wright 2000).

First Nations and Heritage Legislation in British Columbia

Several generations of laws and regulations protecting archaeological heritage have appeared in British Columbia since the 1860s (Table 1). The Indian Graves

Ordinance (1865; amended 1867), enacted by the pre-Confederation government of the

Colony of British Columbia, was one of the first laws designed to protect cultural heritage in North America. Ostensibly intended to prevent the “violation” of indigenous graves and grave goods, this statute was “not meant to establish the rights of Indians; instead, the items mentioned were described as Crown property” (Yellowhorn 1996:33). Although repealed in 1886 by the post-Confederation federal government (Apland 1993), this law set the precedent for the assertion of Crown ownership of indigenous heritage in British

Columbia.

In 1925, British Columbia became the first Canadian province to enact heritage legislation (Burley 1994). Although the proximal motivation for the Historic Objects

Preservation Act was a belated attempt at stopping the rampant collection of totem poles and other ethnographic objects by foreign collectors (Cole 1985; Spurling 1986), the Act also legitimized the Crown’s confiscation and ownership of indigenous material culture

(Yellowhorn 1999b). The Historic Objects Preservation Act appeared shortly after the conclusion of the nefarious Cranmer potlatch trial of 1922, which authorized the confiscation of associated ethnographic objects in an effort to suppress First Nation gatherings (Cole 1985). Subsequently, the federal government incorporated similar provisions in Section 109 of the revised Indian Act of 1927, but in this case also prohibiting the acquisition, removal, or defacement of rock art along with specific types of ethnographic objects without ministerial approval. Again, this section of the Indian Act codifies the Crown’s assertion of title over indigenous heritage, but another motivation of the provision was to prevent civil servants from entering into a conflict of interest by trading with Indigenous peoples (Yellowhorn 1999a).

In all three cases, “the impetus for these laws was protecting the cultural patrimony of the province, not the cultural heritage of First Nations” (Nicholas 2006:356).

55

Regardless of the motivations for these statutes, however, the Historic Objects

Preservation Act and Section 109 of the Indian Act (1927) created a limited basis for heritage protection in British Columbia.

Table 1. Historical Development of Heritage Legislation in British Columbia

Statute

Indian Graves Ordinance,

1865 [repealed and replaced

1867; repealed 1886]

Historic Objects Preservation

Act [1925; amended 1948]

Indian Act [1927, s. 109; with amendments to 1985, s. 91]

Archaeological and Historical

Sites Protection Act [1960; amended 1972]

Heritage Conservation Act

[1977; amended 1979]

Heritage Conservation Act

[1994; amended 1996]

Jurisdiction

Colony of British

Columbia

Province of British

Columbia

Government of

Canada

Province of British

Columbia

Province of British

Columbia

Province of British

Columbia

Comments

Prohibited the collection of indigenous human remains and associated articles, and declared them property of the Crown

(Apland 1993; Yellowhorn 1996, 1999b).

Provides for the designation and protection of rock art, structures, and objects as “historic objects” (Apland 1993;

Burley 1994; Spurling 1986; Yellowhorn 1999b).

Prevents the removal or disturbance of any Indian grave house, carved grave pole, totem pole, carved house post, or rock embellished with paintings or carvings on Indian reserves, except by permission of the Minister (Burley 1994; Spurling

1986; Yellowhorn 1999a).

Required a permit to conduct archaeological work, and incorporated a list of “automatically” protected site types, as well as a “catch-all” category of “other archaeological remains”; only applied to provincial Crown land, with limited administrative capability for implementation and enforcement

(Apland 1993; Carlson 1970; De Paoli 1999; Spurling 1986).

Extended legislative authority over archaeological heritage to private land, but removed the “other” category, greatly diminishing the range of archaeological heritage protected by legislation. Enforcement hampered by statute of limitations restrictions, and by limited provision for penalties (Apland

1993).

See body of chapter.

The Archaeological and Historical Sites Protection Act

The Archaeological and Historical Sites Protection Act (AHSPA), enacted in

1960, represented the first comprehensive legislation protecting archaeological sites in

British Columbia (Apland 1993). It required that a provincial permit be obtained prior to conducting archaeological work, and it also incorporated a list of “automatically” protected site types, including a catch-all category of “other archaeological remains.”

The law also created the Archaeological Sites Advisory Board (ASAB), composed of government, academic, and general public representatives, tasked with coordinating archaeological activity in the province, administering the heritage legislation, and advising the government on archaeological matters. However, the AHSPA only applied

56

to provincial Crown land, and a lack of administrative capability hindered its implementation and enforcement (Apland 1993).

Archaeology in British Columbia during the 1960s and early 1970s emphasized research and “salvage,” with limited attention paid to “management” or conservation.

Engagement with indigenous communities was superficial, though some archaeologists in British Columbia consulted elders and other community members in order to obtain ethnographic information and local knowledge (Apland 1993; Carlson 1979; Nicholas

2006). Typically, indigenous men were retained as fieldworkers, although this participation was seldom acknowledged in reports or publications. However, this era was a time of increasing indigenous political organization and influence in British Columbia

(Tennant 1990), leading to greater demands for input into all aspects of government policy and practice, including that pertaining to archaeology (Archaeological Society of

British Columbia 1973; Carlson 1979; Yellowhorn 1996). By 1973, the ASAB had appointed two indigenous representatives to the Board in recognition of their vested interests in the archaeological record (Carlson 1979:146). Shortly thereafter, the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs presented the ASAB with 16 recommendations pertaining to archaeology, the majority of which were approved (Carlson 1979:146). The most significant policy arising from the recommendations was one that required permission from indigenous communities before permits were issued, which was apparently already a “working policy” of the Board. Another policy acknowledged that all recovered artifacts were held in trust for First Nations, albeit without defining what “in trust” really means or resolving the question of Aboriginal title or ownership.

The Heritage Conservation Act of 1977

By the mid 1970s, the “cultural resource management” (CRM) concept had been thoroughly embraced by bureaucrats and archaeologists in British Columbia. In this period, a dramatic increase in CRM activities and the growing disciplinary emphasis on the conservation archaeology ethic contributed to the enactment of new provincial legislation and regulations (Apland 1993; Spurling 1986). Following significant amendments to the AHSPA in 1972, the provincial government established a Provincial

Archaeologist’s Office (PAO) with the mandate to oversee the provincial archaeological impact assessment process. Throughout this decade, the responsibility for planning and conducting inventories and impact assessments routinely fell to universities and the PAO

57

(Fladmark 1981). However, the regulatory requirements of CRM demanded new legislation, and partly in response to this need the AHSPA was replaced by the Heritage

Conservation Act (HCA) in 1977 (De Paoli 1999; Spurling 1986). Including “heritage conservation” in the name of the new statute was significant, as it reflected the continental shift in heritage management from “salvage archaeology” to “conservation archaeology” with its accompanying focus on large-scale impact assessments and inventories (Fladmark 1981; Lipe 1974).

The HCA extended legislative authority over archaeological heritage to apply to private land, created a Heritage Trust to use private and public funds to encourage conservation and use of heritage properties, established the Heritage Conservation

Branch to administer the act (replacing the PAO), and replaced the ASAB with the

Provincial Heritage Advisory Board (Apland 1993; Spurling 1986). As a result, the First

Nation policies of the ASAB were rescinded (Mohs 1994). Conversely, the new act removed the catch-all “other archaeological remains” category, thereby diminishing the range of archaeological heritage “automatically” protected by legislation (Apland 1993).

Enforcement of the HCA was also hampered by statute of limitations restrictions, and by the limited provision for penalties (Apland 1993).

The new Heritage Conservation Branch increased efforts to inventory archaeological sites, and as the decade drew to a close it was directly involved in all aspects of archaeology in the province, including the bulk of field assessments and heritage inventories (Fladmark 1981). However, fiscal restraint in the early 1980s reduced the capacity of the Branch to undertake inventories and assessments, leading to the adoption of the “proponent pays” model, whereby developers directly contracted private consultants for impact assessments (Apland 1993). With this change came a shift away from government- and university-directed CRM projects, and a rapid increase in the number of consulting firms (Apland 1993; Fladmark 1993). Influenced by the conservation archaeology ethic and CRM developments in the United States (Apland

1993), the Heritage Conservation Branch drafted guidelines in 1982 to standardize and regulate the impact assessment process for the growing ranks of consultants.

To this point, an indigenous role in creating new provincial legislation and regulations was almost non-existent. Indigenous peoples were not involved in drafting the 1977 legislation or the 1982 guidelines, while consultation with affected communities

58

was left to the discretion of archaeologists (De Paoli 1999; Klassen 2008a; Mohs 1994).

As CRM rose in prominence in the 1970s and 1980s, little contact existed between archaeologists and indigenous communities, even as the latter insisted on greater levels of consultation (Apland 1993). At the same time, indigenous leaders lobbied for recognition and protection for a broader range of their heritage sites, including culturally modified trees, traditional resource gathering locales, and spiritual sites (Apland 1993;

Mohs 1994; Stryd and Eldridge 1993; Wickwire 1992).

By the 1980s, archaeological and heritage issues had become major factors in a number of high-profile conflicts between indigenous communities and the province concerning indigenous title and rights (Klassen et al. 2009). Disputes over forestry plans on Meares Island and Gwaii Haanas (Angelbeck 2008; Apland 1993), CN Rail twin tracking in the Fraser Canyon (Bernick 1984; Mohs 1994), logging plans in the Stein valley (Wickwire 1992), and road construction at the Vallican site in the Slocan valley

(Pryce 1999) all revolved around the impact of proposed development activities on archaeological and heritage sites (see also Blomley 1996; Ross 2005). As a result of these events, archaeologists and regulators belatedly recognized that indigenous involvement in archaeology, heritage legislation, and the impact assessment process was necessary (Apland 1993; Burley 1994; Mohs 1994; Spurling 1988; see also

Yellowhorn 1996).

“Project Pride” and the Amended HCA

From the late 1970s onward, the ASAB and the Heritage Conservation Branch had recommended changes to the HCA (Apland 1993; Spurling 1986), but these proposals went unheeded until after a provincial election in 1986 brought in a new leader and cabinet (Apland 1993). The next year, a review of the HCA, entitled “Project Pride,” was launched, and indigenous input on provincial heritage legislation was finally sought

(Apland 1993; De Paoli 1999; Klassen et al. 2009). A preliminary discussion paper was mailed to indigenous communities and tribal councils throughout the province, yeilding a strong response advocating their involvement in archaeological management (Apland

1993).

Recommendations arising from Project Pride included stronger protection for archaeological sites, recognition that ownership of artifacts belonged with descendant peoples, and a greater and more meaningful role in heritage stewardship for indigenous

59

communities. Moreover, there were provisions to protect cultural landscapes and contexts, as well as natural features with cultural value (Project Pride Task Force 1987).

In a subsequent discussion paper, frustrations with the limitations imposed by existing legislation were expressed:

Of more fundamental concern to the Native community is that the existing system is geared more towards protecting sites and objects as archaeological resources–sites and specimens for the scientific study of past cultures–rather than as the cultural legacy of a living people.

Increasingly, the Native people in British Columbia are demanding stewardship responsibility for their heritage and culture. [British Columbia

1991b:1]

Several “white papers” with draft bills attempted to address shortcomings identified by indigenous leaders, including provisions for statutory protection for all “precontact” sites; protection of landmarks and natural features; consideration of the views, interests and cultural values of indigenous communities as part of management decisions; recognition of other heritage values in addition to archaeological ones; creation of an advisory committee with indigenous members; and recognition of indigenous ownership for human remains and grave goods (British Columbia 1990,

1991a). Even with these suggested changes, the province’s commitment to joint stewardship remained tepid, and the Crown continued to assert ownership of heritage sites and objects (Mason and Bain 2003). In many ways the Project Pride recommendations were ahead of their time and presaged disciplinary currents that would not become commonplace for another decade. Ultimately, however, it represented a lost opportunity because when the new Heritage Conservation Act was proclaimed in

1994 (amended 1996) it failed to include most of the recommended changes (Klassen

2008a; Klassen et al. 2009).

Nonetheless, the new HCA included a number of significant improvements. For example, the legislation prevailed over other statutes, expanded the protection of archaeological sites, and incorporated provisions for agreements with indigenous communities. However, the new legislation did not provide for a greater indigenous role in the archaeological stewardship process, nor did it resolve the question of ownership of heritage objects or even ancestral remains (Mason and Bain 2003; McLay 2007). The amended HCA only extended automatic protection to physical sites older than 1846

(with some exceptions), thereby continuing to significantly limit the range of regulated

60

heritage. Moreover, the amendments did not include any specific requirements for meaningful consultation with First Nations prior to permit issuance, archaeological research, impact assessments, or management actions.

In the end, the amended HCA continued to facilitate the “management” of a nonrenewable “resource” primarily for its scientific value. It defined heritage as any objects or sites with “heritage value” to a community or an Indigenous peoples (where heritage values consist of the historical, cultural, aesthetic, scientific, or educational worth or usefulness of a site or object).

10

Despite this broad definition, only physical, pre-AD 1846 archaeological sites and objects are regulated by the HCA. Operational guidelines refer exclusively to “archaeological resources,” and identify one of the primary objectives of

“archaeological resource management” as preserving “representative samples of the province's archaeological resources for the scientific and educational benefit of present and future generations” (Apland and Kenny 1998; emphasis added). In this sense, implementation of the HCA did not protect heritage (or rights to heritage) for the benefit of Indigenous peoples, but instead placed the interests of archaeologists and the public at large above those of First Nation communities (Bryce 2008; Klassen 2008a; Klassen et al. 2009).

The First Nation Critique

In some respects, the HCA is a strong piece of legislation–notably due to its equal authority on public and private land, the “automatic” regulation of specific archaeological site types, and its potential for administering substantial penalties. It also has provisions for designating specific “heritage sites” (potentially including “traditional use,” ceremonial, or sacred sites) under Section 9, while “Section 4 agreements” with a

First Nation may be used to establish a schedule of protected heritage sites and objects of particular cultural value to Indigenous peoples. First Nations are often strong advocates of the HCA, and many recognize its potential for protecting their heritage.

Despite its apparent strengths, critics have identified its limitations and also cite the province’s failure to effectively implement the law (see Barney and Klassen 2008;

Bell 2001; Bell et al. 2008a; Bell et al. 2008b; Bryce 2008; Budhwa 2005; Dady 2008; De

10

Even though the operational guidelines identify “ethnic significance” as the traditional, social or religious importance of a site to a particular group or community, this valuation only applies to regulated archaeological sites and does not extend to other forms of heritage.

61

Paoli 1999; First Nations Leadership Council 2012; Klassen 2008a; Klassen et al. 2009;

Klimko and Wright 2000; La Salle and Hutchings 2012; Mason and Bain 2003; McLay

2007, 2011; McLay et al. 2008; Nicholas and Markey 2002; Ormerod 2004; Sayers et al.

2011; Schaepe 2007; Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs 2005).

11

Key criticisms of the HCA from the perspective of Indigenous peoples include the limited range of automatically regulated heritage, the silence on ownership and title (particularly for ancestral remains), the lack of provisions preventing the buying and selling of artifacts, the absence of mandatory impact assessment requirements, the lack of delegated investigation and enforcement powers, and the lack of a meaningful decision-making role for First Nations.

These critics also note the lack of integration with the provincial consultation process, the reticence to negotiate Section 4 agreements, inconsistent implementation of the assessment process among different ministries, the absence of compliance monitoring

(both in terms of archaeological permits and management recommendations), and the lack of effective enforcement.

Many First Nations believe that their heritage deserves better care and protection, and think customary ways and laws offer a more appropriate and respectful basis for stewardship (see Bell and Napoleon 2008a; Klassen 2008a; Sayers et al.

2011). The current HCA, through Section 4, acknowledges that Indigenous peoples may have a cultural relationship to particular heritage sites and objects, and leaves room for some limited form of co-management over these sites.

12

However, it does not define a role for indigenous communities in terms of collaborative stewardship, nor does it provide a process for meaningful consultation or for addressing the question of ownership.

11

See Chapters 4 and 6 for specific St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux perspectives on, and their detailed criticisms of, the HCA and the archaeological assessment process.

12

A number of commentators have argued that Section 4 and 9 provisions of the HCA are sufficient to protect the full range of heritage sites that are of concern to indigenous communities, and that the real issue is not changing the act but implementing these provisions (see Dady 2008:8). Critics, however, have noted that Section 4 provisions for agreements with First Nations have never been implemented (De Paoli 1999; Budhwa 2005;

Klassen 2008; Mason and Bain 2003; McLay et al. 2008; Sayers et al. 2011). This may signify reluctance on the part of the province to engage in this form of co-management; indeed, the Archaeology Branch has apparently received legal opinions throwing into doubt the viability of some aspects of this section (see Dady 2008:8). Moreover, the complex process for designating sites is far more difficult to implement than the “automatic” protection offered to specific sites listed under Section 13. It also puts the onus (and financial burden) on Aboriginal communities to identify and document heritage sites and advocate for their designation, a time-consuming and costly process.

62

To a large degree, the flaws and limitations of the existing legislation have motivated First Nations to demand greater participation in, and assert more active control over, the archaeological assessment process. Moreover, many feel that progress could be made on collaborative heritage stewardship if the province recognizes and respects Aboriginal title (Sayers et al. 2011). In the end, the revised HCA in itself did not substantively alter the practice of consulting archaeology in the province, nor did it improve the role for First Nations. Rather, the dramatic changes that occurred in the

1990s were largely a political response to growing conflicts between resource development pressures (particularly forestry) and indigenous groups, as well as the

Delgamuukw and other court decisions commenting on their rights.

First Nation Responses to Legislation and CRM

Since 1990, the practice of archaeology in British Columbia has been marked by a dramatic increase in the participation of First Nations in archaeological resource management, and indigenous communities have increasingly reacted to issues and concerns with CRM and provincial heritage legislation (e.g., Budhwa 2005; Carr-Locke

2004; De Paoli 1999; Hoffmann 2000; Klassen et al. 2009; Nicholas 2006; Schaepe

2007). Responses have included legal actions targeting specific limitations in the HCA, negotiations to improve its implementation, and demands for legislative changes (Bell

2001; Sayers et al. 2011), ultimately challenging the fundamental legal and ethical foundations of the HCA. First nations also reacted to the archaeological assessment process itself with direct actions and legal injunctions against proposed developments

(Hoffmann 2000; Ross 2005). Conversely, proactive measures have been taken to mitigate, if not circumvent, the limitations of the HCA and the provincial assessment process, including heritage policies and processes, negotiated heritage protocols with industry, municipalities, and ministries, and participation in higher-level provincial landuse planning (Hammond 2009). To some degree, all of these responses had their genesis in court decisions in the 1990s that recognized indigenous rights, and the subsequent changes to legislation and regulations that brought archaeologists and the province into greater contact with First Nations.

63

The Delgamuukw Case

Heritage stewardship aspirations of First Nations in the province have been greatly aided by judgements stemming from the Delgamuukw v. British Columbia court case (De Paoli 1999:135; Klimko et al. 1998; Klimko and Wright 2000; Persky 1998:6-8).

The 1991 Delgamuukw decision in the British Columbia Supreme Court identified the province’s fiduciary responsibilities relating to traditional indigenous cultural practices on

Crown land. Two years later, the decision in the British Columbia Court of Appeal ruled that Aboriginal rights are protected, and that the province cannot unjustifiably infringe on these rights. Although criticized by First Nations and anthropologists for their denial of the evidentiary weight of oral traditions (Cruikshank 1992; Miller 2011; Ridington 1992), the Delgamuukw rulings forced the province to address “traditional use” concerns in planning. In other words, before development on Crown land can occur the province must first determine if Aboriginal rights exist, and whether proposed activities would infringe upon those rights. While the legal requirement for consultation with First Nations on matters relating to Aboriginal rights expanded, the “burden of proof” remained with

First Nations (Klimko and Wright 2000).

When this case reached the Supreme Court of

Canada in 1997, the ruling also addressed Aboriginal title and gave oral traditions evidentiary weight (Persky 1998). Later court decisions (Table 2), have grappled with defining consultation and accommodation requirements (see Bell 2001; Ministry of

Aboriginal Relations and Reconciliation 2012; Ross 2005).

The Delgamuukw rulings led to sweeping changes in how the province consulted with First Nations on matters where their rights were at issue. In particular, in the wake of the 1993 in the Court of Appeal, a number of significant revisions to provincial legislation and policies were instituted in an attempt to address the fiduciary responsibilities of the province to First Nations. These changes helped set in motion events and developments that have transformed the practice of archaeology in British

Columbia, and provoked a variety of responses. These responses can be grouped under two related themes: 1) actions challenging the authority and implementation of the HCA, and 2) actions directed at changing the overall archaeological assessment process and implementing alternative heritage stewardship processes.

64

Challenging Heritage Legislation

The provisions and applicability of the HCA have been contested in the courts on several occasions since its enactment (Table 2). In 1994, Sna-naw-as First Nation launched legal action in an attempt to halt further archaeological excavations for proposed developments at Craig Bay after numerous burials were unearthed (Hoffmann

2000). They argued that the British Columbia Cemeteries and Funeral Services Act, and not the HCA, should apply to ancient burials. While the court rejected this argument, it quashed all of the HCA permits issued for the excavation: three under the 1979 legislation, and one under the 1994 act. The latter was overturned because it lacked procedural fairness due to an absence of notification to interested parties. Ultimately,

Sna-naw-as First Nation was unsuccessful in preventing new permits from being issued, but this decision had the effect of compelling the province to include notification of First

Nations as part of the permit application process (De Paoli 1999:49-50). Starting in

January of 1995, those with an interest in an area were notified prior to issuance of archaeology permits, and this operational procedure was subsequently formalized in

1996 (Archaeology Branch 1996 [rev. 1999]), though many First Nations viewed this notification as inadequate since it does not constitute meaningful consultation (De Paoli

1999:46). To date, the onus for consultation still largely falls to consulting archaeologists.

In 1998, the Kitkatla Band challenged the legality of a site alteration permit, asserting that the province had failed to consider all relevant issues and had violated its fiduciary obligations (Bell 2001). The Kitkatla also challenged the constitutionality of the

HCA, arguing that it dealt with matters outside the jurisdiction of the province. According to this argument, “Aboriginal heritage objects and sites are integral aspects of contemporary Aboriginal culture and identity” (Bell 2001:255). Under Section 91(24) of the Canadian Constitution, these matters should fall under exclusive federal jurisdiction.

Although successful in overturning the original site alteration permit, the Kitkatla constitutional argument was dismissed under appeal (Kitkatla Band v. British Columbia

2000 2 C.N.L.R BCSC 36). When this case reached the Supreme Court of Canada, the court upheld the constitutionality of the HCA to deal with provincial archaeological matters. Although the court recognized that the statute had a disproportionate effect on indigenous heritage objects and sites because the majority of the regulated heritage sites in the province are of indigenous origin, it held that the HCA was a law of general

65

application that treated all people and heritage sites equally, and did not single out

Indigenous peoples or heritage.

Table 2. First Nation Legal Challenges to Provisions and Application of the HCA.

Court Case

Nanoose Indian Band et al. v. British Columbia

and Intrawest et al. No.

94 3420 Victoria Registry

[1994]; decision upheld by the BC Court of

Appeal [V02523 Victoria

Registry 1995].

Kitkatla Band v. British

Columbia (Minister of

Small Business, Tourism and Culture), [2002] 2

S.C.R. 146, 2002 SCC

31

Lax Kw'alaams Indian

Band v. British Columbia

(Minister of Sustainable

Resource Management)

2002 BCSC 1075 [and subsequent appeals]

Decision

• Rescinded a 1994 heritage inspection permit because the province failed in its duty of procedural fairness by not notifying the Band and giving it an opportunity to be heard.

• Ruled that the HCA is a law of general application and does not infringe upon constitutional rights.

• Decided the Cemeteries and Funeral Services Act does not apply to ancient human remains.

• Overturned a 1998 site alteration permit for CMTs, because the province failed to consider all relevant issues and had violated fiduciary obligations.

• Upheld the constitutionality of the HCA, as a law of general application, to deal with provincial archaeological matters.

• Upheld a 2002 site alteration permit for CMTs, and denied that there was a failure to determine if it might infringe on an indigenous right.

• Accepted that there was a duty to consult and accommodate, but ruled this obligation only falls upon the Minister authorizing the infringement, which in this case was the Minister of Forests (and therefore the Archaeology Branch had no duty to consult on a potential infringement).

Comments

Since January of 1995, indigenous communities with an interest in an area are notified prior to issuance of permits. Indigenous communities consider the notification requirements to be inadequate.

The Kitkatla argued that the

HCA is unconstitutional, as indigenous heritage objects and sites go to the core of

“Indianness” and should fall under exclusive federal jurisdiction (Bell 2001:255).

On the basis of this decision, the Archaeology Branch is generally exempt from the requirements for consultation with First Nations (Province of

British Columbia 2010).

In a similar action, in 2002 the Lax Kw’alaams First Nation sought to have a site alteration permit rescinded, which would have allowed the harvest of culturally modified trees. They argued that the Minister responsible for the Archaeology Branch was constitutionally required to carry out consultation and accommodation of the petitioners’ interests prior to issuing such a permit, but had failed to carry out this obligation. The court accepted that there was a duty to consult and accommodate, but ruled this obligation only fell upon the Minister authorizing the infringement. In other words, there was no duty on the part of the Archaeology Branch to consult and accommodate prior to issuance of the site alteration permit as it did not authorize an infringement; the duty to consult and accommodate in this case lay with the Ministry of Forests, which issued the cutting permit. On the basis of this decision, upheld on subsequent appeals, the

Archaeology Branch is considered to be largely exempt from provincial requirements for

66

consultation with First Nations. It should be noted, however, that this exemption is only valid in those cases where another Ministry is ultimately responsible for the decision that would authorize an infringement.

In addition, First Nation leaders have repeatedly called for charges to be laid under the HCA. However, convincing police forces to investigate infractions and persuade Crown Counsel to lay charges has proven difficult. To date, only two prosecutions have been successful, with both occurring in 2007: one case involved a resort developer on a Gulf Island, and the other a large blueberry farm in the lower mainland. Community leaders were instrumental in bringing these infractions to the attention of police, and for providing sufficient evidence to Crown Counsel to warrant charges (Hul'qumi'num Treaty Group 2005; Steele 2007; Watts 2007). These two cases are significant in terms of signalling to First Nations that this law can be successfully enforced. Nonetheless, the fines were well below the maximum allowable and may be ineffective as deterrents, especially in the context of large-scale developments

(Angelbeck 2007).

As legal challenges have met with only limited success, an alternate strategy involves reaching agreements with the province intended to improve implementation of the existing legislation and policies. For example, the Hul'qumi'num Treaty Group and the Ktunaxa Nation Council have negotiated Memoranda of Understanding (MOU) with the province (Hul'qumi'num Treaty Group 2007; Ktunaxa Nation 2004). Such memoranda are intended to improve communication and cooperation with the province, address some of the shortcomings in the administration and operation of the existing provincial legislation, and strengthen the role of indigenous communities in the management process.

However, MOUs operate within the constraints of current legislation and do not tackle the larger issues inherent in the HCA.

For some First Nations, the treaty process holds some hope in the form of culture and heritage chapters that replace the HCA on settlement lands, and may include enhanced measures for the management and protection of heritage sites on nonsettlement lands within the affected traditional territory. For example, the Tsawwassen

(2009) and Maa-nulth (2011) final agreements include a number of key provisions:

• Ownership of artifacts on settlement lands (i.e., lands set aside for First

Nations by treaty).

67

• Transfer of artifacts to First Nations from public institutions.

• Repatriation of “archaeological” human remains and burial objects.

• Development of processes, comparable to provincial processes, for the management of heritage sites on First Nation lands.

• Lists of key sites of cultural and historical significance outside of First Nation lands to be protected through provincial designation or other measures.

• Lists of place names for use in the naming or renaming of geographical features.

These agreements also make provisions for lawmaking on settlement lands (for the purpose of conservation, protection, and management of heritage sites and artifacts), public access to heritage sites, and reburial (or cremation) of “archaeological” human remains. Terms specifying the co-management of heritage sites off of settlement lands, and the ownership and management of artifacts in these areas, are also included.

Given the extraordinarily slow pace of treaty negotiations, and the distinct possibility of failure, another provisional option for addressing heritage stewardship involves “interim measure” agreements. These are negotiated before or during treaty negotiations when an issue requires the urgent attention of the parties or an interest is being affected which could undermine the process. For example, in 2001 the Cowichan

Tribes and the Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group signed a renewable agreement with British

Columbia and Canada to protect 1,700 ha of off-reserve Crown land known as the

Hu’teshatsun sacred site, with the expectation that this provision would be incorporated into the final agreement negotiated through the treaty process (BC Treaty Commission

2001; Ross 2005:188). Despite the potential of interim measures for protecting heritage, few have been signed to date.

Many indigenous leaders see changes to the existing legislation as the best option for addressing problems of heritage stewardship, and they expect the province to undertake meaningful consultation in any future discussions concerning amendments to the HCA (First Nations Leadership Council 2008; Mason and Bain 2003; McLay et al.

2008; Sayers et al. 2011; Union of B.C. Indian Chiefs 2005). While previous efforts of the current government to amend the HCA did not involve meaningful consultation with First

68

Nations,

13

former Premier Gordon Campbell’s “New Relationship” initiative was an opportunity to seek improvements to heritage protection laws. Given the priorities of the current provincial government, changes to this law are not imminent. Nonetheless, when this time comes, the province has committed to undertaking full consultation with all interested parties before considering future amendments to its legislation (Klassen

2008b).

For its part, the First Nations Leadership Council (comprised of representatives from Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs, First Nations Summit, and Assembly of

First Nations-BC) established a joint working group with the province to identify heritage issues and concerns, and create a meaningful role for First Nations in provincial heritage stewardship (Sayers et al. 2011). Its mandate was to work with the province to “improve the protection and conservation of First Nations heritage sites, cultural property, ancient human remains and sacred and spiritual sites” (First Nations Leadership Council 2008).

Goals included making recommendations concerning potential amendments to the HCA, and identifying “culture and heritage site management possibilities within the existing legislative regime” (First Nations Leadership Council 2008). Although amending the statute to recognize Aboriginal title was its ultimate goal, the primary focus of the working group was to develop a process for implementing “Section 4” agreements with

First Nations (Sayers et al. 2011). However, First Nation representatives on the joint working group to withdraw from the process in November of 2012 because they felt that the province refused to move forward on the project and was unwilling to find “solutions to deal with issues arising out of the HCA or protecting First Nations sacred/cultural sites” (First Nations Leadership Council 2012).

Ultimately, amending provincial legislation is irrelevant for those First Nations that do not recognize provincial jurisdiction over lands and resources, including cultural heritage (Klassen 2008a). For them, the real issue is recognizing the indigenous right to exercise authority and jurisdiction over archaeological heritage. Although the Kitkatla were unsuccessful in their court action, a legal (and ethical) basis for future constitutional

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In the fall of 2001, the province held preliminary discussions with stakeholders concerning potential amendments to the HCA intended to “improve the balance” between site protection and private property rights, with the repeal of Section 4 one of the potential outcomes.

Subsequently, in 2003 the province unilaterally amended the HCA by repealing Part 3, pertaining to the British Columbia Heritage Trust. This amendment was made without the input of stakeholders, throwing into doubt the commitment of the province to consult with

Aboriginal communities prior to amending legislation (Mason and Bain 2003).

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challenges to heritage legislation may still exist (Asch 1997; Bell 2001; Ferris 2003).

Indeed, indigenous heritage objects and sites go to the core of “Indianness” as defined by the Canadian constitution (Bell 2001:255), and another aspect of their cultures that is more fundamental to the concept of title is difficult to conceive. Some First Nations will ultimately address this issue through the treaty process, but others will continue to press for recognition of title and rights over their heritage throughout their traditional territories through the courts. Either way, resolving the respective heritage stewardship roles of the province and First Nations on non-settlement and Crown lands remains an issue.

Overall, actions directed towards the HCA by First Nations have had limited effect. The lack of progress on treaties and the inability to make heritage legislation work more effectively for them has compelled many to take alternative actions to improve heritage stewardship. This route has been bolstered by developments in the resource sectors that increased the engagement of First Nations in the heritage stewardship process.

First Nations and Forestry

Perhaps the greatest influence on indigenous involvement in archaeology in

British Columbia came from significant changes to forest legislation and regulations following the 1993 Delgamuukw decision, and the subsequent incorporation of

“archaeological resource management” within forest practices (see Klassen et al. 2009;

Klimko et al. 1998; Nicholas 2006; Perreault 2002). The Heritage Conservation Statutes

Amendment Act of 1994 inserted references to “cultural heritage resources” into a suite of land and resource legislation, including the Coal Act, the Mineral Tenures Act, and the

Forest Act. This in turn contributed to the Protocol Agreement between the Archaeology

Branch and the Ministry of Forests (1994, revised 1996). Prior to the Forestry Protocol, impact assessments were at the discretion of individual Forest District managers, and thus there was no consistent requirement for accommodating archaeological concerns throughout the province (Klimko et al. 1998). The Forestry Protocol defined the roles of the Ministry of Forests (MoF) in terms of compliance with the HCA, and made the MoF responsible for ensuring that archaeological overviews were conducted, Archaeological

Branch requirements were incorporated into plans and documents, and site-specific assessments were undertaken where appropriate.

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Additional amendments to the Forest Act in 1995 addressed the fiduciary duties of the Crown to undertake consultations and brought “cultural heritage resources” into forestry planning. The subsequent Forest Practices Code of British Columbia Act (FPC), proclaimed in 1996, and the Operational Planning Regulation for the FPC specified how heritage resources were to be included in operational planning. The Forest Act and FPC required all types of heritage–traditional, spiritual, and archaeological sites of any age–to be managed during forestry operations, including timber harvesting, road building, and silviculture activities. Specifically, the FPC required the holder of a Forest Licence or

Timber Sale Licence to assess heritage resources before preparing an operational plan for submission to the manager of each Forest District. However, the Forest Act and FPC also gave District Managers wide discretionary powers for determining what an assessment entailed, as the FPC did not specify how assessments were to be undertaken, nor did it define management and protection guidelines.

The consultation requirements in the Forest Act stemming from the Delgamuukw decision contributed to the creation of the Traditional Use Study (TUS) program, intended to gather the necessary land use information for assessing whether development activities might infringe on indigenous rights. The TUS program consolidated and formalized a variety of pre-existing traditional land-use and occupancy approaches (Mason 2013), and was strongly focussed on “site-specific” locations and

“inventory-based” mapping (Markey 2001:9). This approach meshed well with typical archaeological assessment methods, and from the outset consulting firms were involved in many of these studies. In addition to stand-alone studies undertaken by First Nations

(e.g., Nicholas 2006:367), this approach encouraged a number of parallel and complementary archaeological and traditional use assessments (e.g., Ignace et al.

1995).

These legislative and procedural changes had a profound effect on the volume of archaeological work conducted in British Columbia, albeit primarily in a forestry context

(Klassen et al. 2009; Klimko et al. 1998; Nicholas 2006). In the five years following the

1993 Delgamuukw decision, the number of forestry-related archaeological permits issued by the province rose from less than 20 in 1992 to nearly 140 in 1998 (Klimko et al. 1998), with the steepest increase occurring between 1994 and 1995 immediately

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after implementation of the new legislation and regulations.

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Within a few seasons, the area of forest assessed by archaeologists in British Columbia went from a few hundred hectares per year to tens of thousands of hectares, resulting in heightened awareness of

CRM and heritage issues by First Nations and frequent contact with consulting archaeologists. This coincided with the growing indigenous political power and refocussed their interest in heritage management, especially in the context of Aboiginal title and rights.

Initially, scepticism was the prevailing sentiment among many First Nations when encountering consulting archaeologists, whom they felt represented the interests of industry and government. Their suspicion was countered, however, by the realization that the archaeological assessment process could also work for their interests. The heightened interest of First Nations in the archaeological assessment process was, in part, expedient due to the perceived utility of the process as a political tool for slowing down the pace of resource extraction. However, indigenous communities in British

Columbia have always been determined to preserve their heritage, including their archaeological past, for more than political reasons. Profound cultural values include a strong desire to act as stewards over all facets of their heritage and protectors of their ancestors, as well as a need to demonstrate their long-standing cultural and personal connection to the land (Bell et al. 2008a; Bell et al. 2008b; McLay et al. 2008; Mohs

1994; Naxaxalhts'i (McHalsie) 2007; Schaepe 2007). To this end, archaeology offered a useful set of methods, expertise and legal tools to help attain these political and cultural objectives (see Nicholas and Andrews 1997b:3; Yellowhorn 1996:40).

Following the 1993 Delgamuukw ruling and the 1994 Forestry Protocol, some consulting archaeology firms in British Columbia began involving First Nations in forestry archaeology assessment projects. Although cynics have cited political expediency or

“political correctness” in these overtures to First Nations, in many cases genuinely collaborative relationships developed. Archaeological assessments also offered a source of employment for First Nation community members. Although not required by law or regulations, this practice, encouraged by codes of ethics, quickly became standard for

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This trend has continued, with a greater than 350% increase in permits issued between 1998 and 2008 (La Salle and Hutchings 2012). Although the introduction of new regulations in the

Forests and Range Practices Act in 2002 and the economic downturn of 2009 dampened the increase in forestry-related assessments, the forestry sector continues to create the single largest demand for archaeological permits.

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many consulting archaeologists (see Budhwa 2005; De Paoli 1999:96; Hammond and

Kaltenreider 2008). While generally seen as a positive step, a deficit of skilled field workers soon became apparent. To address this situation, the province developed several short archaeology field-training programs, designed specifically for indigenous participants and displaced forestry workers.

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Archaeological fieldwork employment was generally seasonal and short-term, but for many it provided a springboard for increasing the level of community participation and engagement in heritage stewardship. With their new-found experience and awareness, the next step had them seek greater input and control over archaeological assessments.

The level of consultation and the limited participation of indigenous field assistants often fell far short of the degree of community involvement expected by First

Nations (see Budhwa 2005; Carr-Locke 2004; De Paoli 1999; Markey 2001). Even so, these actions went well beyond the limited extent of required provincial consultation (see

Ferris 2003; Flahr 2002), which, for archaeological assessments, only consisted of notification of impending projects and an opportunity to comment on methods described in permit applications. For their part, many consulting archaeologists realized that building relationships with individual First Nations was necessary, along with meaningful consultation and participation. This meant respecting protocols and working agreements, even in those cases where First Nations chose to cooperate exclusively with only certain consultants (Barney and Klassen 2008). In particular, meaningful participation included reviewing methods, providing local knowledge on the location and significance of archaeological remains, and reviewing results and recommendations (e.g., Bailey

1995:1-3). At the same time, First Nations began hiring archaeologists to assist them with training, policy development, and quality assurance (Barney and Klassen 2001;

Budhwa 2005; Carr-Locke 2004; Schaepe 2007). Concurrent developments in academia also led to more Indigenous people receiving university- and college-level archaeology training (Nicholas 2005, 2006; Nicholas et al. 2008c), and the first indigenous graduate students in archaeology programs in British Columbia (e.g., Reimer 2000; White

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These two-week courses, developed by the provincial Resource Inventory Committee

(subsequently Resources Information Standards Committee), were originally designed as a certification program to provide skilled field workers. Abbreviated one-week courses are still offered and remain popular with First Nations, but the certification program for field directors was never implemented.

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(Xanius) 2006). These developments had substantial effects on CRM practice and First

Nation heritage stewardship.

Transforming Practice in British Columbia

By the new millennium, many indigenous communities in British Columbia were directly involved with forestry archaeology assessments and had worked out cautious alliances with archaeologists. They reviewed and contributed to assessment reports, and it became routine for community members to work alongside archaeologists. Through this engagement, they quickly recognized limitations in extant legislation, not to mention the conceptual and methodological shortcomings in the provincial heritage assessment process. As their exposure to and frustration with archaeological resource management grew, they sought even more control over all aspects of the process, guided by their own values and methods. Their resulting engagement and participation in heritage stewardship since the early 1990s has taken many forms, involved a wide variety of strategies, and led to a variety of outcomes, some successful and others less so

(Klassen et al. 2009). Some of these strategies have been reactive and confrontational, but many others have involved innovative and collaborative solutions to pressing management issues.

Following the example of the Haida at Gwaii Hanaas, the Nuu-chal-nuulth at

Meares Island, and the Nlaka’pamux at the Stein Valley in the 1980s (Ross 2005;

Wickwire 1992), other indigenous communities in British Columbia initially adopted direct action and legal proceedings as strategies. Confrontations and blockades at Ure Creek

(1991), Kumealeon Lake (1994), Craig Bay (1994-5), Adams Lake (1995), Sheep Creek

(1997), Seton Lake (1998), and Siska Creek (1999) were all largely motivated by heritage concerns, and most led to court actions and legal injunctions (Angelbeck 2008;

Barney and Klassen 2008; Blomley 1996; Hoffmann 2000; Ross 2005). As the 1990s ended, the use of blockades and legal actions had declined for a variety of reasons.

Foremost was the treaty process, wherein many communities avoided direct action in order to ensure continued negotiations (Blomley 1996). Legal actions also proved to be costly and protracted, with limited success. As such, First Nations turned to alternative proactive strategies in order to exercise their influence and take on a greater role in the assessment process itself (Carr-Locke 2004; De Paoli 1999; Hammond 2009; Klassen et al. 2009; Nicholas 2006). These strategies included: implementing heritage policies and

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parallel permitting systems; setting up archaeology departments, hiring professionals, and bidding for contracts; negotiating archaeology protocols with industry, municipalities, and the province; entering into high-level land use planning agreements with the province; and negotiating interim agreements and heritage developed through the ongoing federal-provincial treaty process. These are discussed in more detail below.

Since the mid 1990s, at least three-dozen First Nations or tribal councils in British

Columbia have developed heritage policies, permitting systems, or both (De Paoli 1999;

Hammond 2009; Mason 2013; Mason and Bain 2003). Not all of these permitting systems continue to be operational, largely due to the limited capacity and funding available to First Nations for dealing with permit applications and referrals. For example, the Tsilhqot’in National Government (TNG) took action on forestry-related archaeology shortly after realizing that consulting companies were conducting assessments on almost every proposed forestry cutblock in their territory, without necessarily consulting with Tsilhqot’in communities. In April of 1996, the TNG sent a letter to archaeological consulting companies stating that archaeologists were working in Tsilhqot’in territory without their “permission, consent [or] even knowledge,” and the notice included a warning that archaeologists continuing to work in their territory without their consent would be “blacklisted” (Wolf Howls 1996). The TNG met with archaeologists in Williams

Lake, where they presented them with a new policy and permit system relating to archaeological and heritage assessments, developed by an archaeologist hired by the

TNG. This was intended to keep the TNG informed of all such activities in their territory, following a recommendation found in a cultural heritage overview report prepared for the

TNG (Yip and Choquette 1995). Despite this assertive position, funding cuts to the TNG in the late 1990s led to the reduction of staff and resources, and the permit system soon lapsed into disuse.

Other systems have been more successful and remain in place, particularly in those cases where a high level of internal technical capacity has developed through the operation of archaeology programs. The current standard for First Nation involvement in heritage stewardship in British Columbia is perhaps best represented by the efforts of the Stó:l! Nation. After joining several other First Nations in 1984 to protest the proposed CN Rail twin tracking project and its potential impact on archaeological resources, an archaeologist was hired by to advise it on heritage issues, demonstrating the ongoing interest in preserving Stó:l! heritage (De Paoli 1999:116; Mohs 1987, 1994;

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Schaepe 2007). Since then, full-time cultural advisors and archaeologists have been on staff with Stó:l! agencies, and they have established processes and agreements that ensure their collaborative participation in heritage stewardship (De Paoli 1999; Klassen et al. 2009; Mohs 1987, 1994; Nicholas et al. 2011; Schaepe 2007).

In 2003, the Stó:l! Nation developed a comprehensive heritage policy manual that set out their principles and policies in reference to heritage stewardship; the sites, objects, activities, and knowledge recognized as Stó:l! heritage; generalized heritage site management policies; the requirements of the Stó:l! heritage assessment process; and permit requirements for archaeologists (Stó:l! Nation 2003). To administer and implement this policy, political leadership jointly established the Stó:l! Research and

Resource Management Centre (Schaepe 2007), which conducts research to support their treaty process, and directly undertakes contract work.

The Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group provides another example of a collaborative heritage stewardship framework. The HTG produced a comprehensive overview of their perspectives and customary laws to guide their heritage policy-making (McLay et al.

2008). In addition, their leaders negotiated a detailed MOU with the Archaeology Branch setting out the roles, responsibilities, and relationships of the two parties in terms of archaeological management, in which the parties “intend and desire to establish cooperative working relations that respect the asserted title, rights, and expressed cultural traditions, values, practices, and customary laws of the Hul’qumi’num

Mustimuhw” (Hul'qumi'num Treaty Group 2007). The motivation for this agreement undoubtedly stems from conflicts between the Hul’qumi’num and the province involving impacts to sites from developments (Hul'qumi'num Treaty Group 2005; Watts 2007). As such, the MOU is largely concerned with improving the implementation of the HCA.

These efforts include public education, cooperative development of an archaeological potential model, improved communication with local governments and other provincial ministries in identifying potential conflicts, improved processes for enforcing the HCA, a strengthened role of the HTG in the permit application process, HTG comment on final reports, and clear dissemination of provincial decisions.

The Upper Similkameen Indian Band (USIB) has also made significant advances in terms of participation in the assessment process and bilateral agreements. They created an archaeology department in 1999, and a heritage policy and permit system

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followed in 2001 (Carr-Locke 2004). They saw this as an opportunity to take a more active role in the management of their community’s heritage, as well as to provide employment and economic development. In the last decade, the work of the department expanded to incorporate heritage within a broader range of cultural values (Gould 2005).

The archaeology department negotiated assessment contracts with the forest industry, partnered with archaeological consulting firms on various assessments, and successfully competed for archaeological assessment contracts. Since 2000, the USIB has negotiated heritage protocols with the local municipality, museums, and provincial ministries, and is in the process of negotiating an MOU with the Archaeology Branch.

Negotiated protocols and agreements with industry and local governments, and incorporating heritage stewardship objectives in land and resource use planning is becoming more commonplace (Budhwa 2005; De Paoli 1999; Hammond 2009; Nicholas

2006; Parfitt 2007; Reimer/Yumks 2007; Welch et al. 2011a). For example, agreements or protocols with local governments are intended to ensure that archaeological and heritage issues are addressed in local government planning. Likewise, agreements with major industrial proponents are used to exercise greater indigenous oversight in the archaeological and heritage assessment process, and may include some or all of the following requirements:

• Joint selection of consulting archaeologists, or archaeologists approved by

First Nations.

• Adherence to community protocols and policies.

• Participation in the fieldwork component of the archaeological assessment.

• Incorporation of community knowledge into the research design and reporting.

• Identification and assessment of a complete range of heritage, including

“traditional use” sites not regulated under the Heritage Conservation Act.

• Review of draft reports and recommendations, and a process for incorporating revisions.

• Community input into management decisions and actions.

First Nation participation in the forest industry has also created new opportunities for managing heritage. In late 2005, for example, the Squamish Nation acquired Tree

Farm Licence 38, giving them exclusive harvesting rights over 218,000 ha of land within their traditional territory, and providing an opportunity for the Squamish to manage the forest in a way that also respected cultural values (Reimer/Yumks 2007). Following

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Premier Gordon Campbell’s “New Relationship with First Nations and Aboriginal People” initiative in 2003, a number of “Forest and Range Agreements” (FRAs) and “Forest and

Range Opportunities” (FROs) were signed between the province and First Nations

(Parfitt 2007). These interim agreements sought to accommodate the interests of local

First Nations affected by forestry decisions, and often provided for direct forest tenure awards and a share of forestry revenues.

Although FRAs generally do not explicitly address cultural heritage, they provide a framework for negotiating issues relating to infringements on their rights, which may include heritage sites. Such awards are also subject to the same cultural heritage conditions applied to other forest tenures. However, FRAs are primarily concerned with economic benefits for communities, and so serve as proxy tests of whether First Nations will establish heritage stewardship protocols for forestry operations that meet or exceed provincial requirements. This is especially a concern because the economic equitably and viability of many FRAs is in question, making cultural heritage a potential cost liability (Parfitt 2007). On the other hand, the 2006 Gitanyow forest agreement includes a defined process where community representatives present information on areas where logging should be prohibited or strictly controlled, including areas of known archaeological and cultural significance, and this agreement may serve as a model for addressing heritage in these contexts (Parfitt 2007).

Direct agreements between First Nations and industry sectors (including provincial ministries) reduce the role of professional archaeologists as the “experts” or primary stewards, and put much more control over the assessment process into the hands of First Nations. Moreover, these agreements tend to sidestep the authority of the

Archaeology Branch by effectively limiting its role in terms of decisions concerning what is assessed and how it is managed. In some cases, the development proponent continues to contract consulting archaeologists directly, but requires consultants to follow the terms of negotiated agreements with First Nations. In other cases, First

Nations will hold the contracts with development proponents and conduct all of the work, using community members and (generally non-community) archaeologist(s) directly employed by them. However, exclusive contractual relationships between First Nation administrations or companies and development proponents leave them open to the potential criticism that they are facilitating development.

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Protocol agreements with industrial proponents require separate negotiations with multiple proponents in many different sectors, and are not generally feasible for dealing with provincial ministries. A broader approach for enhancing collaborative stewardship involves defining specific heritage objectives in “high level” provincial landuse planning, such as Land and Resource Management Plans, Sustainable Resource

Management Plans, and Ecosystem-based Management plans. For example, the Lil’wat,

Squamish, and In-SHUCK-ch nations separately negotiated their components in a provincial land use plan that resulted in large-scale land use designations for managing heritage, and enhanced protection for specific sites (British Columbia 2008). In this case, the province agreed to protect areas of cultural significance using protected areas, mining and tourism zones where commercial logging is not permitted, and cultural management areas where resource development is subject to specific rules to conserve wildlife habitat and cultural features. In addition, the plan recognizes and protects “sitespecific” places, such as traditional use areas, villages, and sacred sites. Such “holistic” approaches relate more closely to indigenous conceptions of heritage and landscape.

Likewise, in 2007 the province and the Nanwakolas Council jointly announced the signing of a ministerial order to implement ecosystem-based forest management objectives for the south central portion of the Coastal Land-Use Decision. It includes a number of objectives for maintaining “traditional forest resources,” such as monumental cedars, and protecting “traditional heritage features,” such as culturally modified trees and historic sites, that go beyond the provisions of the HCA. Another approach is the

Sustainable Land-Use Agreement for Haida Gwaii, jointly announced in December 2007 by the province and the Council of the Haida Nation. This agreement also uses a variety of land use designations to provide different levels of protection and management, including new protected areas and “special value areas” designated by the Haida and maintained by them in accordance with their laws, policies, customs, traditions and decision-making processes.

Negotiating government, municipal, and industry protocols with First Nations is an important heritage stewardship trend in the province today. Likewise, incorporating specific heritage objectives and designations within provincial land-use planning is a significant development with major implications for indigenous heritage stewardship.

Although these approaches generally complement the HCA, some noteworthy observations can be made:

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• They make few, if any, references to the HCA.

• They extend legally enshrined management and/or protection objectives to a range of land-based heritage that exceeds the forms of heritage that is

“automatically” protected by the HCA.

• Specific designation measures used to protect culture heritage are derived from legislation other than the HCA.

These agreements were developed in government-to-government negotiations involving resource ministries, with little or no apparent involvement of the Archaeology

Branch. Likewise, there appears to have been little or no involvement of professional archaeologists in providing guidance for designation measures, management objectives, the specific cultural sites included, or other aspects of the agreements. The consequent shift in heritage stewardship responsibilities, authority, and control to First Nations, and the reduced role of the Archaeology Branch in strategic planning and decision-making, has major implications for consulting archaeologists and the discipline as a whole in

British Columbia.

From Adversaries to Advocates

Largely due to regulatory developments in the forestry sector, indigenous communities in British Columbia have made great strides towards asserting greater influence and control over the archaeological assessment process. Despite this progress, the provincial policy shift towards a results-based management regime in the resource industries since 2001 means that the place of archaeology in the legislated planning processes has become less clear (Klassen et al. 2009). Due to shortcomings of the HCA, heritage is regulated by a range of legislation, guidelines and processes, all with differing levels of protection and management. Some processes provide for greater levels of consultation on non-archaeological heritage, and a consistent province-wide approach to dealing with cultural heritage remains elusive.

Since the early 1990s, consulting archaeology in British Columbia has changed because of the growing involvement and continuing interest of First Nations in preserving and managing their heritage. Archaeological resource management has stimulated and fostered the development of community-based archaeologies with distinct agendas, practices, and practitioners, and has led to innovative approaches for incorporating indigenous values in heritage stewardship. Many First Nations now see

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archaeology and heritage stewardship as a major component of their land and resource portfolios.

In this rapidly evolving situation, consulting archaeologists have been involved in most of the strategies employed by indigenous communities, though their role has ranged from that of adversaries to advocates (Klassen et al. 2009).

Engaging with First Nations is changing the practice of consulting archaeology in

British Columbia, and undoubtedly will influence the forms of legislation and policies that emerge in the long-term. Nonetheless, the fundamental issues identified by indigenous communities, and their range of responses, suggest that archaeologists and the province need to reconsider the conventional wisdom concerning CRM and heritage stewardship. Indeed, the indigenous critique of management, ownership, authority, and jurisdiction in British Columbia has parallels in the broader disciplinary debate on the ethics of heritage stewardship. Although archaeologists increasingly recognize the imperative for collaborative stewardship with First Nations (Nicholas et al. 2007; Smith

2004, 2006; Wylie 2005), consulting archaeologists in British Columbia they need to be on side with these dramatic changes or they face the danger of irrelevancy.

Ethics and Heritage Stewardship

The rise of indigenous engagement in archaeology in British Columbia mirrors disciplinary developments worldwide. In addition to the growing importance of community-based and indigenous archaeologies, the last decades have also seen a shift in principles and ethics recognizing the role of Indigenous peoples in heritage stewardship. In British Columbia, as elsewhere, this can be partly attributed to the political revitalization of indigenous communities over the past decades. At the same time, the indigenous criticism of archaeology began in part as a reaction to developments in the archaeological discipline beginning in the 1960s and 1970s. One was the theoretical shift to processual archaeology, and another was the rise of the conservation ethic in CRM. In turn, these led to assertions of scientific expertise and authority that were used by archaeologists to legitimize their claims to stewardship over a material past that was not their own (Smith 2006; Wylie 2005). They advocated the passage of legislation and regulations designed to protect the archaeological record, where “scientific” values were given privileged status for determining the significance and management of archaeological heritage. The assertions of authority and stewardship stemming from conservation archaeology, along with the conspicuousness

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of CRM practice and policy, set up archaeologists as a target for criticism. The legislative legacy of conservation archaeology is still apparent in British Columbia, but the engagement of Indigenous peoples in heritage stewardship challenges the basis of this approach. Brief reviews of conservation archaeology and the ethics of heritage stewardship help place developments in British Columbian in context.

Conservation Archaeology and Legislation

In British Columbia, the HCA and the archaeological assessment process reflects the theoretical foundation of the “heritage conservation” perspective articulated by

William Lipe (1974). This perspective arose primarily in response to the accelerating pace of archaeological site destruction from development activities, as well as the inadequacies of the prevailing ethos of “salvage archaeology,” which has as its aim the expedient recovery of archaeological materials before sites were destroyed. The principle of conservation archaeology, on the other hand, involves setting aside a substantial and representative sample of archaeological sites in order to preserve them for future research. This approach advocates minimizing unnecessary excavation, and employing a problem-oriented research design in situations where salvage is necessary.

It also served to strengthen the conceptual shift towards envisioning the archaeological record as a “non-renewable resource” that could be both “managed” and “exploited”

(Yellowhorn 1999b, 2002).

A primary motivation for conservation archaeology is managing archaeological resources and preserving sites for subsequent study, thus ensuring a future for disciplinary research. While this does not necessarily exclude other potential values for additional stakeholders, this emphasis on scientific value certainly informed the heritage legislation of the era, including in British Columbia. Indeed, bureaucrats envisioned the

HCA as promoting “the conservation and protection of archaeological sites which coincidentally ensures a continued resource base for the discipline” (Apland 1993:10-

11). This suggests that the statute is meant to conserve archaeological sites for some undefined intrinsic value, but in reality the archaeological discipline is the primary beneficiary of this conservation ethic. Such an ideology substantiates the opinion expressed by Indigenous peoples that current legislation does not serve their interests, but rather is a self-serving tool for archaeologists. Indeed, envisioning the archaeological record as a resource reserved for archaeological exploitation is received negatively by

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First Nations (De Paoli 1999:25; Hollowell and Nicholas 2009:154; Linklater 1997;

McLay et al. 2008; Nicholas 2006:363; Nicholas and Andrews 1997b:5; Yellowhorn

1996:42, 1997:257, 1999b:2, 2002:65).

The original vision of conservation archaeology as articulated by Lipe (1974) did not advocate preservation of heritage for the primary benefit of descendant communities, much less acknowledge a role for these communities in decision-making and drafting legislation and regulations, or recognize that First Nations may have their own customary laws. Moreover, the conservation archaeology and resource management approach left little room for the conception of archaeological sites and materials as

“cultural property” belonging to descendant communities, and instead emphasized it as universal heritage. Although not specifically articulated in the HCA, this conservation and resource management ethic is entrenched in the operational guidelines administered by the Archaeology Branch.

A conservation ethic, in of itself, is not necessarily negative. The bulk of fieldwork performed by indigenous communities and consulting archaeologists consists of the identification and protection of material culture in situ, with both sides generally advocating “site avoidance” or non-disturbance wherever feasible. Indeed, the intrinsic cultural values of archaeological sites may be better served by conservation than research and excavation. A major objection, however, is how decisions are made under the rubric of conservation archaeology–decisions as to which sites are to be investigated, mitigated, or destroyed. Archaeologists and allied bureaucrats have reserved much of the power to make these decisions for themselves, and they generally privilege scientific values over indigenous ones. Central to this conflict is the issue of control over how heritage is defined and understood. This is a serious issue because whoever controls the discourse also controls an important source of political power, and

“heritage places and processes can be, and are, used to legitimize and delegitimize claims to identity and thus claims to resources” (Smith 2006:281). By emphasizing indigenous heritage as “prehistory,” as opposed to a dynamic component of a living culture, archaeologists contribute to the disconnection of Indigenous peoples from their past, and by extension help to minimize their authority.

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Accountability and Responsibility to Communities

The growth of a conservation ethic, within the discipline and in government, contributed to the inclination for the self-appointment of archaeologists and archaeological bureaucrats as the stewards of archaeological heritage (e.g., Custer

2005; Ferris 2003; Groarke and Warrick 2006; Hollowell and Nicholas 2009; Smith 2004,

2006; Watkins 2000:172; Wylie 2005:55; Zimmerman 1995). Since the rise of CRM in the 1970s, this is now conventional wisdom among archaeological bureaucrats and influences the administration of heritage legislation throughout the world (Smith 2004). In

North America in particular, it has been promulgated in the principles of archaeological ethics endorsed by the Society for American Archaeology (SAA) in 1996 (Groarke and

Warrick 2006). The first principle, on stewardship, states that archaeologists must use their specialized knowledge to actively practice and promote stewardship of the archaeological record, and identifies them as “both caretakers of and advocates for the archaeological record for the benefit of all people” (Society for American Archaeology

1996:451).

Whereas stewards are obligated to care for something on behalf of its “owner,” the SAA principles are ambiguous in terms of whose ownership interests are being addressed (Groarke and Warrick 2006:165). Stewardship on behalf of “all people” is impossible, due to the competing and conflicting interests of different “stakeholders,” with the de facto result that scientific interests are put ahead of others (Groarke and

Warrick 2006:165). In particular, the SAA principles do not recognize the privileged rights of descendant communities. The second principle, on accountability, states that responsible archaeological research “requires an acknowledgment of public accountability and a commitment to make every reasonable effort, in good faith, to consult actively with affected group(s)” (Society for American Archaeology 1996:451).

However, this statement deliberately excludes specific mention of Indigenous peoples

(Watkins et al. 1995), and it “does not [acknowledge] the primacy of indigenous and descendant groups’ interests in the archaeological record related to their own heritage”

(Atalay 2006b:299). Although not intended as a statement of ownership or control over the archaeological record (Lynott and Wylie 1995), the SAA principles contain “an implicit presumption that archaeological expertise establishes a privilege of oversight”

(Wylie 2005:61; Zimmerman 1995). In other words, the SAA principles perpetuate the idea that only archaeologists, and more broadly scientists, have the unique qualifications

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to interpret and assess the significance of the archaeological record, and therefore act as privileged stewards and gatekeepers of knowledge (Smith 2004).

Archaeologists increasingly question the idea that governments own and control heritage, with archaeologists as the self-appointed stewards of the archaeological record

(Atalay 2006b; Ferris 2003; Groarke and Warrick 2006; Hollowell and Nicholas 2009;

Smith 2004, 2006; Watkins 2000; Watkins and Beaver 2008; Wylie 2005; Zimmerman

1995). As a consequence, heritage stewardship is shifting from an ethic informed by conservation archaeology to one that is anchored in accountability and responsibility to communities. Archaeologists increasingly recognize that they are accountable to other interest groups, and in particular to Indigenous peoples (Atalay 2006b; Custer 2005;

Ferris 2003; Lippert 2006; Smith 2006; Watkins 2000, 2005). This has influenced the codes of ethics adopted by archaeological societies and professional associations since the mid-1990s.

For example, the principles of the World Archaeological Congress are strongly oriented towards acknowledging the rights of Indigenous peoples, while archaeological associations in Australia and New Zealand have also adopted codes recognizing the fundamental role and relationship of descendant communities to archaeology (Groarke and Warrick 2006; Lilley 2000b; Rosenwig 1997; Watkins 2000, 2005). The Canadian

Archaeological Association (CAA) also took the principles of stewardship and accountability in a different direction than the SAA by explicitly recognizing the special relationship of Indigenous peoples to archaeological research and heritage.

16

The CAA

Statement of Principles for Ethical Conduct Pertaining to Aboriginal Peoples, adopted in

1996, includes principles on consultation, the role of Indigenous peoples, sacred sites and places, and communication and interpretation. Most important, the principles acknowledge that Indigenous peoples have “a fundamental interest in the protection and management of the archaeological record, its interpretation and presentation,” and require members to “recognize and respect the role of Aboriginal communities in matters relating to their heritage” (Canadian Archaeological Association 1997:6). Likewise, the professional association representing archaeologists in British Columbia adapted six of the 12 CAA principles pertaining to the relationship between indigenous communities and archaeology as part of the association’s code of conduct, and added two statements

16

This is despite the fact that the CAA has also adopted a statement on stewardship, as part of the Principles of Ethical Conduct, very similar to that of the SAA.

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about notifying local First Nations of planned fieldwork (B.C. Association of Professional

Consulting Archaeologists 1998).

17

These principles and codes express a maturing understanding of collaborative stewardship that recognizes the primacy of descendant communities. Nonetheless, the success of achieving the goals of these aspirational statements has not been adequately measured, and they arguably have done little to shift power and authority to Indigenous peoples (Smith 2006:281). Indeed, “two of the primary ethical challenges to overcoming archaeology’s legacy of scientific colonialism are respect for alternative ways of interpreting and knowing the past, and greater equity in the relations of power and privilege that mark differential access to decision-making, and the ability to have one’s decisions count” (Nicholas and Hollowell 2007). This critique of the stewardship ethic coincided with the rise of “post-processual” theory in archaeology in the 1990s, which advocated multi-vocality, accountability, and subjectivity in the discipline, and recognized the political nature of archaeological enquiry. The convergence of indigenous activism and post-processual theory contributed to an environment that fostered the rise of collaborative and indigenous archaeologies. Conceptions of ethical responsibility towards descendant communities evolved within the discipline of archaeology, as reflected in codes of ethics and demonstrated by transformative practice. Together, the indigenous and post-processual critiques upset the standard “authorized heritage discourse” represented by the confluence of processual archaeology, the conservation ethic, heritage legislation, and claims of stewardship.

The perspective that descendant communities should have a primary role in heritage stewardship represents a “sea change” in archaeological ethics (Wylie 2005:51,

60). It also represents a significant break with the original principles of conservation archaeology, which considered scientific research the paramount beneficiary of heritage stewardship. The concept of stewardship should not be construed as “a matter of wise management on behalf of an abstract higher interest (that of science and, by extension, society or humanity) but as a matter of collaborative, negotiated co-management among divergent interests (including archaeological interests) none of which can be presumed, at the outset, to take precedence over the others” (Wylie 2005:65). In other words,

17

Notably, the BCAPCA code excludes the CAA principles pertaining to recognition of the cultural and spiritual links to the archaeological record, sacred places, and human remains, as well as those relating to training and recruitment.

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archaeological practice needs to address authority, accountability, and multi-vocality in order to counter the “scientism” that underlies the prevailing ethic of stewardship.

Chapter Summary: Prospects for a Sea Change

Over the past forty years, archaeological practice in British Columbia has been marked by legal, political, and ethical developments that have in one way or another encouraged indigenous engagement and authority. The rise of CRM and conservation archaeology in the 1970s distanced First Nations from practice and lessened their authority and role as stewards. Political opposition to existing heritage legislation in the

1980s led to the concerns of First Nations being heard at last, but their voice was muted in the ultimate incarnation of the HCA of 1994. Consistent with constitutional changes, the Delgamuukw court decisions in the early 1990s elevated the rights of Indigenous peoples in land and resource decision-making, and they introduced new requirements for consultation and accommodation. Although the HCA itself was largely unaffected, sweeping changes were made to the way that Indigenous peoples participated in resource management. In particular, significant regulatory changes in the forestry sector led to a greater role for archaeological resource management during the late 1990s, which provoked a spirited dialogue with First Nations.

The subsequent heightened interest and involvement of First Nations in archaeology and heritage stewardship forced archaeologists to accommodate indigenous perspectives and interests, and cede some control over the heritage stewardship process. First nations have also embraced new approaches in the context of CRM and resource developments that at times challenge and subvert the authority of archaeologists and bureaucrats. On the one hand, these shifts in practice have encouraged a greater degree of collaboration, but at the same time they have led to the increasing marginalization of archaeologists as Indigenous peoples assert authority over heritage stewardship.

The transformations of archaeological practice in British Columbia over the last two decades mirror shifting power structures worldwide. In addition to the global development of community-based and indigenous archaeologies, the discipline is undergoing an ethical debate over the principles of stewardship, evidenced by the growing literature on the topic and reflected in codes of conduct. As yet, however, the

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“sea change” in archaeological ethics has not universally manifested itself in practice, nor has it substantively influenced legislation and regulations governing archaeology in

British Columbia. Here, the nature of this debate is entangled within legal arguments over indigenous title, with consequent repercussions pertaining to ownership and jurisdiction over heritage. Nonetheless, the debate within the discipline over heritage stewardship ethics has implications for the ensuing shape and direction of heritage legislation and stewardship in the province.

The future form of archaeological practice and legislated heritage stewardship in

British Columbia will undoubtedly need to take into account the shifting ethical position of the discipline, from conservation archaeology to collaborative stewardship. This shift questions the role of archaeologists and the province as privileged stewards of archaeological heritage, and challenges their authority on the best practices to “manage” this heritage. In this environment, the concerns of Indigenous peoples will need to be addressed in a meaningful way, especially in light of legal uncertainties related to title and ownership. Archaeologists will certainly retain a major role in heritage stewardship, as they have specialized knowledge and skills that will continue to hold value for both

Indigenous peoples and the general public (Ferris 2003; Smith and Wobst 2005a; Welch et al. 2007; Wylie 2005; Yellowhorn 1996). Most indigenous communities in British

Columbia also strongly support archaeological research and value the information it can provide; what concerns them is how archaeology is used in a CRM context and who benefits from its practice. Indeed, First Nations and many archaeologists share common aspirations for effective heritage legislation and respectful stewardship in the province.

This is demonstrated by the growth in community-based archaeologies, and the emergence of nascent forms of indigenous archaeology. These developing trends in

British Columbia, as elsewhere in the world, will undoubtedly have consequences for the practice of archaeology in both the CRM and academic realms. As the capacity, confidence and authority of indigenous heritage stewardship in British Columbia takes root in sovereignty and title, the sea change in ethics and practice rising globally may yet swell in the province.

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Chapter 4.

The St’át’imc Nation and Archaeology

wa7 zwátenem kwes tsúwa7lhkalh ts7a ti tmícwa

[we know this land belongs to us]

nxekmenlhkálha lti tmícwa [St’át’imc Land Use Plan] 2004

The convergence of political awareness, jurisprudence, and regulatory change that occurred in British Columbia in the early 1990s set into motion a sequence of events that ultimately led the St’át’imc Nation to exercise considerable authority over the practice of archaeology in their territory. Over the course of that decade, the Northern St’át’imc communities affiliated with the Lillooet Tribal Council increased their direct involvement in the archaeological management process, culminating in the establishment of a nationbased heritage stewardship program in 2000. Subsequently, archaeological concerns and heritage stewardship became significant components of ongoing St’át’imc governance and land-use planning initiatives in their efforts to “protect and maintain territorial and cultural integrity” (St'át'imc Government Services 2011; St'át'imc Land and

Resource Authority 2004) .

Both traditional and contemporary perspectives influence the relationship of the

St’át’imc to the discipline of archaeology and have an effect on their approach to heritage stewardship. By taking responsibility for their heritage and exercising their role as stewards, the Northern St’át’imc have learned to use it to their benefit. Through their efforts to understand and protect their history, they have acquired considerable technical sophistication in archaeological methods, applications, and resources. Building on this experience, and permeated by their worldview, St’át’imc archaeology modifies conventional practice in a number of key aspects. Understanding these differing perspectives and practices sheds light on their uneasy relationship with the provincial archaeological management process. Moreover, comprehending St’át’imc heritage stewardship may have implications for the practice of archaeology and the future shape

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of the discipline within British Columbia, as well as wherever indigenous issues and heritage stewardship intersect around the world.

This chapter focuses on contemporary St’át’imc perspectives on archaeology and heritage stewardship, based on conversations with St’át’imc individuals from six communities affiliated with the Lillooet Tribal Council (Figure 5). These people have firsthand experience with past and ongoing heritage stewardship efforts, and provide an informed overview of St’át’imc views on archaeology and heritage stewardship. After a short description of research methods, I begin with a description of traditional St’át’imc teachings on the nature of their ancestors and landscape, as manifested by archaeological sites and artifacts. This is followed by an overview of contemporary

St’át’imc discourse on the significance of archaeology and heritage and their relationship to heritage and the land, and a summary on St’át’imc perspectives on the strengths and limitations of archaeology in the context of their aspirations for asserting their role in heritage stewardship. The next section documents the personal experiences with the practice of archaeology for the St’át’imc consulted in this study. I then provide a detailed historical overview of the events and initiatives, culminating in the 1998 blockade of

Cutting Permit 146 on Seton Lake. I end with a brief discussion of how this direct action instigated the development of a heritage assessment process by the Lillooet Tribal

Council–the subject of the case study described in the next chapter.

Research Methods

The St’át’imc data presented in Chapters 4 and 5 is largely based on a series of one-on-one conversations with members of Northern St’át’imc communities. I met with

21 St’át’imc consultants from six communities between September 5, 2007 and October

4, 2008 (Appendix A). The consultants were selected on the basis of their knowledge of heritage issues or experience with heritage stewardship. The degree of participant knowledge and experience was judged according to my own personal familiarity with the individuals and the recommendations of the Lillooet Tribal Council. Although the list of consultants was reviewed with the administrator of the Lillooet Tribal Council, the final selection was my own.

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Figure 5. Northern St'át'imc communities in relation to Nzwat/Msut (CP 146),

Junction Creek, Pavilion Creek, and Slok/McKay Creeks.

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The St’át’imc consulted in this study represent a wide range of roles in the political, administrative, technical, and social spheres of their communities, and many have considerable direct experience in archaeological practice and heritage stewardship

(see Appendix A). However, they do not represent a demographic cross-section or statistically representative sample of the Northern St’át’imc. It was not the objective of this study to statistically gauge the opinions of the community, in whole or part, on heritage stewardship issues. Rather, the objective was to document and evaluate the perspectives of those individuals with an active interest in and understanding of heritage stewardship issues. Nonetheless, the Northern St’át’imc participants in this study do represent a fairly broad range of the community, including Elders, leadership, and technical workers. Admittedly, the participants did not include anyone actively opposed to heritage stewardship. However, the opportunity for the participation of community members with opposing views was provided through invitations to comment extending through chief’s meetings and an article in the local St’át’imc newspaper.

The collection of data was designed as a participatory conversation. An outline of topics was used to guide the conversation, and leading questions were avoided.

Appendix A lists the themes and questions used to guide the conversations. The discussion topics were also open-ended so that participants could discuss whatever they chose to talk about, and could avoid topics they didn’t wish to discuss. The responses of the participants were not audio-taped, but instead were recorded by myself as paraphrased point-form written notes. Copies of these notes were provided to all of the participants so that they could revise, add to, or accept them as they saw fit. The participants were also given an opportunity to review and comment on the final form of the data as presented in the dissertation. Because of the paraphrased nature of the conversation notes, opportunities for using direct quotes were limited. However, quotations are occasionally used where specific phrases were recorded verbatim.

18

Prior to commencing research with the St’át’imc consultants, I signed a research and information-sharing agreement with the Lillooet Tribal Council. This agreement sets out the terms and conditions for conducting my research with St’át’imc participants within

St’át’imc territory (Appendix A). This research was conducted under the terms of an application for ethical approval for research submitted to the SFU Office of Research

18

Note that I use “consultant” and “participant” interchangeably in this dissertation when referring to those St’át’imc that took part in this study.

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Ethics. At the beginning of each conversation, participants were given the option of providing verbal or written consent to their participation in the study. Where consent was given, the objectives and benefits of the project were described to the participants, and the name, date and nature of participation were recorded. The consultants were also asked if they wished to remain anonymous in this dissertation and any subsequent reports or publications. The desire to remain anonymous varied between participants, and so for consistency of presentation all of the consultants are cited anonymously in the text using identification codes. These codes consist of the leading initials “SN” (for

St’át’imc Nation) followed by a randomly assigned numeral. The original conservation notes, copies of the transcripts, and the key for identifying the participants, have been deposited with the Lillooet Tribal Council.

Traditional Perspectives

Before considering the contemporary perspectives on archaeology and heritage stewardship as expressed by the St’át’imc participants in this study, it is appropriate to review how traditional perspectives may inform these views. There are few published or documentary sources describing traditional St’át’imc perspectives on those aspects of their heritage conventionally labelled as archaeological in nature. However, a number of the St’át’imc consultants recounted the traditional knowledge and stories told to them by their parents and grandparents about the material evidence of their ancestors–what archaeologists refer to as artifacts and features–long before any of them had heard of archaeology or had any experience with its practice. For St’át’imc who grew up while participating in “traditional” culture and activities close to the land, this physical evidence was a visible and familiar part of their surroundings during their childhood (SN18). Many remember in their youth finding nméxtsten [arrowheads] and other stone artifacts on the terraces and in the ploughed fields and gardens surrounding their homes (SN4; SN5;

SN7; SN8; SN10; SN11; SN13; SN14; SN15; SN17; SN18; SN19; SN20). They recall seeing and visiting the s7ístken [housepits] once found on nearly every terrace above the sát’atqwa7 (Fraser River) (SN1; SN4; SN5; SN7; SN8; SN10; SN11; SN12; SN13;

SN15; SN17; SN19; SN20). Some also remember encountering burials and graveyards, and finding the associated artifacts and grave goods scattered across the ground (SN1;

SN7; SN16). Although as children these St’át’imc were taught to respect and avoid these powerful places (SN1; SN4; SN11; SN13; SN16), curiosity about their ancestors was

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often enough for them to overcome their unease. They associated these places with the stories of the St’át’imc past they heard at home.

Many St’át’imc remember the cautions from their parents and grandparents concerning the ancient homes and belongings of their ancestors. They were warned to stay away from the s7ístken, and told to never play in them, because the “old people” might take them away (SN5; SN8; SN10; SN15; SN18; SN19).

19

The spirits of powerful medicine men still resided in some of these s7ístken, making them dangerous and frightening places to visit (SN20). They were also told not to take away the arrowheads and other artifacts scattered on the ground, as these belonged to the ancestors who made them and they had been left there for a reason. Nothing was theirs to take, so the artifacts were always left where found (SN4; SN8; SN10; SN15; SN17; SN18).

20

Violating this prohibition could cause the ancestors to come back to retrieve them

(SN15).

21

Likewise, contact with human remains was “taboo” and they were not to be disturbed; if you touched them, ritualized hand washing was required for cleansing (SN2;

SN16). Failure to follow these rules would lead to harmful consequences for the violator

(SN17).

In addition to their knowledge of the objects and places of their ancestors, many older St’át’imc enjoyed a close relationship to the land while growing up. They followed the routes of the old trails and camped at ancient places that were known to be the best locations to hunt, fish, and gather plants (SN18; SN19; SN21). On these trips their parents and grandparents showed them fishing stations, trail markers, sacred rocks, and other places marking the historical presence of the St’át’imc on the land (SN13; SN21).

While they learned the stories that link these places to their history and culture, some areas elicited warnings about powerful spiritual places or the locations of burials (SN15;

SN18; SN21), which were kept secret and best avoided for reason of their own safety

(SN18; SN19). All of these aspects–objects, camps and village sites, trails, burials, stories, place names, sacred sites, resource areas–constitute the traces of their

19

Similar prohibitions are found among some neighbouring groups. In some cases, this prohibition is associated with past epidemics that wiped out entire villages (see Palmer

2005:110).

20

An exception to this rule was that useful artifacts, such as mortars and pestles, were occasionally collected and re-used (SN10; SN18).

21

One participant knew this to be true. He once found a mortar and pestle while hunting, and set it down in the snow after killing a deer. When he came back to collect it, it was gone

(SN15).

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ancestral heritage, and in aggregate go beyond the narrow bounds of conventional archaeological evidence.

Some of the younger St’át’imc participating in this research received less direct exposure to life on the land while growing up, and correspondingly gained a more limited awareness of their archaeological heritage. From the 1950s onwards, many St’át’imc were sent to residential schools in Mission, Kamloops, and Williams Lake (Smith 1998).

22

The effects of the residential school system, the centralization of government services and the onset of standardized public education in the 1970s, and increasing residence in urban centres served to isolate them from their homeland and culture (SN16). As a consequence, some were unaware of the material remains of their ancestors while growing up (SN6; SN12; SN21). Others were unaware of the prohibitions and traditions surrounding the objects and places of their ancestors. These individuals noticed artifacts while playing but paid little attention to them (SN14), or played in housepits without any awareness of their significance (SN7). While attending the Kamloops residential school during the 1960s and 1970s, some of this younger generation of St’át’imc recall finding artifacts on the surrounding terraces, which they would sell to the school staff for pocket change (SN7; SN15; SN16). Sometimes they sold artifacts to local Lillooet shopkeepers

(SN16), or even assisted private collectors remove artifacts from sites (SN7).

One individual, born and raised in Kamloops, remembers visiting Lillooet in the summers and seeing artifacts at his grandmother’s home, and hearing stories from his mother about transformer sites that she pointed out from the train as they passed by

(SN9). Another remembers being taught where spiritual places were located, but not their place names; the “language was beaten out of him” at day school, and so his parents and grandparents stopped teaching him (SN19). Their fleeting experience of heritage places and objects illustrates an apparent disconnection from their past stemming from the imposition of the residential and day school systems, and the difficult social and economic conditions of reserve life during the 1960s and 1970s. Without a strong personal connection to the land and its places, and without the benefit of traditional teachings from their Elders and parents, many St’át’imc growing up in the

1950s and later were never exposed to their past.

22

For an introduction to the negative impacts of residential schools on the St’át’imc, refer to

Drake-Terry (1989:190-192) and Smith 1998 (44-45, 57). For a general overview, see Jack

(2006) and Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (2012).

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In sum, the traditional St’át’imc perspective on the material evidence of their heritage is a consistent and strongly held view of respect for ancestors, non-disturbance of sites, and avoidance of certain types of places. Despite these traditional prohibitions, those St’át’imc who grew up in both traditional and non-traditional contexts now share a strong interest in their heritage and its expression and interpretation through archaeology. The contemporary St’át’imc perspective on archaeology is relatively favourable as they are conscious of its benefits for the nation.

Contemporary Perspectives

While archaeological sites and artifacts were often part of St’át’imc childhood, for others it was only much later in their lives that most became aware of the discipline dedicated to studying the material remnants of their ancestors. For both the older and younger generations now involved in St’át’imc heritage stewardship, their exposure to archaeology as a discipline took place at in different periods and under widely varied circumstances. For those St’át’imc who participated in this study, I describe their personal and individual encounters with archaeology in more detail later section in this chapter. Despite the different conditions of their introductions to archaeology, all of the

St’át’imc currently involved in heritage stewardship are clear on what it is, and isn’t, in the conventional sense of the discipline. They understand its limitations, in both the legal and technical sense, and recognize the benefits and drawbacks of its practice for First

Nations. They regard archaeology as a set of methods that provides another way for understanding their heritage, complementing traditional teachings. They also have clear ideas on how archaeology can support and enhance St’át’imc insight about their history.

Most important, they have strong views on how the practice of archaeology in British

Columbia needs to change to be of greater benefit to the St’át’imc Nation.

St’át’imc Perceptions of Archaeology

Archaeology is not a word found in the St’át’imc language (SN4), nor is it a concept inherent to their traditional worldview (SN18); rather, it is a contemporary, secular concept borrowed for practical reasons (Barney and Klassen 2008). Most of the

St’át’imc consulted for this study report having gained substantial knowledge of archaeology and its practice over the past several decades, and they have become familiar with its methods and objectives. They recognize the standard disciplinary

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definition of archaeology as the study of the physical evidence of past human activity

(SN2; SN3; SN12; SN16; SN20). While they do not debate the esoteric points of archaeological theory, they are well aware of the broad principles that inform researchers. Moreover, they recognize how it relates to past and present St’át’imc life

(Table 3).

Table 3. St’át’imc Definitions of Archaeology

Archaeology is:

*

• The study of history by investigating the physical remains left behind (SN20).

• History based on things you can touch (SN1), and history derived from the markings and remains on the land

(SN13).

• Primarily based on the investigation of artifacts, features, and other material remains (SN10; SN14; SN15), and involves documentation, mapping and scientific analysis (SN5; SN9).

• A way of looking at how people, the environment, and systems interacted in the past (SN14; SN16).

• Searching for the ancient message in order to reconstruct the past (SN10).

• A method to provide answers about St’át’imc ancestors and their history, particularly before contact with Europeans

(SN7)–their way of life, where they lived, how long they’ve been here, what they did, and what they used (SN2;

SN3; SN6; SN10; SN11; SN12; SN13; SN16).

• Finding and studying evidence of the past to help explain St’át’imc history, and perhaps help prevent the loss of traditional ways (SN10; SN15).

• Establishes a link between the past and the present, and helps to link contemporary people with their ancestors

(SN3; SN14).

• A process that “brings back our history and knowledge, and brings back our ancestors” (SN8).

* All statements in this table and those following are paraphrased (see Research Methods).

The St’át’imc consultants view archaeology as a bridge between the past and present, and a practice that has meaning and value to their contemporary lives.

Archaeology is a tool that the St’át’imc can use to their advantage (SN19). At the same time, many considered the standard academic and regulatory definition of archaeology as “physical evidence of past human activity,” and the “site-specific” nature of conventional practice, to be too narrow and limiting (SN2; SN3; SN9; SN16; SN18).

Material evidence is absent at many places of cultural importance to the St’át’imc, and as such they contend that the archaeological discipline should also consider the intangible aspects of heritage associated with the land, such as place names, spiritual areas, resource gathering areas, oral histories, and traditions (SN3; SN7). According to one consultant, the pit used to cook food is just a hole in the ground, whereas the locations where food was collected are the places that have value (SN19). In this view, the idea of archaeology as the physical evidence of past activities exists within a much broader conception of cultural heritage (SN6; SN13).

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Archaeology and Heritage

The St’át’imc participants are familiar with conventional ideas of archaeological heritage, but they see it as just a small part of their heritage as a whole. According to the consultants, heritage encompasses everything to do with St’át’imc traditions, culture, knowledge, and history (SN2). Heritage is the St’át’imc way of life (SN1; SN2; SN5; SN8;

SN10; SN12); “it is who we are, and how we see [ourselves], in the past, present, and future” (SN14). In the words of one consultant, it “defines who I am, where I came from, who I should be” (SN6). The consultants considered heritage to encompass a broad range of both general concepts and specific elements (Table 4).

Table 4. St’át’imc Conceptions of Heritage.

Cultural heritage is:

• The way we live today, and how our ancestors lived (SN18)

• The social product of people, in the past and present (SN13).

• St’át’imc legends, stories and knowledge passed down by word of mouth from the ancestors to the present (SN2;

SN8; SN9; SN13; SN16)

• The experiences of grandparents (SN9)

• The knowledge needed for gathering plants, hunting, and fishing (SN2; SN7)

• How the St’át’imc made things, how they grew things (SN8), and how they used resources (SN2; SN13)

• The knowledge of the past and how it applies to our lives today (SN18)

Cultural heritage includes:

• Oral history (SN1)

• Legends and stories (SN2)

• Traditional values and rules (SN2)

• Spiritual beliefs (SN12)

• Social functions (SN13; SN14)

• Economic structures (SN14)

• Ancestry (SN7)

• Language (SN7; SN9; SN18)

• Dances and songs (SN20)

• The things and tools we used in the past (SN18)

• Any evidence that proves St’át’imc occupation of the land (SN20)

The St’át’imc consultants make no distinction between archaeological evidence and other forms of St’át’imc heritage (SN3; SN5; SN11; SN14; SN18; SN20). Instead, they are closely related (SN7; SN12; SN13), they go hand in hand (SN2), and they support each other (SN11). Archaeology helps find evidence of heritage (SN1; SN12), and helps validate culture and history (SN2). Archaeological information supports the

St’át’imc understanding of the land, environment, and resources (SN16). As one participant remarked, when you see artifacts and sites on the land you understand how

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the ancestors lived (SN18). Archaeology also supports oral traditions and histories, which the St’át’imc feel have deteriorated due to colonial and Crown policy. St’át’imc conceptions of heritage encompass all those topics that would be studied in anthropology and archaeology (SN5), and the St’át’imc need to use all sources that aid in the research and preservation of their ancient stories (SN13).

Given archaeology’s relationship to heritage, the St’át’imc consultants believe archaeologists need to consider a much broader range of factors in their research and work, including customary St’át’imc knowledge (SN9). One person identified the need to

“bring people into the picture” in order to close the gap between the scientific and

St’át’imc perspectives (SN16). To some, archaeology as it is generally practiced seems concerned only with the distant past, whereas heritage brings the past into the present

(SN8). Cultural heritage is a continuum (SN5; SN11), in which the past and the present are connected (SN2). As such, the age of archaeological evidence is irrelevant in terms of determining its significance (SN1; SN2; SN4; SN5; SN6; SN8; SN11; SN15; SN16).

The St’át’imc hold that past events are not defined or given value by virtue of their age, but rather they are significant because they represent those who were here before them

(SN4). While older sites may be interesting, they are not necessarily more important

(SN1); even something from yesterday could be important (SN6). As one participant commented, the St’át’imc are still living in the same places where their ancestral villages are located (SN7), and thus new heritage is constantly being created.

The St’át’imc participants also stressed that tangible and intangible aspects of heritage are closely linked and need to be considered in tandem (SN4; SN5; SN8; SN14;

SN15). In other words, places conventionally identified as archaeological sites help us understand the stories and activities associated with them, and vice versa. For example, at resource harvesting places, there is no separation of the activity from the place–in the old stories, the place and the activity are one and the same (SN4). Likewise, one participant pointed out that you have to go the places where narratives were created to really appreciate them (SN18). To truly understand heritage, you need to see these places and participate in the activities associated with them, as “the land itself teaches us” (SN18).

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Heritage Places and the Land

The St’át’imc also emphasize that heritage is closely tied to the land (SN5;

SN18). The land itself is invested with cultural and historical significance, but this connection is physically manifested in the meaningful places found on the landscape, ranging from archaeological sites to place names. The St’át’imc responsibility as stewards is to protect significant places from impacts and development, which in a landscape context includes all tangible and intangible places, of any age. The participants recognize that archaeology is one way to understand these places, and it has a role in tracing and preserving the St’át’imc “footprint” on the land:

Archaeology helps us understand our past by identifying the activities of our ancestors on the land, and puts our history onto paper. To us, archaeology is about how we used the land in the past, and the footprints we left behind. When we practice archaeology, we are recording the things we see on the land that are related to our cultural heritage. [Barney and Klassen 2008:1]

When the St’át’imc consultants were asked what types of places on the land needed to be “managed” or protected, the range was broad; indeed, one consultant couldn’t think of any place that wouldn’t be included (SN1), whether physical, such as a village site, or intangible, such as a place named in a story. Thus, the range of specified places goes well beyond those currently regulated by the Heritage Conservation Act

(HCA) or managed under provincial legislation.

23

Their expansive definition included types of physical archaeological heritage, such as culturally modified trees, that are

“managed” under other provincial resource legislation and regulations such as the Forest

Act and the Forest Planning and Practices Regulation, but generally not regulated by the

HCA (Table 5).

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Not confined by material evidence, they identified numerous types of non-archaeological heritage that should be managed as “cultural heritage resources”

23

As noted in Chapter 3, the HCA “automatically” regulates all archaeological sites pre-dating

A.D. 1846, which represents the date of the assertion of colonial sovereignty under the

Oregon Treaty. In addition, it regulates all Aboriginal burial and rock art sites of cultural and historical significance.

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The Forest Act defines a "cultural heritage resource" as “an object, a site or the location of a traditional societal practice that is of historical, cultural or archaeological significance to

British Columbia, a community or an aboriginal people.” Under the Forest Planning and

Practices Regulation, the objective set by government for cultural heritage resources is “to conserve, or, if necessary, protect cultural heritage resources that … are the focus of a traditional use by an aboriginal people that is of continuing importance to that people.”

Despite this broad definition, in practice it is interpreted to mean discrete, “site-specific” locations that can be represented by a “polygon” on a map.

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under provincial resource legislation and regulations, including traditional history sites, places of spiritual significance, and traditional resource areas for gathering, hunting, and fishing activities (Table 5).

Named places, and the geography of legends, stories, and oral histories, are considered part of the cultural landscape (SN9; SN16; SN18). Every named place recalls a specific event or activity, but as they generally don’t exhibit physical evidence the knowledge associated with these places often eludes conventional archaeological research (SN11; SN16). However, Elders and other knowledgeable people remember the names and purposes of these places (SN11). For example, Graveyard Valley, the site of an important battle and a spiritual place, is a specific named place associated with oral history that a number of consultants mentioned as an area in need of better recognition and protection (SN8; SN9; SN11; SN13; SN19).

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But many place names, along with their associated knowledge, are now lost (SN16), thereby diminishing

St’át’imc history and culture.

Other significant places identified by St’át’imc consultants do not easily fit within conventional and regulatory conceptions of “cultural heritage resources.” For example, they listed wildlife trails and migration routes (SN3; SN5; SN10), wildlife habitat (SN18;

SN19), and various other natural features (SN12; SN14; SN19) (Table 5). According to this view, there is no distinction between wildlife, forests, and culture (SN10); heritage sites and ecological features are related, and they must be managed together (SN2). In their words, heritage places would not exist if not for the wildlife and other resources that sustained the activities that occurred there (SN18).

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Although Graveyard Valley is located within a provincial protected area (Big Creek Provincial

Park), it does not enjoy any form of special protection or historical designation. The main approach to Graveyard Valley for the St’át’imc is through the Paradise Creek valley, which also holds considerable significance for the St’át’imc. However, in 2010 the Liberal government removed the Paradise Creek watershed from the Spruce Lake protected area

(now South Chilcotin Mountains Provincial Park) under pressure from mining interests.

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Table 5. St’át’imc Heritage Places on the Land.

Heritage places identified by the St’át’imc consultants

(organized by regulatory category)

• Villages and camps

• Artifact scatters

• Lookouts

• Burials

• Housepits

• Culturally modified trees (ancient)

• Cultural depressions

• Quarries

• Pictographs

(SN3; SN5; SN8; SN9; SN11; SN13; SN15; SN20)

• Trails

• Trail markers and trail marker trees

• Culturally modified trees (post-1846)

(SN3; SN4; SN7; SN8; SN9; SN10; SN11; SN15; SN18; SN19;

SN20)

• Spiritual sites

• Vision quest locations

• Puberty areas

• Transformer sites and landmarks

• Trading routes

• Battle sites

(SN3; SN6; SN9; SN11; SN13; SN15; SN16; SN18; SN19)

Regulatory Category

Regulated Archaeological sites

“Automatically” regulated under the British Columbia

Heritage Conservation Act (HCA)

Non-regulated Archaeological sites

Not regulated under the HCA, but potentially

“managed” under provincial resource legislation and regulations (e.g., Forest Act, Forest Planning and

Practices Regulation, Mines Act).

• Named places

• “Intangible” locations without physical evidence

(associated with activities, oral history, and traditions)

(SN1; SN4; SN5; SN6; SN8; SN9; SN11; SN14; SN15; SN16;

SN18)

“Traditional Use Sites” (Traditional heritage features;

Traditional cultural places)

Potentially “managed” under provincial resource legislation and regulations (see above); recognized in international instruments (e.g., UN Declaration of

the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, UNESCO

Convention Concerning the Protection of the World

Cultural and Natural Heritage).

Intangible Heritage

Not typically “managed” under provincial resource legislation and regulations, but recognized in international instruments (e.g., UNESCO Convention

for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural

Heritage).

• Berry, mushroom, and medicine gathering areas and resources

• Hunting and fishing areas

• Wildlife and fish resources

• Cedar groves and forest resources

(SN3; SN5; SN6; SN8; SN12; SN13; SN14; SN18; SN19)

• Wildlife trails and migration routes

• Saltlicks

• Springs, Wetlands, Watersheds, Waterways

• Forests

(SN3; SN5; SN9; SN10; SN18; SN19)

“Traditional Resources”

(Traditional use areas; Traditional cultural places)

Potentially “managed” under provincial resource legislation and regulations (see above); also included in some land use plans (e.g., Coastal Land

Use Decision).

Ecological Features

Not typically “managed” as “cultural heritage resources” under provincial resource legislation, regulations, or land use plans.

* Note that the types of places listed here are not necessarily categorized in the same way as they are in provincial documents.

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Indeed, a number of consultants pointed out that everything on the land is part of their heritage (SN5; SN6). The entire landscape bears the imprint of their presence through hunting, plant gathering, and traditional ecological management, such as using fire to enhance forest regeneration (SN5). Some areas received more intensive use than others, and some places are known for certain activities, but some sort of physical or cultural evidence is almost always there (SN6; SN15). In this sense, greater emphasis should go to protecting large areas rather than just specific sites (SN8). A number of consultants also stressed the importance of protecting trails and trail markers (e.g., knotted trees, bent trees, blazes) (SN3; SN4; SN7; SN8; SN9; SN10; SN11; SN15;

SN18; SN19; SN20). All of the places and activities important to them–along with every valley and every village–are linked by trails (SN4; SN7; SN9). To some, this network of paths linking places is the most important evidence of their heritage on the land (SN4).

The St’át’imc see protection of their “ancestral footprints” as central to their identity and survival. Caring for heritage places on the land is vital for cultural stability and for cultural sustainability. For example, some cultural roles in their society need access to sacred spots (SN2). Although the need for stewardship motivates their interest in archaeology, the participants consider its conventional practice too narrow in its scope and application. They believe that archaeologists need to enhance their role in heritage stewardship by bringing together St’át’imc and scientific knowledge, considering tangible and intangible evidence in tandem, expanding their focus beyond the current sitespecific emphasis, and connecting archaeological evidence with the broader cultural landscape (SN2; SN9; SN11; SN16; SN18).

Perceived Benefits and Drawbacks of Archaeology

Through their involvement in heritage stewardship over the last fifteen years, the

St’át’imc now recognize the political, economic, and conservation benefits arising from the practice of archaeology (Table 6). They see it as advancing their pursuit of

Indigenous title and rights, especially as the courts and the government have forced the

St’át’imc to justify their claims with physical evidence (SN1). Involvement in CRM archaeology has also increased skills, employment, and capacity in St’át’imc communities (SN3; SN6). CRM has also had some significant practical stewardship opportunities for them. For example, logging plans in Pavilion Creek were thwarted with

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the help of archaeologists (SN10), who assisted the St’át’imc by identifying and documenting archaeological sites.

Table 6. St’át’imc Perspectives on the Benefits of Archaeology.

Political Benefits:

• An important tool for helping to prove title and rights; proof of occupation and continuous use (SN1; SN5; SN6;

SN9; SN19; SN21)

• Provides physical evidence of how long the St’át’imc have been here (SN5; SN6; SN7; SN9)

• Gives Canadian society as a whole a better understanding of St’át’imc history and the St’át’imc relationship to the land (SN13; SN14; SN18)

Economic Benefits

• Involvement in the archaeological assessment process has provided employment, and developed work skills (SN6)

• Increased the economic capacity of communities (SN3)

Stewardship Benefits

• Helps protect certain forms of physical cultural heritage (SN9; SN16)

• Useful tool for protecting land and significant places (SN11; SN19)

• If sites are not recorded they can be destroyed (SN7)

• It can be beneficial to collect artifacts if it prevents looting (SN10; SN12)

• Archaeological research before development activities can help protect sites, and help save some of the things that our grandparents were fighting for (SN8)

Social and Cultural Benefits

• Helps the St’át’imc learn about their history and understand where they come from, connects them to their ancestors, and links the past to the present (SN5; SN6; SN11; SN12; SN14; SN18; SN20)

• The educational role of archaeology is important for both St’át’imc and the general public (SN16; SN20; SN21)

• Together with oral history, archaeology helps preserve St’át’imc heritage for future generations (SN11)

• A lot of knowledge can be gained from artifacts and material culture (SN21)

• It can help teach youth so that they can carry on this knowledge (SN8)

• Helps to instil pride in ancestry and accomplishments (SN6)

• Archaeology also helps remind Elders how they did things and what they used, and preserves memories about the ways of doing things (SN15)

• Where knowledge has been lost, archaeological evidence gives us an idea of how things were done (SN12; SN13)

• Assists the St’át’imc to develop their own theories about their past (SN6)

• Archaeology helps to identify the physical aspects of the past, which is one part in the full knowledge of St’át’imc history (SN16)

• Artifacts can illuminate history (SN7), and demonstrate trade and relations (SN10).

• Reinforces the relationship of the St’át’imc to the land (SN1)

• St’át’imc are becoming interested in archaeology and history as a result of excavations (SN20)

• If St’át’imc youth are interested, they should be encouraged to be actively involved in archaeology (SN18)

• Everyone should be interested in archaeology as part of St’át’imc history (SN10; SN15)

Even the emergency “salvage” of human remains can be useful in certain cases, as long as protocols are followed that culminate with reburial (SN2). Before the St’át’imc began relying on archaeology, burials and graves were destroyed during development activities without opportunities to protect or rebury the remains (SN4). There are also

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times when collecting artifacts is necessary to protect them from looting or impacts from development activities (SN10; SN12). Despite traditional prohibitions against disturbing relics, one St’át’imc consultant now collects surface finds and catalogues them in order to save them from looters (SN10). Another has been finding artifacts since he first started hunting, and has been reporting them to the Lillooet Tribal Council for a long time

(SN15).

The social and cultural benefits of archaeology are also important to the St’át’imc consultants, as its practice and outcomes have the potential for educating youth about their own history, for strengthening social identity, and for revitalizing traditions and knowledge (SN1;

SN5; SN6; SN7; SN11; SN12; SN13; SN14; SN16; SN18; SN20; SN21

). For example, artifact collections can be used for educational purposes (SN10; SN12).

Despite the overall positive assessment of archaeology, there were also perceived drawbacks and disadvantages (Table 7). Foremost was the potential lack of confidentiality involving site records and archaeological information. For example, the

St’át’imc knew about the Keatley Creek village site, but it was kept secret until archaeologists started excavating the site; subsequent publicity led to looting incidents, particularly following a grass fire at the site around 1994 (SN10). Many also expressed their concern that archaeologists were collecting and removing artifacts from St’át’imc territory (SN2; SN5; SN10; SN12; SN20; SN21), though they do recognize that there is no local facility available to safely store them (SN12). Some consultants also felt that ignoring St’át’imc perspectives highlights a general lack of respect that some archaeologists hold toward Indigenous peoples (SN1). Conversely, one consultant noted that archaeology potentially hinders economic development, though this is not necessarily a problem if the proper process is followed (SN12).

Despite these concerns, many of the St’át’imc consultants do not have any major concerns with the archaeologists they have personally worked with, and feel that such relationships are generally positive and professional (SN1; SN2; SN7; SN10; SN12;

SN14; SN15). In fact, they feel that since the 1990s there has been a change in attitude among most archaeologists, from one that is self-serving to one that better recognizes

St’át’imc interests and is respectful of their concerns (SN3). Archaeologists now listen to the St’át’imc and act on their advice (SN15). As expressed by Marie Barney of T’it’q’et:

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Until recently, we have not had much input into archaeological work in our territory. To many of our Elders, it seemed that archaeologists were considered to be the experts on St’át’imc history, and we were considered to have little to offer to archaeology. Although we often view archaeology and heritage differently, we recognize that archaeologists have certain knowledge and skills that can assist us. I understand the need for archaeology now. Archaeology helps us understand our past by identifying the activities of our ancestors on the land, and puts our history onto paper. [Barney and Klassen 2008:1]

Table 7. St’át’imc Perspectives on Potential Drawbacks of Archaeology.

Confidentiality of information

• Site records potentially exposes archaeological sites, leading to the looting and selling of artifacts (SN1; SN6; SN7;

SN9; SN10; SN13; SN14; SN15)

Ownership of heritage

• St’át’imc ownership of artifacts is not acknowledged (SN4; SN5; SN21)

Destructive practices

• The removal of artifacts and ancestral remains from the territory is problematic (SN2; SN5; SN10; SN12; SN20;

SN21)

• Even legally sanctioned archaeology can be destructive and can disturb sites and human remains (SN5; SN6)

• Exhuming or disturbing ancestral remains is considered inappropriate (SN2; SN21)

• Mitigative actions may destroy sites after recording and reporting (SN5).

Quality of fieldwork

• Poor standards of work when done on behalf of industry (SN2; SN6; SN20)

• With a narrow understanding of archaeology and heritage, things can be missed in the field (SN13; SN16)

• Potential for losing heritage if archaeology is not conducted properly (SN7)

Interpretation of results

• Post 1846 sites not recorded or recognized as evidence of continuous use and occupation (SN8; SN19)

• Misinterpretations and lack of respect by archaeologists is a concern (SN1)

• Detrimental if archaeologists are not receptive to St’át’imc knowledge, or if St’át’imc involvement is absent (SN3)

• A narrow definition of heritage can lead to disagreements during assessment projects (even among the St’át’imc researchers) (SN11)

Misuse and bias

• Archaeological information can be used against St’át’imc interests (SN18), such as cases where archaeologists propose a different cultural affiliation (SN5)

• The practice of archaeology is potentially biased when acting on behalf of industry in the context of development

(SN2)

• Archaeologists working for industry may not have St’át’imc interests in mind, and may be less cooperative (SN14)

• Province uses site-specific focus to limit significance of places (SN19)

Lack of research collaboration

• Few opportunities for St’át’imc input into university research projects (SN2; SN8; SN14)

• More could be returned to communities in terms of sharing results, artifacts and knowledge, especially from university research projects (SN7; SN8; SN20)

• More community members should be involved in excavations and other projects (SN20)

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Although there is now more confidence in the practice of archaeology, and working with archaeologists has fomented a degree of trust, this generally positive impression does not extend to the provincial government and the Archaeology Branch

(SN2). The St’át’imc recognize that archaeologists continue to work within what is often considered as a flawed legislative and regulatory regime. The Crown presumes ownership of St’át’imc archaeological heritage, and assumes it can do a better job of protecting it, which has led to conflict with the Archaeology Branch (SN4).

Heritage, the Law, and St’át’imc Sovereignty

St’át’imc discontent with the prevailing provincial regulatory regime stems from differing perspectives on heritage stewardship. In the early 1990s, they were neither familiar with the legislation and management process, nor did they recognize how much control they could potentially exercise over it (SN9). Today, most of those consulted in this study were well aware of the HCA and its general provisions, although they were not necessarily aware of the specifics of the legislation (SN1; SN12; SN15). A number of them considered it to be a good thing in general (SN4; SN6; SN10; SN11), and some also saw archaeological impact assessments as useful for identifying sites (SN6).

Even so, most of the consultants identified a number of shortcomings that limit the effectiveness of the legislation and its implementation (Table 8). They found deficiencies in the processes mandated by the HCA and specifically criticized the British

Columbia Archaeological Impact Assessment Guidelines (Apland and Kenny 1998)

(SN4). From the St’át’imc perspective, significant shortcomings in current legislation and regulations include: limited community involvement or input; the arbitrary date of A.D.

1846; the emphasis on physical evidence of heritage; the focus on site-specific management; and inadequate tools for implementing and enforcing the HCA and its regulations (Table 8). These limitations result in different levels of protection and management for different types of heritage.

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Table 8. St’át’imc Comments on the Heritage Conservation Act and Regulations.

Consultation

• Involves very limited community involvement or input (SN3; SN4; SN9)

A.D. 1846 cut-off date

• Cut-off date is a fundamental flaw (SN2; SN3; SN6; SN7; SN8; SN15; SN18; SN19)

• Arbitrary and irrelevant date (both archaeologically and culturally) that represents a colonial declaration of sovereignty that is not recognized (SN2; SN4; SN13)

• Post-1846 St’át’imc archaeological sites (e.g., trails, trail markers, and culturally modified trees) are not protected

(SN4; SN8; SN12)

• All archaeological sites are part of St’át’imc heritage, regardless of their age (SN4; SN8)

Emphasis on physical evidence

• Narrow range of “site-specific” protection (SN3; SN4; SN6; SN8; SN16; SN19)

• Does not protect heritage places with intangible evidence (SN4; SN6; SN8).

• Prevents the St’át’imc from protecting significant aspects of their heritage (SN13)

• Misses the link between people and sites (SN16)

• Human activities are represented by more than just the “things left behind” (SN4)

Site-specific Management

• Traditional use of the land and the “cultural landscape” are just as significant (SN2; SN16)

• Appears to be geared to benefit industry and corporations (SN2)

• Allows development to go ahead within the landscape context of sites (SN2)

• Facilitates development, as mitigation can be used to authorize the destruction of sites (SN4)

• Assessments are restricted to specific development areas, and do not produce a cumulative picture of impacts

(SN3)

Implementation

• Lack of consistency among provincial ministries in terms of implementation (SN3)

• Industry is not always familiar with requirements due to a lack of education and awareness (SN6; SN8)

• Lack of provincial support for effective implementation (SN6)

• Overview assessments are limited in scope, and based on models that are not specific to the area (SN3; SN8;

SN13)

• Assessment fieldwork is variable in scope and quality and not audited (SN1)

• Many significant places are still left out of process (SN3; SN4)

Enforcement

• Unregulated industrial development facilitates the “blatant destruction” of heritage sites (SN2)

• Looting and other damaging activities go unmonitored and unpunished (SN3)

• Potential fines are not used to compensate affected communities (SN19)

• The HCA is “toothless” in the sense that its provisions are not adequately enforced (SN3; SN4; SN16)

Specifically, one participant said that the St’át’imc lack adequate oversight and control; for instance, when a development proponent directly hires a consultant, the worry is that the subsequent work may not be objective (SN3). To counter this concern, one St’át’imc participant felt that archaeological consulting firms must show flexibility in their approach to work, which may mean directly engaging with the community through consultation and by respecting its values (SN16). From this perspective, in order for the provincial process to better serve the St’át’imc and preserve its impartiality, the nation

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should be involved in selecting the archaeological consultant, the consultant needs to meet with them, and the proponent needs to work closely with the nation (SN16). On the other hand, another participant believed that the Archaeology Branch would not accept assessments carried out by First Nations out of a fear that the work will be biased (SN6).

One consultant recognized that the Archaeology Branch does not have the capacity to effectively implement legislation and it does not have the mandate to enforce it (SN6). Rather, the bigger issue is with the lack of provincial support for effective application and oversight of the HCA and regulations, resulting in inadequate quality control of fieldwork. As a result, the outcomes often need to be independently verified by the St’át’imc (SN1). There is also a lack of consistency among ministries in adhering to the Act, and industry is not always familiar with its requirements. Overall, the perception of the consultants is that awareness of the HCA requirements is inadequate within industry sectors and provincial ministries.

Some consultants pointed out that the limitations of the HCA also restrict the ability of the St’át’imc to effectively carry out heritage stewardship. This is because the province enacted statutory heritage protection primarily to safeguard its own interests and not those of the St’át’imc (SN13), and this legislation fails to address the full range of heritage important to them (SN16). Addressing their concerns through revising provincial legislation would improve the effectiveness of heritage stewardship, and they would expect to have a role in writing it (SN2; SN16). Moreover, some feel that the province must first acknowledge their Indigenous title and St’át’imc authority as a precondition to negotiating improved heritage protocols (SN2). However, a number of participants pointed out that the St’át’imc Nation does not recognize provincial jurisdiction over lands and resources, including heritage (SN2; SN18; SN21). Indeed, one respondent expressed amazement at the “audacity” of the province’s claim to exercise jurisdiction over St’át’imc heritage (SN21). Although the courts have implicitly recognized the existence of St’át’imc title, current legislation does not recognize indigenous ownership of heritage, meaning there is a disconnect between the judicial and legal perspectives (SN2). Given the limitations of the existing system, many

St’át’imc are sceptical that CRM and the HCA can adequately protect what remains of their archaeological heritage (SN16).

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Archaeology and Landscape

The St’át’imc consultants participating in this study understand the conventional definition of archaeology, and recognize it has the potential to identify and corroborate

St’át’imc heritage. However, they find its emphasis on physical evidence and the distant past too narrow and limiting. From their perspective, archaeology fits into the broader concept of heritage, which links the past to the present and encompasses all aspects of their culture, history, traditions, and knowledge. Incorporating their knowledge and perspectives, while considering the links between tangible and intangible aspects of heritage, would make the discipline more relevant to them. For example, identifying and explaining significant places on the land in relation to oral traditions and place names would help demonstrate continuity from ancient times to the present. In this way, archaeology has an important role to play in preserving the relationship between heritage and the land itself.

The St’át’imc see landscape-based heritage stewardship as including regulated and unregulated archaeological sites, traditional use sites and sacred places, traditional forest resources, and intangible heritage places (e.g., named places)–all of which they refer to as their ancestral “footprints.” Trails are singled out as an important manifestation of heritage, as they link people and places to activities and the land.

Stewardship should focus on places and landscape, and include all forms of significant tangible and intangible heritage regardless of age. Moreover, no distinction should be made between heritage and ecological features in terms of their management and protection. As stated in the Nxekmenlhkálha lti tmícwa (the St’át’imc Land Use Plan, literally “the laws of our land as taught by our Elders” [SN3]), “taking care of our ancestral footprints means protecting St’át’imc culture, heritage, and ecology of the land”

(St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004).

The St’át’imc conception of heritage is much broader than regulatory or even disciplinary conceptions, and this breadth is mirrored in the official position of the

St’át’imc Nation (Table 9). The St’át’imc Nation insists that heritage stewardship must take into account St’át’imc laws (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004, 2005).

The flaws and limitations of the prevailing system and conflicting views over jurisdiction and sovereignty motivated the development of St’át’imc Nation archaeology.

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Table 9. Definition of Cultural Heritage in Draft

St’át’imc Land and Resource Code

[C]ultural heritage is the direct result of St’át’imc use and occupation of the land and St’át’imc use of natural resources.

St’át’imc cultural heritage was created and continues to be created by the St’át’imc people and, as such, remains the property of St’át’imc communities throughout unceded St’át’imc Territory. St’át’imc cultural heritage is a collective inheritance, a legacy that belongs to all St’át’imc, and is not a resource to be exploited.

[C]ultural heritage encompasses the places, traditions, and activities of the St’át’imc. It includes more than just sitespecific locations, and more than archaeological sites pre-dating AD 1846. All types of cultural heritage require protection. Cultural heritage is also linked to the land and the ecosystem. Cultural heritage would not exist without the land that supports the St’át’imc way of life. Thus, the protection of cultural heritage needs to be linked to an ecosystembased system of land management directed by the St’át’imc, including compliance with the Nxekmenlhkálha lti tmícwa

[Land Use Plan] and the requirements of the St’át’imc Forestry Code. [St’át’imc Land and Resource Authority 2005]

The Rise of St’át’imc Nation Archaeology

Northern St’át’imc exposure to archaeology began in the 1970s, but the involvement of the nation as a whole increased significantly beginning in the mid 1990s.

A number of converging factors, including local political revitalization and legal decisions such as Delgamuukw, provoked a more active St’át’imc role in heritage stewardship informed by their views on archaeology, heritage, and landscape. This convergence is exhibited by personal encounters with archaeology, as experienced by the St’át’imc participants in this study since the 1970s, and the history of active participation of the

Lillooet Tribal Council (LTC) and the Northern St’át’imc communities in archaeological and heritage stewardship through the 1990s. Moreover, conflicts with a logging company in the late 1990s had a considerable impact on St’át’imc relationships with the forest industry, government, and archaeologists. These developments had a direct effect on the establishment of the LTC Cultural Heritage Team in 2000, the subject of the case study examined in the next chapter.

Personal Encounters with Archaeology

For each St’át’imc individual consulted in this study, their initial personal encounter with archaeology–the process as well as practitioners–occurred during one of two distinct periods: the 1970s and 1980s, and the 1990s. Each period reflects a set of specific circumstances, which are discussed in the following sections.

Beginnings: the 1970s and 1980s

During this period, four developments acted as catalysts for introducing the practice of archaeology to Northern St’át’imc governments and individual community

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members. The first factor was the onset of large-scale archaeological research in the region by academic institutions in the early 1970s. The second was the nascent involvement of the St’át’imc in land and resource management issues, brought on by

Indigenous title and rights issues. Third was the implementation of a provincial “cultural resource management” process by industry and government. The final factor was the ensuing growth of indigenous activism and cultural revitalization that occurred during this period. Each of these factors is discussed in more detail below.

The 1970s was an intense period of grassroots political organization and influence for First Nations throughout British Columbia (Tennant 1990). In particular, political aspirations among Indigenous peoples in Canada were galvanized by opposition to the 1969 federal government White Paper (Schaepe 2007), leading to the establishment of Indigenous political organizations across the country. In British

Columbia, St’át’imc communities helped found the Union of British Columbia Indian

Chiefs in late 1969 (Drake-Terry 1989), and a few years later they formed the Lillooet

Tribal Council following the abolition of the Indian Agent system (Smith 1998). These organizations gave the Northern St’át’imc Nation a stronger and more united voice, putting their efforts at pressing for title and rights on a trajectory that intersected with archaeology and heritage stewardship.

Until this period, archaeologists working in the mid-Fraser region were rare, and the St’át’imc had virtually no prior engagement with the discipline. Other than some collecting in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (Dawson 1891; Teit 1906), the late 1950s and early 1960s marked the first archaeological forays in the Lillooet area, with a few non-systematic site surveys along the Fraser River (Hills 1961; Sanger

1961). Although aware of these projects, the St’át’imc were not involved in this work.

David Sanger, then a graduate student from the University of British Columbia who undertook some of this early work, stated that he desisted from test excavating burial sites in the Lillooet area “since in the past Indians living in this area have objected strongly to the unearthing of these burials” (Sanger 1961:7). However, later that decade a number of burials were “salvaged” to mitigate ongoing human and natural disturbance to these sites, without any apparent St’át’imc involvement (Sanger 1968b; Stryd and

Baker 1968). Following salvage of the Murray Site, both Stryd and Baker saw the potential for archaeological research in the Lillooet area (Stryd 1978:1), and in 1969 they turned their attention to site surveys in the region (Baker 1970; Stryd and Hills 1969).

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This initial work led to a florescence of archaeological research along the Fraser River in the Lillooet region, eventually making it one of the most intensively surveyed and investigated areas in the province.

By the 1960s, in response to disciplinary trends through the continent, British

Columbia archaeology had been transformed by a more rigorous adherence to scientific methods. Along with this change came larger university departments, bigger research budgets, and large-scale field projects. Although Sanger had conducted extensive archaeological excavations immediately to the south of St’át’imc territory through the

1960s (Sanger 1969a, 1970), comparable research there did not begin until the end of the decade. The first major archaeological research study in the Lillooet area was the

Lillooet Archaeological Project (1969-1976), initiated by Arnoud Stryd of the University of

Calgary and subsequently of Cariboo College (now Thompson Rivers University) in

Kamloops (Stryd 1978). It involved excavations over six field seasons at various housepit sites in the area, coupled with inventory surveys along the Fraser River (Stryd

1978). In some years, “salvage” excavations of disturbed sites were also undertaken

(Stryd 1972); burials were also recovered on the presumption that the sites were endangered from looting (Richards 1982).

Through exposure to these excavations, some community members became aware of the discipline and met archaeologists for the first time, though they had no direct involvement in the project or its objectives, except for the employment of a few field assistants (SN4; SN7; SN15).

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Subsequent literature stemming from this project only made a few acknowledgements to the living St’át’imc descendants associated with the excavated sites. For example, one unpublished permit report from this project acknowledges the “cooperation and interest” of St’át’imc communities and community members, as well as the “encouragement” provided by specific leaders and Elders

(Rittberg 1976:1). Likewise, one of the final publications of the project acknowledges the

“co-operation and support” of St’át’imc communities, the hospitality and assistance provided by leaders and community members, and that permission was received from five St’át’imc band councils before starting their digging (Stryd 1978:20). Local

26

Around the same time as the Lillooet Archaeological Project, the linguist Randy Bouchard was interviewing Elders from several St’át’imc communities for his British Columbia Indian

Language Project (Bouchard and Kennedy 1977), and introduced some community members to archaeologists (SN2).

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community members were also hired to work on some of the housepit excavations

(Stryd 1978:10), with up to four community members working at any one time at the Bell and Fountain sites (SN2).

The degree to which the Lillooet Archaeological Project acknowledged St’át’imc assistance, along with the fact that permission was sought from St’át’imc communities, is noteworthy. This recognition of First Nations certainly exceeds that of previous research in the area, such as Sanger’s work near Lytton in the 1960s. Nonetheless, the reports and published literature show that St’át’imc involvement was limited to consent and field assistance, and it neither extended to participation in setting research objectives or contributing to interpretations, nor were they direct beneficiaries of this research. Indeed, some St’át’imc actively avoided contact with archaeologists during this period of research in the vicinity of Lillooet, as their perception was that they were taking much from the community but giving little in return (SN8). The impression, at least from today’s perspective, is that the university archaeologists lacked meaningful involvement with the community (SN19). The archaeologists digging in the area at the time were “just White guys coming to take stuff away from us again” (SN19).

As a consequence of growing political activism, and greater involvement in land and resource management, by the 1970s heritage stewardship issues routinely started coming to the attention of individual St’át’imc communities. Involvement in local politics and their role as band councillors brought archaeology to the attention of some St’át’imc

(SN16). But even for those community members with little involvement in local politics, the activities of archaeologists were noted (SN19). Band councils quickly recognized the potential of archaeological research projects in the Lillooet area for acquiring information useful for negotiating title and rights issues with the province. As a result, some community initiatives incorporated archaeological research and information.

One such encounter occurred when Xaxli’p (Fountain Indian Band) asked Arnoud

Stryd to conduct research at the Divide Site to support a land claim initiative (SN2)

(Stryd 1974). That same year, the Seton Lake Indian Band (Tsalalh) invited Cariboo

College to undertake archaeological work in their area, and Derek Wales, a student at the college, conducted a site survey and salvage excavation that summer in the Seton

Portage and Shalath areas (Wales 1974). The Seton Lake Indian Band used a grant from the First Citizen’s Fund to employ a number of St’át’imc high school students for

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this project (SN5). Many of these students (and their friends) first learned about archaeology through this work, even if it did not lead to further involvement in the discipline (SN3; SN5; SN16). Despite the support from Tsalalh council for this project, some band members voiced concerns about the removal of artifacts and the lack of respect shown to burials (SN5). One of the summer students on the project was unaware at the time of the political implications of archaeological research, and only later realized that archaeologists did not make the connection between the present-day

St’át’imc and their archaeological heritage (SN3).

Another significant change in British Columbia archaeology was the introduction of the concept of “cultural resource management” (CRM) and conservation archaeology, as reflected in the 1977 Heritage Conservation Act (Klassen 2008a). In response to growing threats from development and the introduction of new regulatory mechanisms, archaeologists began undertaking salvage excavations and archaeological assessments in advance of development projects. In due course, First Nations grew familiar with the utility of the archaeological assessment process for protecting sites, as well as its usefulness for political negotiations affecting their land claims. Communities would sometimes contact archaeologists for assistance if the archaeological recovery of human remains was necessary after an accidental discovery (Stryd 1978:19), or if artifacts were encountered during development projects (SN5). Archaeological assessments also became a routine stipulation during negotiations with industry representatives over development projects (SN5).

For example, the Bridge River Indian Band (Xwisten) involved archaeologists during their negotiations with BC Hydro and Power Authority concerning access roads crossing reserves (SN17). Archaeologists were also involved in addressing impacts to heritage sites along the BC Rail line above Seton Lake (SN16). Likewise, the Xwisten chief and council insisted that an archaeological assessment be undertaken as part of their negotiations with the province over the realignment of Highway 40, because they had issues with potential impacts on heritage sites (SN7; SN17) (Brolly and Calancie

1982; Stryd 1985). Xwisten leadership also recognized that recording archaeological sites could be useful for negotiating Indigenous rights with the province (SN7). Through these dealings, they became more involved in development activities, and started to support archaeology at the band level (SN17).

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By the latter part of the 1980s, St’át’imc communities recognized that detrimental impacts from BC Hydro projects were affecting the whole nation, particularly those impacted by the proposed Kelly Lake-Cheekeye transmission line, so they started to work together (SN17). They began by renegotiating agreements with BC Hydro, and these discussions included demands for addressing impacts on heritage sites (SN17)

(see Bussey 1982a, 1982b). In some cases, however, they were only notified after archaeological assessment work was completed or when human remains were discovered. For example, around 1984 an archaeologist contacted Sekw'elw'as

(Cayoosh Creek Indian Band) after burials were disturbed during construction activities at the BC Hydro powerhouse at the mouth of Seton River (SN13) (see Wigen and Keen

1984). This contact introduced their chief and council to the archaeological assessment process (SN13), and highlighted its shortcomings in terms of consultation.

Indigenous activism and cultural revitalization from the 1960s to the 1980s also introduced some St’át’imc to archaeology. One member joined a drum and dance group in the 1970s, thus learning about traditions and culture, and among his first jobs was transcribing Elder’s stories (SN16). From this experience, he started to understand the connection between St’át’imc traditions and archaeology. For another individual, his knowledge about pictographs and other heritage sites came from listening to stories during the Stein valley protest (SN13). Another person became interested in his people’s history as he became acutely aware of people digging things up and selling them, and exploiting art and artifacts (SN17). After becoming involved in politics in the 1970s, he met some of the archaeologists working in the area. Eventually, through the Union of BC

Indian Chiefs, he began to insert these issues into negotiations at the provincial level

(SN17). In this manner, the St’át’imc began their dialogue with the discipline, and started exerting influence on heritage policy (SN17).

Archaeology was no longer an unfamiliar concept among Northern St’át’imc communities by the end of the 1980s, and extensive archaeological research and assessments that had taken place over the previous 15 years. However, another major university research project that introduced many St’át’imc to archaeology was the largescale field investigation at the Keatley Creek housepit village, initiated in 1985 by Brian

Hayden of Simon Fraser University and carried out over the next fifteen years with the collaboration of numerous colleagues and graduate students (Hayden 1992, 1997,

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2000a, 2000b).

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When he approached the chief and council of the Pavilion Indian Band

(Ts'kwaly'ax) for permission to excavate at the site, most had no prior contact with archaeologists (SN10). Subsequently, however, some Ts'kwaly'ax members developed a strong interest in the project and visited the excavations regularly (SN10; SN20).

Visitors from other St’át’imc communities also met archaeologists for the first time at the

Keatley Creek project (SN8), and some volunteered with the project out of curiosity, though they had no formal input into the research (SN2).

Although many St’át’imc always knew about Keatley Creek and other nearby housepit villages, the excavation raised the profile of archaeology and contributed to local awareness of this site (SN16). Nonetheless, St’át’imc consultants had varying opinions about the Keatley Creek research and expressed concern with the project. For example, Ts'kwaly'ax council supported the excavations, but were concerned about storage of the excavated artifacts outside their territory (SN10). Council members were briefed on the excavation plans at the beginning of each season, but otherwise the project proceeded without any additional guidelines, direction or input from the community (SN10). Some Ts'kwaly'ax members were paid to work on the excavations if they showed interest, but they did not participant as students and did not receive any academic credit (SN10). Another St’át’imc consultant familiar with the project was unaware of any St’át’imc working at the Keatley excavations (SN20). One St’át’imc consultant recalled that not all communities with an interest in Keatley Creek were consulted nor were they asked for permission (SN8). They, too, voiced concerns about where the artifacts were being taken and how they could get them back (SN8). Another

St’át’imc consultant was concerned about the lack of communication between the researchers and the community, as they never heard anything about what they found or if it was significant; this gave the impression that “they were sneaking off with things”

(SN20).

The St’át’imc had hoped that the Keatley excavations would be used to educate their people about their own history (SN20). However, traditional knowledge did not directly contribute to the project (SN10), and the research design did not directly or formally incorporate it. Even though the researchers asked questions about specific

St’át’imc activities and tools, some doubt was expressed about whether the project

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Field investigations by Hayden and his successors have continued at Keatley Creek until the present day, albeit on a much smaller scale.

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reports incorporated much traditional knowledge (SN10). However, one St’át’imc consultant recalled that researchers associated with related projects conducted many interviews (SN10).

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The concerns expressed about the Keatley Creek project indicate that by the mid to late 1980s the St’át’imc were increasingly aware of the promise and shortcomings of archaeological research.

Growth and Consolidation: The 1990s

The next period of St’át’imc involvement in archaeology began in the early 1990s and accelerated following the 1993 and 1997 Delgamuukw decisions. Northern St’át’imc communities and the LTC took an active role in resource management and traditional use studies in order to advance their political agenda, and resource management and heritage stewardship programs became integral to LTC operations. Growing friction between the nation and industry culminated in the Seton Lake blockade in 1998, which was a major turning point for involving St’át’imc in heritage stewardship. Enrolment of

St’át’imc in post-secondary education exposed more community members to various aspects of resource management, including archaeology. Lastly, the experience of many frontline protesters at Seton Lake was a catalyst for their involvement in subsequent initiatives of the LTC.

Political and legal developments in the mid 1990s contributed to a substantial increase in St’át’imc participation in heritage stewardship. Though their political campaigning was directed primarily at addressing sovereignty over lands and resources, heritage increasingly became a factor in these efforts. Taking the lead from court decisions relating to Aboriginal title and rights in British Columbia, First Nations accelerated their efforts to have lands and resources returned to their control (Persky

1998; Ross 2005). A pivotal development was the decision issued by the British

Columbia Court of Appeal in Delgamuukw v. British Columbia [1993] 5 W.W.R. 97

(B.C.C.A.), followed by the Supreme Court of Canada in Delgamuukw v. British

Columbia [1997] 3 S.C.R. 1010 (S.C.C.). These judgements bolstered the case for indigenous title and rights, which eventually led to a number of sweeping legislative and

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Both Diana Alexander and Robert Tyhurst conducted interviews with community members as part of their “ethnoarchaeological” research associated with the Keatley project (see

Alexander 1987a, 1987b; Alexander 1987c, 1989). A number of anthropologists also conducted interviews with numerous St’át’imc community members in the 1970s and 1980s, and this information was incorporated into some of the research reports and publications stemming from the Keatley Creek excavations (for example, see chapters in Hayden 1992).

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policy changes affecting how the province consults with and accommodates First

Nations where a decision or activity could impact indigenous rights or title (Province of

British Columbia 2010) . One effect of the province’s duty to consult on matters relating to resource extraction was to raise the profile of “archaeological resource management” among First Nations (Klassen et al. 2009; Klimko et al. 1998; Klimko and Wright 2000).

The Delgamuukw decisions accelerated the pace of engagement between the province, the forest industry, and First Nations. This in turn resulted in a sudden increase in forestry and other development referrals to Northern St’át’imc communities (SN3;

SN5; SN13; SN14). Due to their growing awareness of political and legal issues, they were now more involved in political matters that concerned their communities (SN14), and this led to more frequent conflicts over infringements of title and rights. In response, the St’át’imc Nation deliberately became involved in the heritage and archaeological management process in order to make it more reflective of their concerns and knowledge (SN13). Some of the chiefs specifically targeted the generalized nature of heritage laws and archaeological overview assessments, and started pushing for the

LTC to get involved “on the ground” (SN13). Some were particularly angered when outside experts appeared and claimed to know more than the St’át’imc themselves about their history and culture (SN13). These conflicts formed the catalyst for their asserting greater control over the archaeological process.

While actively negotiating with the province of British Columbia on a wide range of Indigenous title and rights issues by the mid-1990s, participation in traditional use studies (TUS), resource inventory projects, training courses, and policy development became standard practice for the Lillooet Tribal Council. Communities also initiated research to support treaty and title and rights negotiations. For example, after hearing about a TUS at a conference in Kelowna around 1998, a councillor for Xaxli’p returned to his community and coordinated a TUS that incorporated archaeological information

(SN2). Another administrator had to quickly learn how to deal with referrals involving consultants and archaeological assessments when they suddenly became commonplace in the mid-1990s (SN1). For one forest technician working for the tribal council, an artifact brought into the office in 1997 sparked his curiosity (SN6). Soon thereafter, he began assisting staff with archaeological research. Another individual admitted to having only a rough idea of what he was looking for when asked by the LTC to check out a cultural depression while working in Shalath (SN9). Only later, while

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interviewing Elders, did he learn more about cultural depressions and their significance

(SN9). In another case, a councillor for Tsalalh was unsure of how to handle the increasing number of forestry referrals involving archaeological issues (SN5). He volunteered with the tribal council in order to learn more about how to research and document heritage, which quickly led to full-time employment with the tribal council.

Another individual was invited to participate in one of the first forestry related archaeological assessments in the area (SN20). This experience initiated his interest in archaeology, and to spending time with Elders in the field.

This decade also saw a shift in the social and economic prospects for young

St’át’imc, who were pursuing post-secondary educations in greater numbers. Increasing student enrolment in post-secondary education–in all disciplines–created greater capacity and increased confidence for the St’át’imc Nation to manage its own affairs. In particular, archaeology courses and field schools offered by Simon Fraser University in

Lillooet and Kamloops exposed students to archaeology and archaeologists (SN9;

SN14; SN20; SN21).

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One individual found that he enjoyed being part of the archaeology field school in Kamloops so much that he participated in two more field schools, which led to employment with archaeological consulting firms and the LTC

(SN14).

A surge in interest in heritage stewardship among community members followed the Seton Lake blockade in late 1998, which occurred after negotiations failed to prevent issuance of a cutting permit (CP 146) above Seton Lake, in an area where the Tsalalh and the LTC had banned logging. This dispute united the Northern St’át’imc communities, and staff members at the tribal council actively supported the blockade

(SN3; SN4; SN5; SN6). One member walked through the disputed area and saw housepits and CMTs for the first time (SN6). A number of Tsalalh community members also were involved in the heritage inventory efforts undertaken to support their positions in this dispute (SN5; SN18). From this experience, several went on to become actively involved in heritage stewardship (SN18). Others started taking notice of archaeology, recognizing its utility for controlling development (SN19). By 1998, the St’át’imc Nation was also actively negotiating with BC Hydro for compensation (Klassen 1999), and one

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This field school program was explicitly designed to involve Indigenous students in archaeological training and research (see Nicholas 2006:364).

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aspect of this involved working directly with archaeologists to assess impacts to archaeological and heritage resources (SN18; SN20).

In the years following the Seton Lake blockade, the Lillooet Tribal Council sponsored a series of two-week long archaeology training courses (one in each of 1999,

2000, and 2001). The LTC actively recruited community members with an interest in heritage or a background in related fields to enrol in the courses, and several veterans of the Seton Lake blockade participated (Barney and Klassen 2008). This introduction to archaeological field methods stimulated their advocacy and involvement (SN9; SN11;

SN12; SN19), and many participants went on to work in heritage stewardship with the

Lillooet Tribal Council and other agencies in subsequent years (SN4; SN5; SN6; SN8;

SN9; SN11; SN12; SN15; SN19). As the new millennium arrived, the LTC and St’át’imc

Nation were poised to activate their authority in heritage stewardship.

The Stl’atl’imx Heritage and Resource Inventory Project

St’át’imc control over archaeology in the new millennium began when the Lillooet

Tribal Council (LTC) created a Natural Resources Program in 1994 (SN3). In order to deal with the surge of requests for consultation following the first Delgamuukw decision,

LTC leadership initiated efforts to collect knowledge and information on natural and heritage resources in Northern St’át’imc territory (Casper 1996). They hired Larry Casper of Tsalalh as a Natural Resources Development Coordinator, who was immediately confronted by a large number of referrals from forest licensees and the Ministry of

Forests, and as a consequence he and other LTC staff developed a strategic plan for a heritage and resource inventory program (Lillooet Tribal Council 1994). Their long-term vision was a self-sustaining and integrated natural resource, heritage, and cultural management program, eventually staffed with St’át’imc archaeologists and other professionals. Among the aims of the program was the ambitious goal of completing field research and documentation of all archaeological sites and areas in Northern St’át’imc territory within two years (Lillooet Tribal Council 1994). This program was also intended to create greater pride in St’át’imc heritage and identity, and greater awareness about their culture and values.

At the same time, a Xwisten Elder named Albert Joseph became an advocate for protecting hunting trails and archaeological sites from logging operations (SN7; SN8;

SN10) (Figure 6). While researching his family history in Victoria, Mr. Joseph became

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aware of the Heritage Conservation Act, and he thought that it could perhaps be used to stop some of the damage occurring to these sites (SN8). Mr. Joseph went to the LTC and the local logging company, and told them that an archaeological impact assessment was needed before logging could proceed (SN8). In particular, he wanted the nation to start documenting archaeological sites in its inventory of significant resources (SN4), which contributed to the development of a heritage team at the LTC.

Figure 6. Albert Joseph in the field, 1999.

The SHRI Project, 1994-1997

With funding from various sources, the LTC assembled a research team to start the St’át’imc Heritage and Resource Inventory (SHRI) project (SN3; SN4; SN5).

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Mr.

Joseph led the team, which included Marie Barney, a heritage advocate from T’it’q’et, and Randy James, a councillor for Tsalalh (Seton Lake Indian Band). The latter’s lands and resources portfolio at Tsalalh made him responsible for the growing referrals from

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The summary report for the 1994-1995 Natural resources Program lists six different funding sources (Casper 1995), an indication not only of the budgetary challenges faced by First

Nations hoping to address heritage and resource stewardship issues, but also of the creativity of the LTC in meeting this financial challenge.

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forestry licensees, but he was without the experience to deal with them. He volunteered to work with them so he could gain research and site documentation skills, and develop greater knowledge of the land but he was soon hired for the SHRI project.

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Initially, the team met with archaeological consultants, logging companies, the

Ministry of Forests (MoF), and the Archaeology Branch to discuss their mandate and the issues that concerned them (Casper 1995). The three-person SHRI field research team began interviews, archival research, and community presentations, and also began checking for heritage features within and adjacent to proposed forestry cutblocks

(Casper 1995). Sometimes the team started surveying in proposed logging areas just days before harvesting began, sometimes only steps ahead of the bulldozers (SN3;

SN8). They identified and documented heritage sites, and began advising the Ministry of

Forests and forestry licensees about their heritage concerns (Barney and Klassen 2008).

During the first year, the LTC team documented a dozen heritage sites (Casper 1995), and communities were notified of this information (SN7).

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Archaeological site records were obtained from the provincial Archaeology Branch and distributed to the communities, in order to build awareness of heritage sites and issues (SN3). The program also negotiated management strategies with the MoF, and made recommendations on preferred archaeological consultants (Casper 1996).

In 1994 a protocol agreement between the MoF and the Archaeology Branch

(Klassen et al. 2009; Klimko et al. 1998) led archaeologists to conduct the first archaeological impact assessment (AIA) in forestry cutblocks within St’át’imc territory

(see Alexander 1994; Spafford et al. 1994).

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Although the SHRI team was not directly involved in these first AIAs, they quickly became aware of the basic requirements of the provincial archaeological assessment process and realized that they needed to have

31

Val Adrian, Tony Jacob, and Howard Shields were also initially part of the team, but left after a short time.

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In 1994 the SHRI research team was funded from July 11 through to the end of the year.

33

The first forestry archaeological assessment in Northern St’át’imc territory occurred in the

Pavilion Creek watershed in 1994 (Spafford et al. 1994). The Ts'kwaly'ax community directly participated in this project, but the LTC and the SHRI team were not involved. For the

Pavilion Creek assessment, the archaeological consulting firm hired community members to participate in the fieldwork, and Ts'kwaly'ax also demanded that a “heritage and sustenance inventory” be conducted in conjunction with the archaeological assessment (Alexander 1994).

This latter report included a summary of the concerns of the Ts'kwaly'ax community in terms of impacts to archaeological sites from proposed logging activities. However, a community member that participated in the fieldwork was highly critical of the methods used, leading the

Ts'kwaly'ax community to dispute the results of the 1994 AIA (SN20).

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archaeologists directly involved in the SHRI project (SN8). They also contracted a local environmental consultant to provide them with some training in location and site mapping (SN3; SN4; SN5). Larry Casper, the LTC Natural Resources Coordinator, also attended the 1994 BC Archaeology Forum in Kamloops, where he “gave notice” to archaeologists that they were needed to contact the LTC if they were working in

Northern St’át’imc territory. The St’át’imc encountered stiff resistance to this notion from some archaeologists, who considered it to be “their resource” (SN2). Nonetheless, the meetings, publicity, and word of mouth had an effect, and Lillooet area residents began calling the research team to inform them of heritage sites and to turn in artifacts (Casper

1995).

By the next season, the LTC asked forestry licensees and the MoF to hire only those archaeologists who were willing to cooperate with the St’át’imc and who were more sensitive to their connection to the land (SN4). More important, the LTC asked archaeological consultants to work directly with the SHRI research team on impact assessments (SN3; SN4; SN8),

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including forestry cutblocks at Leon’s and Slok Creeks

(Klassen and Spafford 1996) and Paradise Creek (Eldridge 1996) (Figure 7). These were among the first opportunities for promoting St’át’imc perspectives to consulting archaeologists and voicing concerns about archaeological issues (SN4).

In one meeting concerning a proposed AIA in the Pavilion Creek watershed, leadership of the Ts'kw'aylaxw community indicated that permission for archaeological work would not be forthcoming until issues of indigenous title and rights were addressed.

Elders also complained that because the fieldwork was only concerned with physical evidence, many areas of significance were excluded (Klassen and Spafford 1996:79).

They pointed out that physical evidence would be absent from most spiritual places. As such, they said it seemed pointless for us to ask the Elders for input, as their knowledge of these areas would not be taken into account anyway. They also pointed out that many spiritual areas are not used for hunting or gathering plants, and should be avoided, and they expressed concern about the potential disturbance of burials. Due to these concerns, it was apparent that the archaeological assessment was not entirely acceptable to the Elders. The SHRI team also expressed their concern with the report review process, pointing out that it was difficult for the team members to comment on the

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The 1995 SHRI research team was funded from June 1 through July 1996.

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content of the report because they had not been asked to take notes, nor was their input requested at the end of each field day (Klassen and Spafford 1996:80). At the same time, this collaboration allowed the SHRI team and the LTC to learn how the archaeological assessment process worked and what it could accomplish (SN8). As their familiarity grew, the LTC insisted on more input into research, and started expanding the types of features and sites included in AIAs (SN5). To support SHRI and other LTC resource programs, the LTC also initiated a GIS mapping program (SN5), which was used to organize and map site information.

Figure 7. Marie Barney of the SHRI team testing a housepit, Leon’s Creek, 1995.

The SHRI research team also began working directly with provincial ministries on heritage issues in addition to those associated with forestry (Casper 1996). For example, they followed up on mining referrals from the Ministry of Energy, Mines and Petroleum

Resources, and advised the Ministry of Highways on potential impacts to heritage and burial sites impacted by road developments. When the town of Lillooet began excavating

Main Street in 1995 residents noticed bones and artifacts were being uncovered, the

SHRI team alerted the LTC, the town, and the Ministry of Transportation, and they subsequently coordinated the involvement of an archaeological consultant (Zacharias

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1997). In the end, several St’át’imc community members monitored the sewer replacement alongside an archaeologist (SN4; SN8), while Elders and a SHRI researcher also participated in the project (Zacharias 1997). In addition, this project involved paying consultation fees to the Elders, and included LTC control over the disposition of project artifacts (Casper 1996). Soon after, the LTC held its first heritage contract with a forest industry client at the request of Ts’kwaly’ax community (SN3). In this project, the SHRI team conducted heritage research and a field reconnaissance in the Shil forest fire area prior to tree spacing and planting (SN3). With this field experience, the SHRI team enhanced their ability to conduct field research through various training programs (Casper 1997). The LTC arranged for the delivery of an

“Introduction to Archaeology” course in Lillooet, offered through the University College of the Cariboo, as well as a 15-day archaeological field training program attended by 17 community members (Casper 1997). Through these projects and initiatives, the LTC continued to build experience and capacity in heritage stewardship (Casper 1997).

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Through the activities of SHRI, the Northern St’át’imc leadership became better informed of CRM practice in their territory, which gave them cause for concern. In particular, the chiefs objected to the Ministry of Forests practice of rotating archaeological contracts through various consultants (SN3). They also “blacklisted” archaeologists that would not cooperate with the LTC, and informed proponents, provincial ministries, and the consultants that the St’át’imc would not accept them working in their territory (SN3). The LTC also confronted archaeologists about projects that had taken place in the past without sufficient St’át’imc involvement, and demanded that they account for any artifacts that had been collected (SN3). Eventually, this emphatic position led to joint agreements with industry and government in terms of which archaeologists worked in the area (SN3).

The SHRI research project operated at the LTC from 1994 until early 1997, when funding for the initiative ran out (SN4). From the St’át’imc perspective, it was a resounding success. It had tangible effects on the protection of heritage sites, and

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The SHRI research team continued to operate with three researchers, including a GIS technician, through much of 1995, and was funded from January through July 1996, and from

November 1996 until the end of March 1997. Activities of the team and the Natural

Resources Coordinator during this period included ongoing archival and field research, collaborating with archaeological consulting firms on impact assessments, providing heritage information and assistance to LTC communities, and liaising with government and industry.

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introduced the St’át’imc and local residents to the concept of community-based heritage research and archaeology. It also influenced and supported other St’át’imc Nation initiatives, such as BC Hydro negotiations. The SHRI project laid the foundation for the next phase of Northern St’át’imc heritage stewardship.

Heritage and the Stl’at’imx Nation Hydro Committee

The St’át’imc Nation began a new round of negotiations with BC Hydro and

Power Authority in the late 1980s, primarily as a result of the proposed Kelly

Lake/Cheekeye transmission line, which would have traversed a number of reserves

(SN16). In particular, they were concerned with the limited scope of the ensuing archaeological impact assessment (see Bussey 1982b; 1990), which was constrained by the narrow definition of an archaeological site (SN16). However, the St’át’imc identified many direct and indirect impacts to other cultural values from the proposed project that extended beyond the transmission line itself (SN16). Thereafter, and the communities started to work collectively as a nation to defeat the proposal (SN16). To strengthen negotiations with BC Hydro, all of the Northern and Southern St’át’imc communities jointly established the Stl’at’imx Nation Hydro Committee (SN16).

The outstanding grievances of St’át’imc communities led the Stl’at’imx Nation

Hydro Committee (SNHC) and BC Hydro to sign a protocol agreement in 1996. Among the grievances listed were impacts to archaeological sites (SN16), and the LTC now had the capacity to effectively respond to this issue (Casper 1997). In 1998, the two parties jointly initiated an overview assessment to document impacts to heritage and archaeological sites originating from BC Hydro facilities and operations (SN16). As part of the contract, conducted in collaboration with an archaeological consulting firm (see

Klassen 1999), the SNHC required that all information and source materials be subject to an information-sharing agreement, that communities retain copyright over these materials, and all materials be returned to the SNHC for archiving. The ensuing heritage assessment included community consultations, extensive field reconnaissance, mapping, and reporting, all coordinated by the LTC and SNHC. The St’át’imc participants in the study pointed out significant differences between archaeological and traditional perspectives on heritage places (Klassen 1999). For example, rather than categorizing heritage places on the basis of what is found there (e.g., artifacts or housepits), the St’át’imc participants described these places on the basis of what people

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did at specific places or in terms of how they were associated with stories. The significance of places was viewed not in terms of what physical remains were evident, but in terms of their relationship to oral history and traditions, traditional activities, and environmental context. From their perspective, all heritage places within their territory have significance for the St’át’imc, and although the reasons behind that significance may differ, it cannot be determined or ranked using “scientific methods” alone.

The outcome of this project was considered a positive collaboration (SN18), and was the basis for negotiations with BC Hydro concerning heritage impacts that would take place over the following decade. It eventually led to a comprehensive inventory of impacts to archaeological sites (Klassen 2005), and the inclusion of a culture and heritage plan in the final agreement ratified in 2011 (St'át'imc Chiefs Council 2011b).

The experience acquired through the SHRI and SNHC projects had a strong influence on the ensuing actions, conflicts, and developments in St’át’imc heritage stewardship. The LTC recognized that they needed to assert control over who did archaeological work in their territory and how it was done (SN3). Moreover, they realized that resource operations and heritage were closely linked, and that they needed a longterm land and resource strategic plan (SN3). The heritage stewardship projects they initiated laid the foundation for an expanded role for the LTC and Northern St’át’imc communities at the end of the decade and into the new millennium. By then they had gained more influence over industry and provincial ministries, and St’át’imc capacity and authority over heritage stewardship expanded. Nonetheless, there is nearly unanimous agreement that the single-most important catalyst for increasing Northern St’át’imc control over archaeology was the 1998 road blockade at Cutting Permit (CP) 146 above

Seton Lake (SN1; SN2; SN3; SN4; SN5; SN6; SN9; SN10; SN13; SN15; SN18; SN19;

SN20; SN21).

“Delgamuukw Inn”: The CP 146 Blockade

The steep slopes above the south shore of Seton Lake, located some 13 km west of Lillooet and near the community of Shalath, are known as Nzawt/Msut (Figure

5). The locale has high cultural significance for the Tsalalh community (Seton Lake

Indian Band), and they had always opposed logging at Nzawt/Msut (SN9; SN16; SN19).

In addition to important hunting areas, trails, and heritage concerns, other issues included slope instability, the potential for future road access into other unlogged valleys,

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and the viewscape from Shalath (SN3; SN9; SN16; SN18; SN19). As such, the community became alarmed when a major forest licensee, Ainsworth Lumber Company

Ltd., in 1997 proposed harvesting three forestry cutblocks there (CP 146) (SN3).

Emboldened by the recent Delgamuukw decision in the Supreme Court of Canada, the

St’át’imc challenged the issuance of the cutting permit on the basis that there had been inadequate consultation (SN3; SN9; SN16; SN19). A subsequent dispute over the results of an archaeological assessment conducted on behalf of the forest company set into motion a sequence of events that ultimately redefined the relationship of the

Northern St’át’imc to the forest industry and consulting archaeology (SN3; SN13; SN19).

Following provincial guidelines, the forest licensee had hired an archaeological consulting firm in 1997 to conduct an archaeological overview assessment (AOA) for three cutting permits in the Seton Lake area, including CP 146. The purpose of an AOA is to assess the potential for finding archaeological sites in each cutblock, and to make recommendations on the need for further assessments. Subsequently, an archaeological impact assessment (AIA) was conducted in one of the three cutting permits (CP 148), as its archaeological potential was ranked high in the AOA, and the SHRI team had also reported possible cultural depressions in 1996 (Weinberger 1997). However, neither CP

144 or CP 146 were inspected: “Due to First Nation community concerns regarding forestry activities in areas towards the [western] end of Seton Lake, assessments were conducted on CP 148, Blocks 2, 3 and 5 only” (Weinberger 1997:3-4).

Despite the concerns expressed by the Tsalalh community, harvesting plans proceeded for CP 146, and a different archaeological consulting firm produced another

AOA covering all of the forest licensee’s proposed cutting permits located in the Lillooet

Forest District, including CP 146. Of the 379 cutblocks assessed in this AOA, a

“preliminary field reconnaissance” was recommended for 25 of them, and “no further work” was recommended for the remaining 354 cutblocks (Ball and Kowal 1998).

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Since

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According to the AOA report (Ball and Kowal 1998), the proposed cutblocks were assessed for their potential for containing archaeological sites from the presence or absence of various biophysical criteria associated with archaeological sites, with each criterion given a weighted score. On the basis of the overall score, one of three options was recommended for each cutblock: (1) no further work, (2) preliminary field reconnaissance, and (3) archaeological impact assessment. In the summer of 1998, the archaeological firm that produced the AOA conducted a PFR of the 25 blocks, and several areas of potential and possible features were identified. However, no archaeological sites were identified in a follow-up AIA conducted in

September (Ball et al. 1998).

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an AIA was not recommended for any cutblock assessed in the overview, the forest licensee began road building and logging activities in a number of the cutting permits.

The AOA results were immediately challenged by the LTC, which felt it was overly generalized, and tended to assess everything as “low potential” (SN3; SN13). In particular, the LTC was concerned that the AOA was largely based on a helicopter flyover, which they felt was inadequate for determining potential or finding sites (SN1;

SN3; SN4; SN5; SN8).

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Exacerbating matters, neither the forest licensee nor the consulting archaeologists had involved the Northern St’át’imc communities in their assessment (SN3; SN4). The AOA was perceived as a “paper exercise” (SN4), relying on existing documentation only and without consultation or new research, thereby overlooking many important sites known to the communities (SN13). The LTC met with representatives of the forest licensee and the archaeological consulting firm to discuss these concerns, but no resolution emerged (SN3). Encouraged by the Delgamuukw decision in the Supreme Court of Canada in December 1997, which required the province to engage in meaningful consultation with First Nations where the practice of their rights may be infringed, Chief Garry John of Tsalalh and the LTC initiated discussions in May with Ainsworth and the Ministry of Forests over the proposed logging plans in CP 146 (Leach 1998). The Tsalalh community insisted that logging would not be allowed at Nzawt/Msut, but the forest licensee was equally adamant that the timber from

CP 146 was critical for the continued operation of their veneer plant in Lillooet (Roshard

1998).

Around this time, several ex-SHRI team members and an archaeologist surveyed a nearby woodlot where they identified and documented culturally modified trees

(CMTs). Such evidence argued for similar heritage concerns in the CP 146 area (SN5), and mobilized the Tsalalh community to counter the AOA results with other evidence

(SN9). Some members knew of significant archaeological and heritage sites located in the CP 146 area (SN5; SN18), and others were concerned about the impacts from logging (SN8). In the summer of 1998, a group of women from Tsalalh independently began searching for heritage sites in the Nzawt/Msut area above Seton Lake (SN18).

For 24 days in a row, they crossed the lake in a boat so they could find the old trails and search for heritage sites (SN18). As time went on, more and more women and men from

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The report indicates that no fieldwork was undertaken for this AOA, and there is no mention of a helicopter flyover.

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Tsalalh became involved. Using video cameras, they systematically documented numerous sites, including housepits and cache pits (SN5; SN9; SN18). A chorus of community voices protesting the logging plans compelled their leadership to take further action (SN18).

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Despite ongoing negotiations, and periodic community meetings and forestry forums (SN3), tensions between the St’át’imc and local residents escalated. The strained relations with the non-St’át’imc community was in part due to lingering resentment from the 1990 road and rail blockades (during the Oka crisis) (SN16), and the misconception that the St’át’imc contributed nothing to the local economy (SN19). In early August, LTC Tribal Chair Mike Leach tried to counter accusations that the St’át’imc communities were trying to stop forestry operations, and made a public appeal stating “It is through negotiations, not by direct action, which allow matters to resolve themselves.

We hope to avoid direct action by continuing to urge all parties to participate in the

‘Community Team Committee’ process presently in place” (Leach 1998). His plea notwithstanding, by mid-October the process had broken down, causing the Minister of

Forests, David Zirnhelt, to personally intervene to diffuse a potential conflict (Roshard

1998). Despite his intervention and promise of a mediator, the forest licensee withdrew from community consultation, because in their view the “subject of C.P. 146 has been thoroughly discussed” (Roshard 1998).

In early November, several Tsalalh community members made an impassioned plea for support from First Nations and archaeologists at the annual BC Archaeology

Forum, hosted that year by Lil’wat First Nation in Mount Currie (see Bale 1998). There, representatives of the LTC complained about the poor work of consulting archaeologists, and announced that in the future all consulting archaeologists were to work directly with the LTC (SN3). Like their experience four years earlier in Kamloops, the St’át’imc faced strong opposition to their position from some archaeologists (SN3). The Tsalalh

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Around the same time that the Tsalalh community was surveying the CP 146 area, the archaeological consulting firm responsible for the AOA conducted their own “preliminary field reconnaissance” (PFR) of CP 146 – even though their AOA did not recommend it. This PFR was undertaken without the participation of, or consultation with, the Tsalah community or the

LTC, and no archaeological evidence was observed or identified (Ball et al. 1998:3). An AIA of block 12 was subsequently conducted after cultural depressions were reported in the block. The exact date of this AIA is unclear: the report states the cultural depressions were reported in October 1998, but the report indicates all fieldwork was conducted in September

(Ball et al. 1998). Conflicting reports put the date of the PFR as November 24, and the date of the AIA as December 3 (Barney 1999; Witt 1999).

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community also announced at the Forum that they wanted further development in CP

146 to be suspended until another archaeological assessment could be conducted (Bale

1998). However, archaeology was only seen as a tool to further their efforts, and there was never any intention at the grassroots level to allow the logging to take place (SN5).

Discussions over the fate of CP 146 were at a “deadlock” by the beginning of

November (Lillooet News 1998c). At a meeting on November 7 with Harry Lali, the local

Member of the Legislative Assembly (MLA), a spokesman for “concerned loggers, roadbuilders, and citizens” claimed all of the appropriate provincial permits and approvals, including archaeological assessments, were in accordance with the “laws of the land as legislated by the provincial government” (quoted in Lillooet News 1998c):

“After numerous meetings since May, 1998 we feel our hands are tied … as it appears that the main thrust is land title and land claims. This responsibility rests solely on the provincial and federal governments.” Although Lali professed support for the loggers, “he also made it clear that the legal situation has changed as a result of the Supreme

Court’s Delgamuukw decision, which says First Nations must now be consulted on land use issues” (Lillooet News 1998c). Nonetheless, the MLA warned the St’át’imc that if a resolution could not be reached soon, the province would impose one. If anything, this threat had the opposite effect on the Tsalalh community. Construction of the CP 146 access road and spur roads was well underway by now, forcing the Tsalalh community leadership to take a more defiant stand (Roshard 1998).

After months of failed negotiations, direct action was considered the only option left. At first light on November 9, 2009 a group of St’át’imc–eight men and one woman– blocked the access road to the cutting permit on the north side of Seton Ridge, where they set up a “checkpoint” (Lillooet News 1998c). The blockade was a grassroots movement that developed independently of the LTC and leadership (SN5). The forestry company immediately threatened to seek a court injunction against the blockade

(Lillooet News 1998c). A day later, in a move evidently intended to put pressure on the

St’át’imc, the province issued the cutting permit for CP 146 to the forestry company

(Lillooet News 1998e). Three days into the blockade, a hastily organized community team meeting led to an interim agreement (Lillooet News 1998e). The parties involved agreed to call in a mediator, while the forestry company agreed to halt mainline road construction for seven days (although work on spur roads would continue). In turn,

Tsalalh community members were asked to leave the blockade checkpoint for seven

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days. The LTC and logging contractors would provide joint security at the site, and a joint archaeological assessment would be carried out on the spur roads. The next day, however, the forestry company disregarded a request from the Tsalalh community to suspend all operations in the area for one week, including work on the spur roads.

Subsequently, Tsalalh representatives refused to meet with archaeologists retained by the forestry company for the fieldwork scheduled for November 16 (Lillooet News

1998e). Moreover, the people at the blockade never agreed to leave, despite pressure from the negotiators (SN5).

An uneasy standoff ensued as contractors continued working on the spur roads, while the Tsalalh maintained their blockade checkpoint on the main CP 146 road to

Nzawt/Msut, which they called the “Delgamuukw Inn” (Lillooet News 1998a). Meanwhile,

“information booths” went up on highways in several St’át’imc reserves in support of the

Tsalalh (Lillooet News 1998d). Although a mediator was named by mid-November, little progress was made (Lillooet News 1998d). On November 30, the seven LTC chiefs issued a press release criticizing the province for failing to honour the Delgamuukw decision, thereby allowing continued resource extraction to occur without meaningful consultation (Lillooet News 1998a). According to their statement, “government to government consultation with St’at’imc people must take place before any infringement can occur. Where title and rights have been infringed upon, compensation must be paid”

(quoted in Lillooet News 1998a). The chiefs also indicated they would go to court to force the province into meaningful consultation.

By now the Tsalalh community was desperate to stop the construction work on the access and spur roads. When a report surfaced that graves were present along the road alignment in Block 12 of CP 146, Marie Barney of the LTC and several members of the Tsalalh community met with forestry company representatives on November 30 to inspect the reported location (Barney 1999). Although graves were not observed, the

St’át’imc representatives observed a number of “trail marker trees,” as well as two suspected cultural depressions or cache pits. At the time, the only way that the LTC could see that the work on the road could be stopped or slowed down was by flagging the potential cache pits and alerting the Ministry of Forests (Barney 1999). This action quickly led to a series of significant events that worked in the St’át’imc Nation’s favour.

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A break in the deadlock came when the long-time District Manager for the

Lillooet Forest District was transferred to Kamloops on December 1, 1998, and the new acting District Manager, Rod Deboise, and the mediator initiated intensive discussions with all parties (Lillooet News 1998b). During one of these meetings, the Tsalalh reviewed the results of their summer fieldwork at Nzawt/Msut with the acting District

Manager “in camera” (SN9), and the possible cache pits in Block 12 were also reported.

The results were never shared with the forestry company due to its sensitive nature

(SN18), but on the basis of this evidence on December 2 the acting District Manager requested the forestry company to voluntarily suspend operations in CP 146 (Lillooet

News 1998b). The archaeology consulting firm retained by the forestry company inspected and tested the potential cultural depressions in Block 12 on December 3 and dismissed them as natural features (Ball et al. 1998; Witt 1999). On December 4, Tsalalh and LTC representatives returned to Block 12 to record the trail marker trees, accompanied by the acting District Manager, an archaeologist selected by the LTC, and

Chief Garry John. They also inspected the reported cache pits, and the acting District

Manager and the archaeologist were reportedly “astounded” to see how crudely the archaeologists had excavated the depressions (Barney 1999). They also observed a

CMT, and when questioned by the District Manager the forest company archaeologist could not prove that it was younger than AD 1846 (SN16).

On the basis of the acting District Manager’s inspection (SN16), and in vindication of the St’át’imc efforts, the Ministry of Forests issued a “stop work order” for operations in CP 146 and its associated roads on December 6, 1998 (Lillooet News

1998b). The order was issued under Section 51 of the Forest Practices Code of B.C.

Act, which allowed for the protection of previously unidentified resource features, including cultural and heritage resources. It stipulated that an archaeological impact assessment meeting the standards of the Archaeology Branch must be conducted on

CP 146, and that a CMT survey must be conducted for the area (Lillooet News 1998b).

According to the acting District Manager, the archaeological assessments of CP 146 conducted up to this point did not meet the standards of the province, and there was a

“high likelihood” that cultural and heritage resources would be found based on the information presented to him by St’át’imc leadership (Lillooet News 1998b). Indeed, the

Tsalalh fieldwork from the previous summer was the primary evidence that provoked the

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stop work order and the call to conduct a full archaeological impact assessment (Barney and Klassen 2008).

Due to the onset of winter, the archaeological assessment of CP 146 was put off until early May of 1999, when an archaeological consulting firm acceptable to the Tsalalh and LTC reassessed the reported cache pits in Block 12 of CP 146. Although testing concluded that the depressions had a probable natural origin, the work was done with the support and participation of the Tsalalh community and the LTC (Witt 1999).

However, a complete archaeological assessment or CMT survey of CP 146 was never undertaken, and logging never proceeded in the cutting permit (Lillooet News 2001). By this point the St’át’imc communities were no longer willing to accept an AIA of CP 146, because in their opinion it would simply be used to authorize logging (SN5). Moreover, the community did not want archaeologists working there due to its cultural sensitivity, and the community felt that their own assessment was sufficient and valid (Barney and

Klassen 2008).

In the end, the parties did not reach a mediated resolution over CP 146. Instead, the LTC and the forestry company began a new process called the “Hala’w Initiative,” intended to develop a better and co-operative working relationship with the St’át’imc

(Lillooet News 2001). Eighteen months later, the vice-president of the forestry company was able to say that he was “learning a lot about First Nations’ values, traditions and beliefs. Now we’re a bit more comfortable because we’ll be working on the ground and dealing with forestry issues” (quoted in Lillooet News 2001). For his part, LTC Tribal

Chief Mike Leach said “It’s all about building trust. Hala’w is really an initiative that brings people together to talk about and resolve issues that affect them on a personal level as well as an economic one” (quoted in Lillooet News 2001). Despite the apparent goodwill, the contentious issue of CP 146 was never resolved. However, the prospects for logging at Nwazt/Msut were eventually settled when two successive forest fires swept across the mountainside and burned off the timber (SN5; SN19).

The CP 146 conflict was a significant turning point for the St’át’imc, and memories of this momentous event are still vivid among the St’át’imc participants in this study. Ultimately, the blockade was the event that compelled the forestry company and the MoF to negotiate with the St’át’imc and acknowledge their heritage (SN9). Direct action at CP 146, and its fallout, put the major forest licensee and the Ministry of Forests

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“on notice” that logging companies could no longer “get away with the status quo”

(SN13; SN19). After this dispute, the licensee wanted to develop a better relationship because they realized that “the St’át’imc would always be here” (SN20). Moreover, the conflict created substantial awareness of heritage issues amongst the St’át’imc and the broader community (SN13), and they grew much more familiar with both forestry operations and archaeological procedures (SN9). This encounter led directly to the six

Northern St’át’imc communities associated with the LTC taking greater control of the heritage agenda (Barney and Klassen 2008).

Showdown at Junction Creek

As the confrontation over CP 146 was unfolding, alarms were also sounding over road building activities and logging plans in CP 158 (SN5; SN8; SN15; SN19), located some 35 km to the northwest at Junction Creek in the Yalakom River watershed (Figure

5). In the 1998 AOA, “no further work” was recommended for this cutting permit. When an access road was built along Junction Creek, it obliterated a trail that was attributed by the Ministry of Forests to recent mining activities. However, the St’át’imc considered it to be a traditional indigenous trail (SN5), so a number of concerned community members, including veterans of SHRI and the CP 146 campaign, conducted an informal survey of the road in the fall of 1998 and found artifacts and a spear point on the surface (SN5;

SN15). Their findings elicited a demand for a full archaeological survey of the cutting permit (SN5; SN8). Meanwhile, similar concerns were being expressed by the

Ts'kwaly'ax community for CP 179 (SN20), located in the Pavilion Creek valley on the east side of the Fraser River (Figure 5). These growing protests and demands finally compelled the logging company and the MoF to take a second look at heritage concerns in these cutting permits (SN15). Ultimately, they agreed to directly involve the LTC in future archaeological assessments (SN5; SN19; SN20).

Following the momentous events in CP 146 the previous fall, the logging company adopted a new policy of working cooperatively with the LTC on heritage concerns (SN3). The forest licensee and the LTC agreed to have full archaeological impact assessments conducted jointly in four disputed cutting permits (CP 100 at Slok and McKay Creeks, CP 158 at Junction Creek, and CPs 179 and 185 at Pavilion

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Creek).

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In late June 1999, an archaeology firm agreeable to all parties worked with

St’át’imc community members to conduct archaeological impact assessments in the three disputed cutting permits (SN8). During the subsequent AIA survey, 49 archaeological sites were identified in the three cutting permits (Woods and Zibauer

2000; Zibauer and Woods 2000).

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An additional 24 archaeological sites (all but one regulated under the HCA) were identified in and adjacent to CP 185. The compelling and convincing results of these AIAs were another vindication of the LTC claims, and supported their argument that St’át’imc involvement in archaeological assessments was warranted (Barney and Klassen 2008).

The CP 146 and CP 158 incidents were the major factors that convinced the forest industry to take St’át’imc heritage concerns seriously (SN3; SN4; SN6). Together, these conflicts amplified concerns about the provincial archaeology process, and showed that industry-supported overview assessments were inadequate (SN1). They also validated scepticism of the MoF’s implementation of the statutory decision-making process (SN3). Faced with potential protests in every cutting permit (SN6), it was clear that it was in the forest industry’s best interests, economically and politically, to change their business practices and work with St’át’imc communities (SN18). These events also brought the St’át’imc Nation into direct contact and conflict with consulting archaeologists (SN3). The AOA motivated the St’át’imc to require archaeologists to work directly for the communities (SN19). On the other, the St’át’imc demonstrated their knowledge and abilities in the field, which inspired their idea that they could do a better job (SN1).

While these events brought about a great deal of change, it still was not as much as the St’át’imc communities wanted or expected (SN21). Indeed, it prompted the six

St’át’imc communities associated with the LTC to demand greater control over the archaeological assessment process. In the end, the major licensee agreed to involve the

LTC because the company wanted to avoid future problems (SN4; SN11). In preparation for the 2000 field season, and with the support and cooperation of the logging company,

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The 1998 AOA had recommended “no further work” for all cutblocks in three of the cutting permits. However, a PFR was recommended for the proposed CP 179 access road, and a subsequent impact assessment by the same archaeology firm identified one site (Altamira

1999). CP 185 was located in the vicinity of CP 179, but it was not assessed in the AOA.

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This total includes 15 post-A.D. 1846 sites that are not regulated under the Heritage

Conservation Act (see Woods and Zibauer 2000; Zibauer and Woods 2000).

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the LTC hosted a two-week archaeological inventory training course developed by the provincial Resource Inventory Committee (RIC).

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In the fall of 1999, 12 St’át’imc members, including most of the SHRI and Seton Lake veterans, received their RIC archaeological inventory certification (Klassen 2000).

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Course participants recognized archaeology could be used against their interests. They were also well aware of the limitations of archaeological assessments and legislation, but recognized that archaeology could have beneficial outcomes, ranging from supporting indigenous title and rights, maintaining and revitalizing culture, and providing employment. Importantly, the participants also saw St’át’imc participation in archaeology as a force of change in the discipline, making it more responsive and meaningful to First Nations.

In early 2000, the logging company entered into a heritage assessment contract with the LTC, and a similar agreement with the Ministry of Forests soon followed (SN3).

By the summer of 2000, most of the RIC trainees worked for the LTC cultural heritage team, which was actively engaged in most archaeological projects in the territory.

Chapter Summary: Outcomes and Aspirations

The Northern St’át’imc consultants participating in this study demonstrated considerable familiarity with archaeology, both as a discipline and as a political tool.

They recognize that it has various political, economic and social benefits, but they are also well aware of its weaknesses. Archaeology is not only useful for protecting significant places and the landscape, but a principal benefit is its utility for providing evidence proving indigenous title and rights. Social and cultural values of archaeology were also identified that contribute to the revitalization of St’át’imc identity, including its potential for education and cultural awareness. Another important benefit is the employment and community capacity ensuing from the practice of archaeology. At the same time, they identified a number of specific limitations and drawbacks with archaeology, as currently carried out and regulated in their territory. A fundamental concern is that despite the court’s recognition that indigenous title exists in principle,

St’át’imc ownership of archaeological sites and materials is not recognized in law.

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Now referred to as Resources Information Standards Committee (RISC).

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Since the 1999 course, an additional 25 St’át’imc community members have received their

RIC/RISC archaeological inventory certification, for a total of 35 members. This total includes seven members of Southern St’át’imc communities not affiliated with the Lillooet Tribal

Council.

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The involvement of St’át’imc in archaeology and heritage stewardship has its roots in a deep curiosity and concern for heritage stewardship. The initial encounters of

St’át’imc with archaeology from the late 1960s until the new millennium show a clear progression in their degree of engagement. The informal and largely passive participation of St’át’imc communities in archaeological research projects in the 1970s introduced the discipline and revealed its potential. As their awareness of archaeology and CRM increased, St’át’imc communities insisted on having greater involvement and input into its practice, and they recognized opportunities to assert a greater degree of authority. This dynamic relationship with archaeology mirrors the rise of Indigenous activism and assertions of sovereignty in the larger political sphere.

As a political tool archaeology proved its value during political negotiations and in land and resource management initiatives. Following the Delgamuukw decisions,

Northern St’át’imc communities had a renewed sense of confidence in the eventual recognition of their title and rights. Anticipating such a future, St’át’imc communities began developing resource management initiatives at the Nation level, ultimately leading to active participation in archaeological management and heritage stewardship. The development of the SHRI and SNHC initiatives reflected growing St’át’imc political influence and assertiveness, and led to the forceful position on logging in CP 146. The stand taken by Tsalalh and the LTC was a decisive event that unified and emboldened

Northern St’át’imc heritage stewardship efforts.

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Chapter 5.

St’át’imc Case Study:

Heritage Stewardship and the Forest Industry

The St’át’imc have lived upon the land since time began. Our history is written upon the land. Our history is passed on from generation to generation, through the stories and legends.

nxekmenlhkálha lti tmícwa [St’át’imc Land Use Plan 2004]

The blockade at CP 146 on Seton Lake by the Northern St’át’imc in 1998, described in the preceding chapter, raised tensions between the St’át’imc Nation, archaeologists, the local community, the forest industry, and the provincial government. Even so, the outcome of the Seton Lake incident, along with the subsequent events at Junction Creek and Pavilion Creek in 1999, had a number of positive repercussions for the Lillooet

Tribal Council and the Northern St’át’imc. Many St’át’imc community members with little previous involvement with heritage or archaeological issues became interested in this work. Serious deficiencies were also exposed in the methods and oversight of the existing provincial archaeological overview and assessment process and the work of some archaeological consultants. Direct action proved to be the most effective means of convincing the Ministry of Forests

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and the logging company that greater St’át’imc involvement in archaeological assessments and heritage decision-making was essential.

As a consequence, the major forestry licensee agreed to work directly with the Lillooet

Tribal Council (LTC) on future heritage assessments of forestry cutting permits.

In this chapter, I present a detailed case study of the LTC’s cultural heritage team and heritage assessment process, developed in response to their 2000 agreement with the forestry licensee, and the subsequent efforts of the St’át’imc Nation to assert sovereignty over heritage stewardship. Much of this case study is based on the

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Now called the Ministry of Forests, Lands, and Natural Resource Operations (2012).

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perspectives of the Northern St’át’imc who participated in my research, supplemented by my own observations and assessments. The objectives of this case study are to: 1) examine the effectiveness of the LTC heritage stewardship program, in comparison to the prior process implemented by the licensee and the province; 2) review the consequences of the process and subsequent efforts at St’át’imc heritage stewardship; and 3) discuss the implications of St’át’imc heritage stewardship efforts on archaeological practice.

I begin the chapter with a description of the team and process, and discuss the strengths and challenges of this program. This is followed with an evaluation of the results of the heritage assessment program for the period 2000 to 2003, representing the height of this initiative, in comparison to the provincial assessment process previously in place. Next, I provide a review of the heritage initiatives that followed the dissolution of the LTC heritage process by 2006, and discuss some of the emerging issues and future directions for St’át’imc Nation heritage stewardship. I end the chapter with a discussion of some of the general implications that St’át’imc heritage stewardship has for archaeologists and archaeological practice in British Columbia.

The LTC Cultural Heritage Team

In early 2000, a contractual agreement between the LTC and the major forest licensee in Northern St’át’imc territory led to the creation of a cultural heritage team.

From 2000 until 2006, the tribal council held most of the contracts to conduct heritage assessments of Ainsworth cutting permits in Northern St’át’imc territory (along with many assessment contracts for other minor licensees and the Ministry of Forests). Over these years, a group of community members, most of whom had completed RIC training in

1999-2001, carried out research, fieldwork, liaison, and GIS mapping (Figure 8). Unlike most other First Nations with heritage departments in the province (e.g., Office of the

Wet’suwet’en

,

Stó:l! Nation, Upper Similkameen Indian Band), the LTC decided against hiring a non-St’át’imc archaeologist to run the heritage assessment program (Barney and Klassen 2008). Instead, archaeologists were selected and contracted as needed, and these consultants worked under the direction of St’át’imc managers. The following discussion provides a detailed description of the heritage process developed by the LTC.

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Figure 8. The LTC heritage team in the field, 2001 (left to right, John Terry, Ervin

Joseph, Terry Adolph).

LTC Heritage Assessment Process

The LTC heritage assessment process was designed with three implementation stages.

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The first stage involves a Cultural Heritage Overview (CHO) of a cutting permit or development area, which in essence marries an archaeological overview with a traditional use study.

This entails identifying known or potential heritage concerns on the basis of a review of biophysical maps and sources, archival maps, aerial photos, background sources, previous archaeological studies, known sites, and heritage sources on file at the LTC. The most important component of a CHO, however, involves meeting with Elders and community members in order to gather traditional land use information and identify any heritage concerns associated with each unit (e.g., cutblock, road, woodlot), and to raise flags about culturally sensitive areas. The report for each cutting permit includes recommendations for further research, fieldwork, or appropriate management steps. In particular, a CHO report may include a recommendation for a

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The description of the St’át’imc heritage assessment process in this section is derived from internal documents provided by the Lillooet Tribal Council. The process was developed and refined over a number of years and this description represents its form as of 2006.

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Heritage Field Reconnaissance (HFR) in one or more of the units assessed in the overview.

The HFR stage of the assessment process involves using fieldwork to identify the nature and location of traditional use and site-specific concerns, verify the traditional use assessment, and identify areas of concern requiring an archaeological impact assessment. The HFR is also used to “ground-truth” archaeological sites and heritage concerns identified by community members, which may or may not be regulated under the Heritage Conservation Act (HCA).

45

In particular, they are used to document heritage concerns and sites that fall outside the normal range of an archaeological assessment, such as trail marker trees, and document biophysical areas and sites, such as wildlife corridors. Team members then evaluate the requirements for further archaeological fieldwork, including the need for shovel testing and culturally modified tree survey conducted under Archaeology Branch permits. Such reports produced for each development include recommendations for appropriate management steps or for more intensive fieldwork, such as a trail recording project or an archaeological impact assessment (AIA).

An AIA is the final stage in the assessment process. It is used to confirm the identification of regulated archaeological sites (previously reported in the CHO or HFR), identify the location and nature of buried archaeological sites using subsurface testing, and document archaeological sites that may not be regulated. An archaeologist selected and contracted by the tribal council assists the cultural heritage team with the AIA. The archaeologist is responsible for meeting any provincial regulations, such as holding an appropriate archaeological permit. Although this stage of the heritage assessment process includes the same objectives and methods of a standard AIA, it differs from conventional archaeological resource management practice in a number of key respects.

First, the archaeologist works under the direction of the cultural heritage team, and must consider St’át’imc perspectives and values in the assessment. Second, the archaeologist must assist the cultural heritage team document the full range of heritage sites and concerns identified in the field (although they are not required to provide full site descriptions and recommendations in the permit report for sites not regulated under

45

Section 13(1) of the Heritage Conservation Act specifies which heritage sites and objects are regulated (or “automatically” protected) by this legislation. All other heritage sites and objects are “non-regulated.”

143

legislation). Third, all permit reports are reviewed by the LTC before they are submitted to the proponent and the Archaeology Branch, ensuring that there is consensus on results, descriptions and recommendations (but the archaeologist retains final say over matters related to permit conditions). Last, the tribal council retains control over copyright and confidential information.

I was directly involved during the first years of the LTC heritage assessment process as an archaeological and heritage policy advisor. My roles during all three stages of the assessment process were: assisting with project management and reporting template development, reviewing field notes and maps for content and accuracy, editing and revising reports, reviewing and commenting on management recommendations, identifying skills and logistical issues, and assisting with the identification of qualified archaeologists for carrying out AIAs. Periodically, I joined the

HFR and AIA crews in the field to observe and advise on methods or to provide a second opinion on features and areas identified for further work. A skill review workshop opened each season, and workshops on specific topics were held periodically during the field season. As the crew gained experience, my involvement in the assessment process diminished.

Strengths and Challenges

Most St’át’imc consultants interviewed for this case study were familiar with the

2000 to 2006 LTC heritage assessment process and thought that it offered substantial advantages over prior CRM practice. They are convinced that survey coverage was more extensive, the work at each step was more thorough, and a broader range of sites and site types were identified and addressed in forestry planning and operations (SN1;

SN6; SN8; SN9; SN13; SN18; SN19; SN21). Local knowledge was incorporated into the reports, and chiefs and community members familiar with the assessed areas also had an opportunity to verify the research and fieldwork results (SN1; SN6; SN8; SN9; SN13;

SN15). Control over the process also gave the St’át’imc the opportunity to decide where to look and what to look for, including areas and cultural features not regulated by the

HCA (SN2), for example CMTs that post-date AD 1846 (Figure 9) St’át’imc field workers and community members had a direct say in report content (SN18). The process allowed information to be brought back to the community so that they could have more input into decisions (SN2; SN18). Some St’át’imc regarded the involvement of archaeologists as

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positive, especially since it gave additional weight to the St’át’imc evidence (SN8). Some emphasized how this interaction provided an opportunity for both sides to learn from each other (SN9). The process proved effective for the St’át’imc Nation, and some felt it was a model for other First Nations (SN6).

Figure 9. Terry Adolph and an “unregulated” cedar CMT, 2001.

Most important, St’át’imc communities and community members were directly involved at every stage of the process (SN18; SN19; SN21). The LTC heritage assessment process provided more employment and experience for community members than previously possible (SN11; SN21), and gave them an opportunity to learn

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about the land and culture from their Elders and peers (SN9). St’át’imc history and evidence of occupancy grew more complete with the data they gathered (SN10), because they included a holistic overview of heritage places and areas important to them (SN13). Prior to this process, community members had “nowhere to go” with their concerns; through their actions, St’át’imc communities gained the attention of resource companies and provincial ministries, giving them a better understanding of their concerns (SN15). Some St’át’imc felt that the perspectives gained from this approach helped archaeologists and the province to re-evaluate and improve their management practices (SN13), as evidenced by the degree of cooperation and collaboration in the field work, and by the incorporation of their information, concerns, and recommendations in management reports..

Overall, the LTC heritage assessment process worked well (SN18). Even so, implementing the St’át’imc heritage assessment process was a challenge from the beginning due to issues of capacity, experience, and logistics. Although the consultants identified strengths for each stage of the process, they also noted a number of internal weaknesses (Table 10). For example, St’át’imc field crewmembers were not always familiar with the areas where they were working, they did not always have access to a great deal of traditional knowledge, they often lacked direct experience with the land and its resources, and the assessments did not always include Elders (SN1; SN8; SN9;

SN11; SN15; SN18; SN19). Inconsistent and incomplete field notes were also identified as a concern (SN4; SN6; SN9; SN11; SN12). The quality and consistency of the reports was cited as a problem, as many of the crew had limited research and writing experience (SN1; SN4; SN8; SN9; SN11; SN12; SN15; SN18).

A significant issue with the HFR process involved occasional disagreements amongst the crew, or even between the crew and Elders, over what was or was not a heritage site (SN19; SN21). Differences in interpretation often involved features that can be ambiguous in the field, such as culturally modified trees, cultural depressions, and trails, but the most contentious features were “trail marker trees” (SN6; SN9; SN11;

SN12). A trail marker tree (TMT) is particularly difficult to conclusively identify because a number of natural processes can produce similar features. As a result, judgement calls were often used to identify them (SN4; SN6; SN12). Despite these challenges, several of the St’át’imc consultants stressed that the assessment process was a learning experience, and that the overall process improved over time (SN4; SN6; SN11).

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Table 10. Strengths and Challenges in the LTC Heritage Assessment Process.

Strengths Challenges

• Involvement of communities and Elders, and incorporation of local knowledge (SN3; SN4; SN12)

• Useful background on area (SN12; SN15)

• Emphasis on trails (SN12)

• Useful access information (SN12)

• Without a CHO, you are working blindly in the field

(SN9)

Cultural Heritage Overview

• Not enough involvement of Elders and community members (SN1; SN4; SN11)

• Too little time to effectively do all the research and consultation (SN4; SN11; SN12)

• Reports were often repetitive, generalized, or incomplete (SN4; SN11; SN12)

• Uncertainty on who should be contacted in each community (SN1)

• Lack of continuity with the people involved in later stages of the assessment process (SN11)

Heritage Field Reconnaissance

• Building skilled and experienced crew (SN6; SN18;

SN21)

• Trained and hired community members (SN3; SN21)

• Broader inventory of heritage (CMTs, trails, spiritual areas) and resources (e.g., wildlife corridors) (SN3;

SN18)

• More thorough and comprehensive survey (SN18;

SN19)

• Results and reports shared with communities (SN18;

SN19)

• Exposed community to new sites (SN6)

• Survey process adapted to meet needs of St’át’imc

(SN3)

• Led to recognition of new types of heritage, such as marker trees (SN4)

• Crew input into recommendations for further work or management (SN11; SN18)

• Provided an opportunity for negotiating management actions for unprotected sites (SN9)

• Turning point in relationship with industry (SN4)

• Disagreements amongst the crew over what was or was not a heritage site (SN6; SN9; SN11; SN12;

SN19; SN21)

• St’át’imc should be able to conduct initial subsurface testing without a provincial permit or archaeologist

(SN12)

• Inconsistent and incomplete fieldnotes and photo logs (SN4; SN6; SN9; SN11; SN12)

• Pressure to get the work done too quickly (SN4; SN8;

SN13; SN15)

• Concerns about the knowledge and experience of the people doing research and fieldwork (SN1; SN8;

SN15; SN18)

• Reports not consistently provided to communities for review (SN14; SN18; SN19; SN21)

• Limited involvement of Elders and people knowledgeable of the land in the fieldwork (SN8;

SN11; SN15)

• Interference from the client concerning what to look for (SN6)

• Length of the field day and travel times (SN4; SN9)

• Unmanageable amounts of information recorded, particularly involving wildlife information (SN9; SN12)

• Cutting corners by avoiding areas with difficult access (SN11; SN12)

• Focus was too “site-specific” (SN21)

• Varying levels of experience among the crew, and inexperience with some types of equipment (SN9)

• Limited access to training (SN1)

• Inconsistent fieldwork and reporting between crews

(SN11)

• Inconsistent site numbering/boundary marking (SN9)

• Inefficient separation of HFR and AIA (SN11)

• Lack of office space (SN9)

• Overwhelmed by the number of crews and reports

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Strengths Challenges

(SN9)

• Inconsistent input from crew into reports (SN9)

• Report format kept changing (SN9)

Archaeological Impact Assessment

• Opportunity to learn from working with archaeologists

(SN9; SN11; SN12; SN18)

• Shovel-testing is beneficial (SN9; SN11; SN12)

• More St’át’imc autonomy and control over archaeology (SN4)

• More information provided to communities (SN4)

• Archaeologists started to look at more areas and sites (SN4)

• Continuity in crew from HFR (SN6)

• Opportunity for archaeologists to learn from St’át’imc

(SN11)

• Better options for management recommendations

(SN4)

• Communities had more input into management decisions (SN4)

• Opportunity to review and comment on reports (SN3)

• Not designed to address post-1846 heritage (SN12)

• Confidentiality of report information not guaranteed

(SN1; SN3)

• Industry considered AIA report to be the last word on heritage (SN4; SN19)

• Crews did not leave offerings before disturbing sites

(SN6)

• Still primarily site-specific, and context not as important (SN4)

• More involvement in mapping sites needed (SN6)

• Disturbs sites and removes artifacts (SN6)

• Uncertainty over the adequacy of recommendations

(SN6)

• Variable styles of archaeologists (SN9)

• Variable report formats, and overly technical language (SN9)

• At times could have done more shovel testing (SN12)

• Limited capacity of community to provide feedback

(SN3; SN18)

• Issues with territorial overlap with neighbouring First

Nations (SN9)

• Implementation of management still left up to industry

(SN6)

Although the specifics of the heritage process were generally well-received by leadership and communities, some St’át’imc consultants recognized overarching concerns with the way the heritage assessment process operated. Some felt that it simply mirrored the provincial system, and that they were not always in full control

(SN2). The constraints of working for industry were also cited as a major issue.

Fieldwork was often restricted to the development areas, which limited the scope of research (SN19), and the process also ended up being too “site-specific,” with industry only paying attention to narrow site-specific recommendations (SN21). Moreover, industry never took the CHO and HFR reports as seriously as the AIA reports because a

“professional” was not involved, and tended to only implement the AIA recommendations

(SN19). Consequently, places identified in the HFR reports often didn’t get an equivalent level of management as those sites identified in the AIA (SN19). A field check or audit of subsequent management actions was not included in the process (SN21), meaning that

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measuring the effectiveness of the results and recommendations in protecting heritage concerns was difficult.

Perhaps the greatest challenge identified by the St’át’imc consultants involved how management decisions were made and who made them (SN3). In the procedure initially designed by the LTC cultural heritage team, the results of the various assessments were to be taken to representatives of each affected community, who would in turn provide input and recommendations. The team would then take this input back to the industry proponents and try and work out a suitable management plan

(SN4). At first, Elders made the decisions on appropriate recommendations, though they had to weigh heritage protection against economic benefits (SN4). Initially the recommendations favoured protection, but eventually the communities began agreeing to more and more compromises that favoured economic considerations (SN4). Some

Elders felt that reducing the level of protection indicated a lack of commitment to their goals (SN1; SN15). Moreover, it was not always clear who was responsible for negotiating alternative management strategies with forestry companies (SN4). Some chiefs and community members were under the impression that the LTC was consulting communities “on behalf” of industry, and that they were making decisions on their behalf rather than having these decision come from them (SN4; SN5). They felt that the LTC was giving the go ahead for developing resources, while undermining government-togovernment negotiations for revenue sharing (SN6). Others voiced concerns about how the contractual obligations to industry proponents affected the ability of the LTC to do its job effectively (SN14; SN21), particularly when dealing with pressure and excessive demands from companies (SN8; SN15). Overall, the communities were concerned that the forest industry had to some degree co-opted the LTC assessment process, especially since the assessments tended to focus more on tangible aspects of heritage than on other heritage values (SN3).

To some observers, a clear decision-making process involving the St’át’imc was missing (SN2; SN3). They pointed specifically to the lack of communication and involvement with the communities (SN19; SN21). Reports were not brought to councillors, the appropriate land and resources personnel were often not available to deal with the process (SN14), and it was difficult finding people with enough time to adequately review the reports and recommendations (SN3; SN19). Sometimes a sole representative became the proxy voice for the community as a whole (SN21). Moreover,

149

community representatives were often expected to approve recommendations without seeing the places themselves (SN18). Initially the chiefs trusted the cultural heritage team and accepted their recommendations, as they didn’t always have the capacity or knowledge to review the work (SN13). Even so, the decision-makers often relied on information from a heritage team whose qualifications and knowledge were not necessarily adequate (SN13). Some St’át’imc felt that there needed to be a better connection between the heritage team and leadership, in order to ensure that decisionmaking was based on research and local knowledge (SN2). The lack of an acceptable review process left the impression that decisions were being made in the field by the heritage team, and were not being reviewed by the LTC managers or the chiefs (SN8).

As a consequence, the forestry proponents were making decisions on the basis of the evidence gathered in the field assessments, but without appropriate input from the people affected (SN2).

An incident at a cutting permit at Trimble Creek in 2001-2002 highlighted the inherent challenges with the decision-making process, and this particular episode was one of the contributing factors leading to the eventual suspension of the LTC contract with forestry licensee. The cultural heritage team had identified a number of culturally modified trees in this cutting permit, and the team provided standard recommendations for “managing” these features. After they were fully documented, the team authorized the licensee to “high-stump” the culturally modified trees (cut the trunk at a point above the cultural modification), before community representatives had reviewed the recommendations (SN3; SN9; SN20). When word of this action reached the affected communities, they expressed alarm since approval was given without their involvement.

This incident resulted in the implementation of a new “sign-off” procedure, whereby the LTC facilitated a meeting between the proponent and the community to review the results of each field assessment. Following this presentation, representatives would either approve the recommendations or negotiate changes (SN3). This in turn led to complaints that it had become a “mechanical” and technical approval process (SN21).

To some it now appeared that the forestry licensee considered this sign-off process as authorization from the community for logging (SN3). In other words, the heritage assessments replaced meaningful community consultation on resource developments that infringed on their aboriginal rights (SN4; SN5; SN6; SN13). At the same time, some communities lacked the capacity to review results and make informed decisions (SN19).

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As a result, the LTC heritage assessment process came under greater scrutiny by chiefs and communities, and direct contracts with forestry proponents were no longer favoured.

From Nation to Community

By 2004, responsibility for heritage assessments began to shift to the communities. Around this time, all eleven Northern and Southern St’át’imc communities formed the St’át’imc Chiefs Council (SCC) to initiate government-to-government negotiations with the province (SN13). Its first priority was to pursue resource consultation directly with the province, rather than involving the forest industry (SN13). In part, these negotiations were intended to reconcile the draft Lillooet Land and Resource

Management Plan with the St’át’imc Land Use Plan (see next section), and to work on a mechanism for reviewing cutting permits and identifying forestry “hotspots” with the greatest heritage and environmental concerns (SN13). The SCC also established the

St’át’imc Land and Resource Authority (SLRA) to oversee resource policy and decisionmaking, including those related to heritage assessments. All consultation and authorization would occur at the SCC level, with SLRA representatives facilitating review and input from each community (SN3). In this arrangement, the tribal council would provide information to the SLRA when requested.

As the SCC gained prominence, so too did the discomfort with the LTC heritage assessment process (SN21). In particular, the existing contract with the major forestry licensee was problematic to the SCC because it seemed like it shifted provincial consultation requirements to industry (SN4; SN13). In some cases, leaders and community members perceived the LTC recommendations as too narrow and sitespecific, which didn’t sit well with some communities (SN18). The dispute between these two entities hinged on the heritage assessment contracts with the forest licensee, which the chiefs were reluctant to renew without substantial changes (SN6; SN21). When contract wording could not be resolved with the forest licensee in 2006, the contract was not renewed. Although stopping the heritage assessments was not the SCC’s intent

(SN6), for the most part the LTC assessment process ended.

At the same time, forestry activities in the area began to decline for reasons unrelated to the contract negotiations (SN3; SN13). Some communities adopted “no-go zones” for forestry (SN13) or identified areas of concerns in advance of harvest planning using a “blank map” approach (i.e., identifying areas of concern before proposed

151

harvesting cutblocks appeared on maps) (SN3). The resulting uncertainty over future logging plans meant that fewer cutting permits were proposed (SN13). While timber harvesting continued in areas previously assessed by the LTC, the slowdown meant that new cutting permits were not identified for heritage assessments (SN9). To some degree this reduction was also due to the sizable areas logged in the aftermath of the forest fires in the Town Creek and Dickie Creek areas in 2004 (SN9). However, others saw the reduction in logging as a sign that forestry operations in the Lillooet area were winding down (SN15; SN19).

Moreover, timber companies now preferred to work directly with the communities

(SN3; SN4; SN6; SN13; SN18). After the massive forest fires in 2004, logging companies also placed heavy pressure on communities to provide quick access to the burned areas so that the timber could be salvaged (SN2). Where heritage work was still needed, individual contracts were negotiated directly with the communities in order to reduce costs and duplication of effort (SN18). In many cases, LTC crewmembers familiar with the fieldwork standards participated in this work (SN6). Communities wanted to be directly involved in their own areas (SN18), and it was now feasible for them to deploy their own heritage team (SN6; SN13). The province also established

Forest and Range Agreements with the Ts'kwaly'ax, Xaxli’p, and Sekw'elw'as communities (SN9; SN21), giving them access to forest tenures and timber volume, and more direct control over consultation (SN21).

46

However, as the forestry business began to collapse in the Lillooet area, the Forest and Range Agreements became economically unviable (SN19). Nonetheless, communities began their own forestry operations and started hiring band members for the required heritage assessments (SN3; SN9), which diminished LTC involvement in assessments (SN3). A positive outcome of the LTC heritage process, however, was that the communities now had a pool of experienced and skilled people to draw upon, both from their own members as well as from other communities (SN1; SN2; SN4; SN7). In many cases, the communities insist that field workers have RISC archaeological training, meaning that they often need to share crewmembers (SN2; SN7).

By 2006, heritage assessments had largely devolved from the nation to individual communities (SN13; SN18). However, the St’át’imc consulted for this study hold mixed

46

See Parfitt (2007:22-30) for an analysis of the risks and rewards for First Nations from Forest and Range Agreements.

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opinions on whether this change in responsibility was a positive or negative development. Some felt that a community-based approach better reflected a more desirable grassroots political structure. In this scenario, community members are the true decision makers, while chief and council are their representatives (SN5). As most wished to assert more control over their area of interest (SN5), communities considered themselves responsible for their heritage (SN14). Some consultants thought that community-based heritage stewardship could be successful as long as communities had access to experienced personnel and assistance from archaeologists (SN6; SN10;

SN11). Despite capacity issues, exercising political authority at the community level has other benefits, including a closer connection to heritage stewardship (SN5), a greater voice in recommendations (SN18), and better communication with community members

(SN19). In this sense, shifting responsibility for heritage stewardship to the community was a positive development that ultimately makes the nation stronger (SN5; SN18).

On the other hand, some consultants saw distinct disadvantages to heritage assessments at the community level. Supporting a crew fulltime is difficult, and may not be economically sustainable for communities, given the limited work available (SN3;

SN6; SN12; SN18; SN19). Finding full-time heritage work is difficult (SN9; SN12; SN18), and what does exist is short-term, seasonal, and divided among too many people (SN9).

Moreover, the lack of trained or experienced personnel (SN12) creates issues with maintaining consistency and quality control (SN3; SN18), leading to incomplete background research, substandard fieldwork, inadequate mapping, and a lack of follow up (SN9). At times, communities do not have the same level of access to the knowledge, information, and Elders available at the nation-level (SN19). Sharing information between communities and the nation is not always as free as it should be (SN16). The shift also has meant that some areas fall through the cracks because not all communities have the capacity or desire to deal with assessments (SN15).

In the end, many of the St’át’imc consultants felt that heritage assessments should have stayed at the nation level (whether based at the LTC or in some other form), but with the close involvement of communities and Elders (SN2; SN3; SN4; SN6; SN9;

SN11; SN12; SN14; SN15; SN21). One participant stated that, first and foremost, heritage belongs to the nation as a whole (SN4). Another pointed out that the nation has more political clout and greater resources, while local councils may not necessarily place a priority on archaeology or heritage (SN8). Likewise, one consultant worried that local

153

decisions are more likely to be made based on economic as opposed to cultural values

(SN21). Some thought that the nation can also have a wider focus on heritage assessments, so that industries other than just forestry are included, such as BC Hydro and independent power projects (SN6; SN18; SN21). Without nation-wide involvement, some felt there might be less sharing of results between communities and the nation

(SN9; SN21). Pooling resources and people was also perceived as more effective

(SN14), and provides for more stable employment (SN6). One suggested tactic would involve maintaining a crew comprised of members from each community, and using it for other types of resource work would help make it more efficient (SN6; SN9). A number of participants pointed out that the LTC has access to a core group of experienced people that can ensure quality and consistency in methods, notes and reporting (SN9; SN11;

SN12). Maintaining the heritage assessment process at the LTC, or some other central agency, would be more consistent with the efforts of the SCC to address challenges facing the nation as a whole (SN13).

Evaluation of the 2000-2003 LTC Process

Despite the challenges faced by the LTC heritage assessment process, the

St’át’imc participants considered the program a success. The period from 2000 until

2003 represents the zenith of its existence, when virtually every heritage and archaeological assessment undertaken for the forest industry in Northern St’át’imc territory was run through the LTC. During this time, an unprecedented number of archaeological assessments were conducted, a vast area of forest was surveyed, and large numbers of archaeological and traditional use sites were identified, protected, and managed. The LTC trained and employed numerous community members through this period, and forged strong working relationships with archaeologists. During this same period, and in the years that followed, various CRM consultants, forest industry representatives, and even provincial archaeological managers expressed doubts over the LTC’s ability to effectively implement a heritage stewardship program in a forestry context.

47

However, the following review of archaeological assessment results over a ten-year period demonstrates that this approach provided better management of

47

These doubts were never formally expressed, but instead were raised in conversation, posted on web forums, or brought up at meetings. In particular, the ability of the LTC crew to accurately identify archaeological sites and archaeological potential, and the objectivity of archaeologists employed by the LTC, was questioned

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archaeological sites and heritage places than the provincially regulated process that preceded it. As such, the involvement of the LTC in forestry archaeology served the best interests of heritage stewardship.

The first forestry-related archaeological assessment in Northern St’át’imc territory took place in 1994, and a total of eleven forestry assessment projects (six under provincial Heritage Inspection Permits and five non-permit) were conducted over the five-year period ending in 1998 (Table 11). During this time, the Ministry of Forests and the forest industry were responsible for deciding which forestry operations would be assessed, and which archaeological consultants conducted the work. The next year, the

LTC insisted that archaeological assessments and MoF timber sale licenses (under five provincial permits) be conducted using a consulting firm acceptable to the LTC. For the seven cutting permits and forest licences assessed in 1999, community members and the LTC worked collaboratively with, and had considerable influence over, the archaeological consultants. Subsequently, from 2000 to 2003, the LTC oversaw the majority of forestry-related archaeological assessments in Northern St’át’imc territory

(Table 11). It was primarily responsible for deciding which forestry operation areas to assess, and directing the consulting archaeologists.

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Table 11. Forestry Assessment Results in Northern St’át’imc Territory, 1994-2003.

2000

2000

2000

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2001

2002

2002

2002

2002

2002

Year Proponent

1994 Industry

1995

1995

Industry

Industry

1996

1997

1997

1997

1998

1998

1998

1998

1999

1999

1999

MoF

MoF

MoF

MoF

Industry

Industry

MoF

MoF

Industry

Industry

Industry

1999

1999

2000

2000

2000

MoF

Industry

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

MoF

MoF

Industry

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

Industry

Industry

LTC

LTC

2000-326

2000-336

2000-351

2001-305

2001-309

2001-371

2001-267

2001-306

2001-340

2001-352

2001-357

2001-375

2001-379

Non-permit

2002-316

2002-094

2002-264

2002-219

2002-220

Permit #

1994-065

1995-093

Non-permit

1996-096

1997-074

Non-permit

Non-permit

1998-241

1998-249†

1998-265

Non-permit

1999-066

1999-232

1999-288

1999-295

1999-311

2000-291

2000-294

2000-310

1

5

15

9

1

1

1

3

8

4

2

1

5

1

1

1

2

7

13

4

6

18

Units* HCA Sites*

15 9

7

1

5

4

1

1

6

4

3

6

1

1

2

42

19

13

0

7

0

0

1

3

1

0

8

38

0

1

2

2

6

0

0

3

0

0

0

0

3

0

0

17

1

2

0

9

0

5

0

1

1

1

2

1

1

1

1

1

1

2

1

1

9

1

1

1

1

1

1

Areas*

1

2

1

1

1

5

1

1

4

1

1

2

1

3

1

1

2

2

1

0

0

0

5

Other

Sites*

1

1

0

9

1

1

5

7

1

5

14

0

3

1

0

4

16

1

2

6

2

3

1

1

6

HFR Sites*

1

1

5

10

9

2

0

1

8

0

156

Year Proponent

2002

2002

LTC

LTC

2002

2002

2002

2002

2002

2002

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

LTC

Permit #

2002-232

2002-257

2002-258

2002-259

2002-279†

2002-290†

2002-303†

2002-320

Areas*

1

2

2

2

2

2

2

2

Units* HCA Sites*

17

5

15

1

12

2?

2?

17

0

0

4

0

5

?

?

3

Other

Sites*

2003

2003

LTC

LTC

2003-372

2003-365†

1

1

2

5

0

?

2

?

2003 LTC 2003-368 1 1 0 4

2003 LTC 2003-412 1 2 0 3

* Explanation of headings: Proponent–Industry=forest company initiated; MoF=Ministry of Forests initiated;

LTS=Lillooet Tribal Council initiated: Areas–number of operating areas, e.g., timber sale licence, cutting permit;

Units–number of individual cutblocks and roads; HCA Sites–number of sites identified that are regulated by the

Heritage Conservation Act; Other Sites–number of other identified heritage sites not regulated by the HCA but included in the AIA permit report, e.g., traditional use, post-1846; HFR Sites–number of non-regulated sites identified in a LTC Heritage Field Reconnaissance prior to the AIA, but not included in the AIA permit report.

† Permit report unavailable; data obtained from LTC sources.

HFR Sites*

7

?

?

?

?

?

?

1

A comparison of provincially regulated forestry CRM results (for the five-year period of 1994 to 1998) with LTC directed forestry heritage stewardship results (for the five-year period of 1999 to 2003) supports the St’át’imc contention that they had the capacity to protect their heritage (Table 12; Figure 10).

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By a number of quantitative measures, heritage stewardship was more effective under the LTC process: more projects were undertaken, more operating areas (timber sale licenses, cutting permits) and units (cutblocks, roads) were assessed, more HCA-regulated archaeological sites were identified and registered, and a wider range of non-regulated heritage sites were documented (and consequently managed). Specifically, under the LTC assessment process:

49

48

The LTC continued to hold assessment contracts after 2003, but this comparison was restricted to directly comparable five-year periods. Also note that data from 2002 and 2003 are incomplete because a number of LTC reports were unavailable for detailed review, and the numbers of sites identified during the LTC projects may actually be higher than indicated.

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Non-permit projects, generally referred to as preliminary field reconnaissance (PFR), are included in this analysis where the primary objective was to identify regulated archaeological sites for management purposes and where a subsequent archaeological impact assessment

(AIA) did not follow up on the PFR. Inventory projects directly related to forestry management and funded by the forest industry or Ministry of Forests are also included.

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• More than three times as many forestry assessment projects were undertaken

(of the 37 projects, the LTC held the contracts for 32 projects and co-directed or initiated five assessments).

• Nearly two and a half times as many operating areas were assessed (cutting permits, timber sale licenses, woodlots, mainline roads).

• More than three and a half times as many individual units (cutblocks, access roads) were assessed.

• More than two and a half times as many HCA-regulated archaeological sites were identified and registered.

• Nearly five times as many non-regulated archaeological sites (i.e., traditional use sites) were identified (mostly CMT sites, but also trails, trail marker trees, trapping evidence, camps, wagon roads, and cabins).

Although the absolute numbers under the LTC mandate show an increase in all categories, this comparison does not account for whether more units and operating areas were proposed by industry in the 1999-2003 period. In other words, the increase in the number of forestry units surveyed and the quantity of sites identified under the

LTC process may be a function of a greater area proposed for harvesting by the forest industry in 1999-2003. Nonetheless, the increased numbers of areas looked at in 1999 to 2003 is a direct result of pressure from the LTC, and the greater number of heritage sites identified and managed supports the claim that their process was more effective.

Table 12. Comparison of Industry/MoF and LTC Assessment Results.

Permit/Non-Permit Projects§

Operating Areas**

Units†

HCA Regulated Sites Registered

1994-1998

Industry / MoF

Initiated

11

24

68

43

1999-2003 LTC

Initiated

37

56

246

108

Increase in

Results

336%

233%

362%

251%

1999-2003*

Industry / MoF

Initiated

5

7

25

2

Non-regulated Sites Identified

(registered & not registered)

26 127 489% 3

* A summary of results for projects initiated by the forest industry and the Ministry of Forests from 1999-2003 is also presented as an additional comparison with the LTC-initiated projects.

** Cutting Permits, Timber Sale Licenses, Woodlots, Road Mainlines)

† Cutblocks, access roads

Another way of looking at the relative success of the assessment processes in the two periods is to look at the ratio of sites identified to the number of units surveyed and assessed. From 1994 to 1998, 68 units were assessed by the forest industry, and

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sixty-nine heritage sites were identified, for a ratio of 1.01 sites per assessed unit. In

1999 to 2003, a total of 246 units were assessed, and 235 heritage sites were identified, for a ratio of 0.96 sites per assessed unit. Although this comparison shows a slightly lower ratio under the LTC program, this difference is not statistically significant.

Moreover, a number of factors may confound this result. For example, the units assessed in 1994 to 1998 were likely the “highest potential” areas, where the most sites would be encountered with the least effort. On the other hand, the LTC team had a nearly equal rate of success identifying sites in both high and low potential areas combined. Including “lower potential” areas should reduce the ratio of sites per unit, but instead the LTC crew was able to maintain the same ratio, indicating they were more successful overall at identifying sites. Since the data for 2003 are incomplete, the total number of heritage sites identified in 1999 to 2003 is in all likelihood even higher than the number used in this comparison. In any case, the quantitative data show that in terms of both absolute success and relative success, the LTC standard was equal to, if not more, effective than the government-regulated and industry-driven process.

While many First Nations in British Columbia have made efforts to assert more control over heritage assessments, the LTC Cultural Heritage program was particularly successful. This achievement can be attributed to a number of specific factors. First, the

St’át’imc involved in the program demonstrated a strong personal interest in heritage stewardship, and they made a long-term commitment to this process (with many of the key players still directly involved more than fifteen years later). Second, the LTC heritage assessment process generated a great deal of debate and discussion, both between team members and with the communities, providing a healthy degree of reflexivity and revision. Third, LTC managers and field workers also recognized the parameters of their capacity and expertise, and were willing to engage with and bring in outside professionals where assistance, training, and expertise was warranted. Finally, the LTC and Northern St’át’imc communities developed strong personal relationships with individual archaeologists, built on mutual trust, respect, and continuity. As a result of these factors, the LTC Cultural Heritage program is an example of a highly successful approach to community-based heritage stewardship.

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Figure 10. Forestry Assessment Results: 1994-1998 vs. 1999-2003.

In the end, the LTC Heritage Assessment program declined in importance not due to any particular deficiency or defect, but due to larger economic and political pressures. After 2004, the major licensee in the area reduced its harvesting plans, while many Northern St’át’imc communities were awarded their own forest tenures. They began to take on some or all of the heritage assessments for these tenures themselves, utilizing locally trained and experienced personnel. These factors made less heritage assessment work available for the LTC, thus adding to the difficulty of maintaining consistent, long-term employment. St’át’imc communities also began to debate how best to “manage” heritage, and how to balance effective stewardship against community-level and Nation-level initiatives and agendas. A major concern of the Northern St’át’imc is how to remain at arm’s length from the industry that finances heritage assessments. At times political leadership has been reluctant to continue contractual arrangements with industry and government, as there were too many concerns about where and how

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information was used. Likewise, there was a fear that the reports and recommendations were used as “authorization” without input from political leadership at the community level (SN1). Perhaps most importantly, there was no over-arching governance structure to manage it, and this issue had to be worked out at the nation level (SN1). In this sense, the suspension of the LTC heritage process was not due to problems with the cultural heritage team, but rather with how it fit into overall Nation governance (SN1). In other words, the LTC heritage work itself was acceptable, but the approval stage became problematic (SN1).

Throughout this period, the St’át’imc Nation was still developing capacity for undertaking impact assessments, and few community members had the opportunity to pursue advanced training or education. As a result, the process continued to rely on the expertise and assistance of outside professionals, and this involvement was also seen as necessary to lend credibility to their actions. Likewise, the heritage program operated under an imposed regulatory system, and continued to follow provincial laws and regulations. To address this last point, the St’át’imc Nation drafted Nxekmenlhkálha Lti

Tmícwa (the St’át’imc Land Use Plan) in 2004, setting standards for how land and resource activities are conducted in St’át’imc territory. The hope is that by drafting and implementing laws based on a St’át’imc model of governance and stewardship, the issues of authority and control that hampered the LTC heritage process can be circumvented. Ultimately, the St’át’imc, through national unity and the assertion of sovereignty, intend to protect their culture, heritage, and land by taking full control over decisions relating to how “ St’át’imc land or resources are allocated, extracted or destroyed” (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004:12) .

St’át’imc Archaeology and National Unity

Following the legal and political challenges facing First Nations that emerged in the 1990s, St’át’imc communities developed a greater degree of political organization and capacity, and increasingly approached issues as a unified nation. By the new millennium, they began focussing their political efforts on a number of nation-wide initiatives, many of which united the northern and southern communities and contributed to the onset of government-to-government negotiations with the province (SN16). In particular, conflicts with the forest industry and BC Hydro developments had a major influence on uniting them and encouraging the development of broader strategies, and

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these measures often spilled over into other development sectors and merged with overarching issues of indigenous title and rights. Despite the problems they encountered with the LTC heritage program, many of the St’át’imc involved continue to feel positive about the future of heritage stewardship:

I am proud of the role I had in developing the LTC heritage program, and it was very difficult for me to leave that process and to see the program get suspended. But at the same time I believe we laid the foundation for the next stage in St'át'imc heritage stewardship. I see this time as a temporary pause in the heritage stewardship process, while the St'át'imc

Nation prepares for the next stage of sovereignty. [Marie Barney, in

Barney and Klassen 2008]

St’át’imc communities continue to work on common causes, and they continue to struggle to build capacity at all levels (SN13). Although the LTC heritage team largely suspended operations in 2006, a number of initiatives that materialized before and during its tenure have a direct bearing on the future of St’át’imc heritage stewardship.

St’át’imc Heritage Initiatives

One of the earliest initiatives contributing to a unified approach to St’át’imc heritage stewardship began with the onset of negotiations with BC Hydro and Power

Authority. In 1996, all 11 St’át’imc communities established the Stl’atl’imx Nation Hydro

Committee (SNH) for the purpose of negotiating an agreement with BC Hydro for compensation for the negative effects arising from hydroelectric facilities and operations in their territory. Impacts to heritage were an important component of these negotiations, and the terms were intended to compel BC Hydro to address more than just legal requirements. They included provisions for research and policy development, tools for education, a mitigation plan, and an impact prevention plan (SN16). In support of the negotiations, an initial overview of heritage resources in potential conflict with BC Hydro developments and activities was completed in 1998 (Klassen 1999). A subsequent 2004 heritage “post-impact” assessment project was used as a baseline for proposing further heritage work and a long-term strategic plan for archaeology (Klassen 2005).

Around the same time, a process called “Hala’w Initiative” grew out of the negotiations with the forest licensee following the 1998 Seton Lake CP 146 stand off

(Lillooet News 2001). Its objectives were establishing a working relationship with the forest industry, addressing communication and sustainability issues, and developing a

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process for doing business together so that St’át’imc benefited from the economics of forestry (Leach 2003). In 2001, the first Memorandum of Understanding with the forestry licensee was signed (Lillooet News 2001), and in 2003 the Chiefs of the six Northern

St’át’imc communities signed a Memorandum of Agreement to establish the Hala’w

Forest Management Board. Representatives from each community sitting on this board would oversee revenue sharing, forestry contracts with the licensee, and management of a forest licence. The agreement also recognized that each St’át’imc community might eventually establish their own forestry companies that would work with the Hala’w Forest

Management Board.

Following these initial steps, an important development occurred in early 2002, when the chiefs of all eleven communities began meeting regularly as the St’át’imc

Chiefs Council (SCC).

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It grew from a series of “unity meetings” beginning in 1998, where St’át’imc community members directed their chiefs to work collectively at a political level to address common issues , such as fisheries, health, forestry, education, mining, and the St’át’imc Hydro Agreement . The SCC does not in itself hold any authority. Instead, their constituents provide direction to the chiefs to work with it on specific issues (St'át'imc Chiefs Council 2003, 2011a) .

In September of 2002, the SCC began negotiating with the province to establish a government-to-government protocol to establish a relationship for land use and resource decisions (St'át'imc Chiefs Council

2003).

To guide the development and implementation of SCC initiatives, the chiefs established the St’át’imc Elders Council (SEC) and the St’át’imc Land and Resource

Authority (SLRA), with representatives from each community. The role of the SEC is to provide feedback, input, advice and guidance to the political leadership (St'át'imc Chiefs

Council 2003). SEC members are recognized as having considerable authority and knowledge, and act as strong advocates for their people (SN8). The SEC initially met every month, but due to unstable funding their meetings have been irregular (SN8).

Nonetheless, it has advised and guided the SCC, and has provided input into the development of major initiatives, such as the tribal code, the St’át’imc land-use plan, and

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The SCC includes representatives of the six Northern St'át'imc communities of Sek'welw’ás

(Cayoose Creek), T'ít'qet (Lillooet), Ts'k'wáylawx (Pavilion), Tsalálh (Seton Lake), Xaxlip

(Fountain), and Xwísten (Bridge River), as well as the Southern St'át'imc communities of

Lil’wat (Mt. Currie), N'Quatqua (Anderson Lake), Samahquam, Skatin, and Xa'xtsa (Douglas).

Over the years, membership of Southern St'át'imc communities in the SCC has varied.

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the cultural heritage law (SN8; SN10), although all of these initiatives remain in the preliminary or draft phase. However, as a result of their input and direction, one consultant was certain that the tribal code and LUP will improve heritage protection

(SN8). The St’át’imc Land and Resource Authority (SLRA) was given responsibility for dealing with land and resource issues within St’át’imc territory, with representatives forming the link between each community and the SCC (Narcisse 2003). In addition to acting in an advisory capacity to the SCC and SEC, the responsibilities of the SLRA include: 1) reviewing, researching and providing recommendations on specific land and resource applications, 2) codifying St’át’imc laws that set the standards for how land and resource activities are conducted in St’át’imc territory, and 3) developing and implementing a land use plan (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004).

One of the most important initiatives of the SCC has been the development of a draft St’át’imc Tribal Code, along with a number of regulatory polices. The SCC presented a draft of the Tribal Code (Nxékmens I St’at’ímca) at the annual St’át’imc

Gathering in 2003 (Narcisse 2003), and community workshops presenting and reviewing this document were held in the fall of 2003 (St'át'imc Chiefs Council 2003). It was intended to be a “founding document” that outlines the identity of the St’át’imc Nation, and will prevail over a number of other regulatory policies or laws, including those pertaining to land use, forestry, and heritage (SN21). Likewise, a draft St’át’imc heritage policy, described as a “living document,” was intended to provide an alternative to the

Heritage Conservation Act in their effort to control heritage policy (SN13). Moreover, it will need to be implemented in each community, as they have the closest connection to their heritage, (SN13). Eventually, the heritage policy is to be incorporated as a “chapter” of the St’át’imc Tribal Code (SN2; SN21), and it will be linked to the mandate of the

SLRA (SN13).

Another important initiative of the SCC was its development of Nxekmenlhkálha

Lti Tmícwa, a draft St’át’imc land-use plan (LUP) for the entire territory. Prepared by the

SLRA in 2004, it invoked “vision and principles” formulated during several Land and

Resource Forums (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004). Hundreds of people from the entire nation had a chance to speak at the forums (SN5), and the LUP evolved primarily with input from community representatives (SN3). A guiding principle for the

LUP was “focusing first on what to leave behind on the land to sustain ecology and culture, rather than on what to take from the land through resource extraction” (St'át'imc

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Land and Resource Authority 2004). Community members view it as a means for protecting and restoring St’át’imc resources and territory (SN4; SN6). Using a mapbased planning process that “integrated western scientific and technical knowledge with

St’át’imc knowledge,” they identified various St’át’imc land designations in order to protect watersheds, habitats, sensitive environments, community economic development, and restoration (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004). A land and resources working group identified “hotspots” with specific concerns, primarily using grizzly bear and deer habitat as environmental indicators, where they tested out a management framework (SN13).

Of particular significance, the St’át’imc land use plan designated the entire

St’át’imc territory as a Nt’akmenlhkálha (Cultural) Protection Area where written authorization from the St’át’imc Chiefs Council or its designate is required before St’át’imc land or resources are allocated, extracted or destroyed. Such authorizations may be provided through licences, permits and/or plan approvals upon submission of an application, provided that the proposed use or interest is consistent with the St’át’imc

Tribal Code, Nxekmenlhkálha lti tmícwa Forestry Code and other

St’át’imc laws. In particular, the application process will provide an opportunity for the St’át’imc to assess the location and nature of any proposed use taking into account St’át’imc uses of the area. [St’át’imc

Land and Resource Authority 2004:12]

By designating the entire territory as a Cultural Protection Area, all proposed developments require site level planning to identify the steps needed to mitigate impacts to heritage values (SN2). As areas of higher or lower significance are not recognized in this plan, proponents need to talk to the St’át’imc about each development (SN4; SN6).

In other words, under the LUP every referral triggers a heritage assessment, with an application to the SLRA required (SN5; SN6). The results of each assessment need to be brought back to the people for decision (SN5). Moreover, under this plan all communities are to be made aware of the management strategies undertaken at the nation level (SN6). As each development has an impact at some level, management recommendations specific to each place are necessary (SN5; SN6). Nonetheless, strategic plans for different types of areas may be a useful component of the planning process (SN2). For example, village sites could become “no-go” zones where no development activities were permitted (SN5), while impacts in other areas, such as berry gathering areas, warrant compensatory rehabilitation, such as by way of prescribed

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burns (SN5; SN6). Ideally, every development would be designed to address the perspective of the St’át’imc vision outlined in the LUP (SN5).

The St’át’imc LUP was largely developed as a direct response to the draft Land and Resource Management Plan (LRMP) tabled by the province for the Lillooet Forest

District (now the Lillooet Timber Supply Area) in June of 2004. There was strong

St’át’imc opposition to the draft LRMP for a number of reasons. Foremost was the diminution of their status to just one of many stakeholders, rather than recognizing their authority and Aboriginal title and providing them with a co-management role (SN2; SN4).

The SCC also refused to agree to a plan that only dealt with a few key resource sectors, while ignoring water and other issues (SN13). Prior to the release of the draft LRMP, the

St’át’imc reminded the province of their duty for meaningful consultation, but the process offered by the province was deemed unacceptable. As a result, the province consented to a government-to-government protocol for addressing land and resource use issues within St’át’imc territory.

Under the protocol, the province agreed to comply with their legal obligations for consultation and accommodation with the St’át’imc. They also agreed to reconcile the

LRMP with the St’át’imc Land Use Plan, prior to establishing the LRMP land and resource use objectives under provincial legislation. Despite these efforts and intentions, reconciling the LRMP and the St’át’imc LUP was not successful (SN2; SN3). The SCC and the province adopted in principle a collaborative decision-making framework for land use decisions (SN13), but the province never formally signed off on this process. Even so, the SLRA continued working on strategic planning for LUP study areas where the greatest concerns exist (SN13). The study areas were somewhat equivalent to what some LRMPs call “cultural management areas,” but the St’át’imc and province could not agree on the conditions that would be in place for these areas (SN13). Ultimately, the government-to-government negotiating table was “trumped” by subsequent legislation, while the negotiations eventually diverged from their original objectives (SN2). As a result, the SCC ended further input, and the LRMP discussions were abandoned in 2004

(SN2; SN3). In 2010, the province adopted the Lillooet LRMP without St’át’imc agreement or input (British Columbia 2010).

At the time of the community research undertaken for this study (late 2008), the

St’át’imc Nation has yet to formally ratify the St’át’imc Tribal Code, the Land Use Plan, or

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the cultural heritage law. All of these instruments remain in the draft stage (SN2), and await acceptance, approval, and implementation (SN21). Nonetheless, the SCC has continued to undertake community consultations in order to prepare the Tribal Code for eventual adoption (SN2). Likewise, the SLRA and SCC continue to develop the LUP and implement other land use policies (SN13). Failure of the government-to-government negotiating table impeded progress on the LUP (SN3), but it is slowly moving to a more operational stage without the cooperation of the province (SN6). The heritage policy was brought to the Elders and hereditary chiefs for review and approval (SN21), but it has yet to be ratified. The SCC continues to review how it will be implemented (SN13). In particular, it needs to be reviewed and tested on the ground to see how it will operate, while efforts to promote the heritage policy in communities are still required (SN13).

Once implemented, these instruments may influence the efforts of other First Nations facing similar circumstances (SN13).

A Strategy for St’át’imc Heritage Stewardship

Heritage has been a key component in St’át’imc Nation initiatives and negotiations, and the SCC and SLRA recognize that it must be considered in all resource sectors (SN2). Therefore, a nation-wide strategy for stewardship is important for building community knowledge and awareness, improving St’át’imc management and control over heritage, and strengthening their assertion of title and rights (SN18; SN19).

Following the suspension of the LTC cultural heritage contract in 2006, no single process replaced it. Nonetheless, the draft Tribal Code, draft Land Use Plan, and draft heritage law set the tone and direction for an ongoing heritage stewardship conversation. Moreover, the development of these instruments highlights the many challenges facing community advocates who wish to implement a heritage stewardship strategy. In this context, the St’át’imc consulted in this study described their perspectives on overcoming these challenges, and their vision for the future of St’át’imc heritage stewardship.

Foremost among these challenges is the issue of unified governance in a nationwide context (SN21), and the emphasis must involve building capacity (SN1), rather than focussing on specific processes such as a heritage policy and process. However, building nation level governance is problematic (SN1) due to the inherent tension between the federally imposed system defined in the Indian Act and St’át’imc aspirations

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for national unity. In particular, the SCC system can potentially lessen the authority of elected chiefs and councils, which at times creates issues within and between communities (SN21). Moreover, traditional St’át’imc relationships emanate from kinship ties, and each family has interests in specific areas that crosscut the federally recognized communities (SN5). Another issue with governance involves the differing approaches between the diverse communities. For example, Southern St’át’imc communities affiliated with the In-SHUCK-ch Nation participated in the Sea-to-Sky Land and Resource Management Plan process, which had negative consequences on SCC goals because it undermined overall St’át’imc unity (SN1). Although the long-term goal is still to have the entire nation involved, the Tribal Code and other initiatives may have to move ahead only among the Northern St’át’imc (SN1; SN21).

At the same time, some consider the SLRA as the forum to work out the tensions within and between communities, eventually leading to the resumption of building a unified heritage framework (SN1). The SLRA system supports a family centred approach, since each referral is brought to all of the communities, whereupon each family identifies their interest in specific areas (SN5). Even so, this concept works better in some communities than in other (SN5), and it has led to some tensions between traditional and elected leaders (SN21). Moreover, it has been weakened by a lack of funding (SN5; SN21), creating uncertainty about the resources available to maintain the process (SN13).

A number of St’át’imc consultants were clear on the next steps necessary for acting on heritage stewardship. First and foremost, a governance structure needs to be in place that can support and enforce nation-wide instruments (SN1; SN21). Next, the

SLRA, Elders and traditional leadership need to revisit and refine the draft heritage policy (SN4; SN16; SN21), and this policy needs to be aligned with the draft LUP, without changing the basic heritage assessment process developed by the LTC (SN4).

The St’át’imc consultants also had clear ideas in terms of the specific content of the heritage policy. From their perspective, the policy should:

• Identify who has authority to negotiate decisions, with a clear process for

“signing off” on management decisions (SN9).

• Avoid community boundaries, as this creates problems with decision-making; decisions should be made by as a nation (SN9).

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• Address cooperation with neighbouring groups, in order to avoid territorial disputes (SN9).

• Apply to developments in all resource industries, including mining and independent power projects (SN8; SN18).

• Address the relationship of heritage to tourism, both in how tourism can be incorporated into heritage stewardship, as well as how tourism impacts heritage (SN14; SN19).

• Facilitate inventories of past and ongoing impacts to sites and areas, and address compensation following the example of the BC Hydro negotiations

(SN2).

• Promote research, repatriation, and new technology (SN8; SN10; SN13),

• Facilitate development of a St’át’imc repository and research facility (SN2;

SN10, SN13). A facility or museum is an important goal, and Northern

St’át’imc communities have been struggling for years to establish one (SN10).

• Include a Nation-based permitting system, implemented through the Tribal

Code and administered by the SLRA (SN2).

St’át’imc consulted in this study were also adamant that the heritage policy and any associated permit system should apply equally to everyone–St’át’imc and non-

St’át’imc–and that it should pertain to developments on all lands within their traditional territory (SN1; SN2; SN4; SN6; SN8; SN13; SN14; SN15; SN18). The same level of protection and management has not always been implemented on reserves, but this needs to be addressed (SN1; SN8; SN15). Up until the present, the focus has been on developments and referrals occurring off reserve, and the St’át’imc have not yet attempted to work out an on reserve process coordinated with the federal department of

Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development (SN1). In order to maintain the integrity of the process, there should be a single process for the entire territory (SN2), and the same rules should affect everyone: “if we expect our neighbours to respect the St’át’imc LUP off-reserve, then the same rules should apply on-reserve” (SN4). Likewise, the St’át’imc heritage policy and permit system should deal with academic research, in addition to assessments related to development projects (SN1; SN2; SN4; SN6; SN13; SN15;

SN18). Research results will be useful for advancing the heritage policy (SN13), but despite the beneficial aspects of this information it does not come without costs (SN4).

Nonetheless, at least one St’át’imc consultant felt that the associated communities should take the lead on negotiations related to research projects (SN2).

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Other major steps involve determining where a heritage stewardship program should reside within the St’át’imc governance structure, and how the program should be implemented within this structure. In particular, leadership must define its role in the heritage process by devising the codes and policies that will guide them (SN1).

However, St’át’imc consulted in this study were divided on whether heritage stewardship should be undertaken at the community or nation level. For some, heritage teams at the community level are the best alternative because that is where capacity now resides

(SN5; SN11). Likewise, grassroots recommendations also may be stronger because of local knowledge (SN6). Even so, a central role for the LTC should be facilitating and coordinating a heritage information database, and as such all communities would be expected to share their results and decisions (SN6). Heritage stewardship has worked to an extent at the community level, largely because of capacity and mentoring from the

LTC (SN1).

On the other hand, many felt that a heritage stewardship program would work best on a centralized basis, whether affiliated with the LTC or as a separate organization or business (SN1; SN3; SN4; SN12). One option suggested by the consultants envisioned a core group of researchers at the LTC, with local community members joining it when the team worked in each community (SN3). Another would see full-time natural resource officers with heritage responsibilities operating out of the LTC, with satellite offices in each of the communities (SN3). These officers could also monitor and follow up on recommendations, and audit forestry operations relating to heritage (SN3).

Under these scenarios, the heritage department would exist under the authority of the

SLRA and subject to the Tribal Code and heritage policy (SN4; SN5). A central heritage department would provide a service, and would not make or facilitate management decisions (SN3; SN4). Instead, information and results would be passed on to a decision-making entity made up of community representatives (SN4).

In whatever fashion the heritage department is organized, there has to be full involvement from St’át’imc (SN14), especially youth and elders. Young people need to be schooled in St’át’imc history by the Elders who posses this knowledge (SN8).

Although input from Elders is needed, ultimately young people will inherit stewardship duties (SN15). As such, they need encouragement to become involved, interested, and educated (SN8; SN10). Moreover, the St’át’imc themselves should be doing the work, and community members need to become archaeologists, with appropriate training in

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methods and post-secondary education (SN8; SN11; SN12; SN16; SN20). The workplan developed in the BC Hydro negotiations is one approach that will hopefully draw young people into the field, where they can become knowledgeable and competent researchers

(SN16). These individuals need to chose to do the work, and they also need to be in good shape, capable of hard work, and willing to go anywhere they are needed (SN12).

The team needs good, apolitical leadership, and an established crew that works well together (SN12).

In addition to the themes of governance, consistent policy, community involvement, and training, the St’át’imc consulted in this study also highlighted two major conceptual differences between St’át’imc heritage stewardship and current practice under the provincial system. First, they envision heritage stewardship practiced on a landscape scale, where integrity of the context is as important as that of sites and places

(SN2; SN16). Like the “blank map” planning process envisioned for forestry and in the

St’át’imc LUP, heritage assessments would look at the larger area first, in order to decide what is off limits (SN3). Second, the St’át’imc envision heritage stewardship to be practiced in a holistic, ecosystem-based manner whereby heritage is assessed in the context of a broad range of values, such as water quality and wildlife (SN3). These perspectives were evident in the processes and practices developed by the LTC cultural heritage team. More important, they are reflected in the St’át’imc LUP, which designates the entire territory as worthy of cultural protection.

In summary, the St’át’imc consulted in this study envisioned the future of

St’át’imc heritage stewardship to be closely linked to nation-based governance with a high level of community input and control. St’át’imc heritage stewardship would be consistent with a tribal code, a land-use plan, and a heritage policy adopted by the nation as a whole, with heritage stewardship practiced under the authority or oversight of the St’át’imc Land and Resource Authority or similar agency. The heritage policy should be in force throughout their territory, apply equally on and off reserve, and should govern assessment and research projects alike. The policy would have provisions for repatriation and research, as well as mitigation and compensation for past impacts. The heritage policy and process should also emphasize the involvement of Elders, and facilitate training and education for youth. Finally, the epistemological basis of St’át’imc heritage stewardship fundamentally stems from a holistic, landscape-based perspective.

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Reconciling Archaeology and Indigenous Authority

Things are always changing, and each generation will have different views. But the way things are going, in 50 years there will be no place left untouched by roads, industry and recreation. We have to recognize that when all the resources are gone, the only future industry will be based on

St’át’imc heritage. Our children and grandchildren will have to decide how things are done in the future. [Marie Barney, in Barney and Klassen 2008]

In its efforts to assert sovereignty over archaeology and heritage, the St’át’imc

Nation has encountered challenges and setbacks, and it has been required to make sacrifices and compromises (SN16). Even so, the St’át’imc consulted in this study were confident that significant progress has been made (SN16). Numerous sites and areas have been protected through the efforts of the St’át’imc (SN11; SN14), and they were generally optimistic about the future of St’át’imc heritage stewardship (SN8; SN10;

SN11; SN12; SN15). There is now a better understanding of the existing and evolving heritage stewardship paradigm by both the St’át’imc and industry (SN12; SN13; SN16), while the communities have also gained considerable experience (SN11). It has created a collective awareness of St’át’imc identity and territory, and has helped undermine the colonial process of “divide and rule” (SN13). One individual lamented the losses they have incurred over the past 50 years, and wished such initiatives had existed for more than the last decade or two (SN8). In this milieu, reconciling archaeology with aspirations for St’át’imc authority is seen not only as achievable but desirable.

The Place of Archaeologists

The St’át’imc consulted in this study were generally positive about the contributions of archaeologists to their communities and heritage. Throughout the evolving stewardship process, archaeologists have played an important role (SN10).

However, when their heritage policy is eventually adopted, the St’át’imc Nation will have to consider whether or how to include professional archaeologists. Some St’át’imc feel that involving an outside archaeologist perpetuates a colonial relationship (SN13), and certainly some may not respect St’át’imc authority or perspectives (SN16). Of course, the ideal would be that the St’át’imc themselves become the archaeologists, but the

St’át’imc are still some years away from developing that internal capacity (SN8; SN11;

SN20). Although they challenge the notion that archaeologists have a privileged role, they recognize that they are part of the process (SN4). As such, the St’át’imc consultants

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overwhelmingly agreed that there is a continuing place for outside archaeologists in

St’át’imc heritage stewardship (SN4; SN6; SN8; SN10; SN11; SN12; SN14; SN15;

SN16):

When the opportunity to participate in the archaeological impact assessment process first arose almost fifteen years ago, our first reaction was to say no. But after we had more comfort in knowing we had a voice, there was more willingness to meet half way, even though our stand didn’t soften. There is always a place for archaeologists and consultants; we are not closing the door, but they have to work for the Nation, and they can’t be in control. We are now sitting at the boardroom table, with the province and with industry, and we are demanding that our voice is heard. [Marie Barney, Barney and Klassen 2008]

The technical and academic knowledge of archaeologists, and their authority in the context of the provincial system, have been and continue to be beneficial to the

St’át’imc (SN8; SN11; SN12; SN15). They help set standards for field notes, mapping, reporting, and organization (SN6), provide valuable feedback on management issues, protocols and policies that support the goals of the St’át’imc (SN1; SN6), and have helped to broaden their understanding of their heritage (SN13; SN14; SN15). Without their knowledge and training, the St’át’imc would not have accomplished nearly as much as they have over the past fifteen years (SN8; SN11). Although their focus tends to be

“site-specific,” archaeologists have helped to protect a wide range of St’át’imc heritage

(SN9; SN15). Without their involvement, the only other recourse in many cases would have been roadblocks and conflict (SN15).

Of course, relationships with archaeologists were not universally positive. Some archaeologists were reluctant to follow the process established by the Lillooet Tribal

Council (SN3), and even those that did accept it rarely seemed to actively promote it as a superior approach (SN4). Archaeologists also tend to follow a linear step-by-step process that is often at odds with the more reflexive and holistic approach that First

Nations find more suitable (SN3). Nonetheless, the St’át’imc feel they have benefited overall from their relationship with archaeologists and that they have learned from them, even if reliance on outside professionals sometimes grates against their assertions of sovereignty. On the other hand, it is certain that archaeologists have also learned from the St’át’imc, and the discipline has benefited from this relationship.

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Implications for Archaeological Practice

This St’át’imc case study is instructive for archaeologists and the discipline for several reasons. First, it gives an indication of the form an emerging community-based or indigenous archaeologies may develop in British Columbia, mirroring developments elsewhere. Second, it suggests how these archaeologies may integrate, as well as conflict, with existing and evolving archaeological practice in general, and “cultural resource management” in particular. Last, it gives us a glimpse of future trends that ultimately may influence or change the nature of the discipline. Yet, St’át’imc heritage stewardship is at present primarily pragmatic and political in nature. The issues raised through St’át’imc heritage stewardship are less about ontology and theory, and more about methods, process and protocols, epistemology, and authority.

By making archaeological practice fit their own needs and objectives, they have exerted an influence on: the criteria used in archaeological overviews, sampling and survey coverage strategies, the incorporation of traditional and local knowledge, the range of site types considered, and the selection of appropriate management and mitigation options. They have also had an impact on: the level of contact and consultation with communities, respect for St’át’imc values and protocols, opportunities for community review and comment on results and recommendations, the participation of Elders and community members in fieldwork, and training and capacity building.

These requirements are now standard practice in St’át’imc territory, and parallel the model of indigenous heritage stewardship in place throughout much of the province and elsewhere (Klassen et al. 2009). On the other hand, differences between St’át’imc and conventional archaeological practice that are epistemological in nature are perhaps more difficult to resolve, because they question the scope of heritage, our understandings of archaeological meaning, and arbitrarily assigned values and significance. An example of this dilemma, for instance, is testing the veracity of Elders’ testimony against physical evidence (or the lack thereof). Other issues involve the tension between tangible and intangible heritage, material evidence and contextual evidence, and site-specific heritage and landscape.

Of course, the paramount goal has been the assertion of St’át’imc moral and political authority over heritage stewardship and the practice of archaeology in their territory. Among the steps taken in this regard are: protocol agreements with industry, holding contracts directly with proponents, influencing the selection of consultants, and

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directing archaeologists to identify and record a broader range of heritage. This has wrested a corresponding degree of control over the assessment process away from the profession and reduced the role of the Archaeology Branch in dictating how and when archaeology is undertaken. The St’át’imc position is that authorization for archaeological work in St’át’imc territory must come from local leadership, and not from provincial regulations (SN1). Indeed, resolving the issues of Indigenous title and rights would remove the obstacle that continues to thwart the development of St’át’imc heritage stewardship. Until the province recognizes St’át’imc sovereignty, it will remain impossible for them to exercise full authority over archaeology and heritage (SN18; SN21).

The St’át’imc perspectives and practices described above correspond with many typical characteristics of community-based practice, but they also parallel the emerging global phenomenon of Indigenous archaeology.

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Critics of Indigenous archaeology tend to focus on the canard that this approach is “anti-science”–for example, the belief that the incorporation of traditional knowledge and ideology taints the purity of objective observation and thwarts rational explanations (e.g., Mason 2000; McGhee 2008), particularly in the treatment of ancestral remains and their repatriation. In this case study, respect for the ancestors and concerns about disturbing their remains were certainly expressed, but this concern never translated into a generalized prohibition against archaeological practice, or a disdain for scientific archaeology. In fact, the opposite is true; the St’át’imc involved in this study display considerable interest in conventional methods and practice, and show regard for those archaeologists that respect the St’át’imc and their heritage.

Given their proximal interest in their own local history, there is little concern among the study participants for the debates over indigenous archaeology, the peopling of the Americas, scientific vs. traditional epistemology, or excavating and analyzing human remains. Appropriating the methods of archaeology is not ontological in nature, but rather political action. In the context of land claims and indigenous title, St’át’imc priorities are reclaiming identity, showing that their occupation of their land has great time depth, and demonstrating that they have a right to control their own history and heritage. Indeed, a primary political motivation is to demonstrate that the St’át’imc were present at the time of the assertion of Crown sovereignty in 1846, as the archaeological

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However, the St’át’imc do not use these terms to describe their approach, instead characterizing their practice as nation-based heritage stewardship.

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record can help prove their title under current legal precedents. St’át’imc archaeology stresses the imperatives of respect, participation, control, and sovereignty, and thus it fits the characterization of Indigenous archaeology as a political creation, as opposed to a theoretical construction.

St’át’imc heritage stewardship reached an important milestone when, after fifteen years of negotiations, the SCC signed a final compensation agreement with BC Hydro in

2010. The following April, members of all eleven St’át’imc communities voted in favour of the St’át’imc Hydro Agreement. It “covers all past, present and future impacts, grievances and claims of the St’át’imc related to the planning, placement, construction and ongoing operation of existing BC Hydro facilities within our territory” (St'át'imc Chiefs

Council 2011b). In addition to financial compensation, it incorporates a heritage plan

“that will help fix Hydro’s impacts on our heritage and culture and ensure that there are no additional impacts” (St'át'imc Chiefs Council 2011b), and laid the framework for an implementation entity called St’át’imc Government Services (SGS). Since ratification of the agreement, SGS has retained an archaeologist as an in-house heritage and culture director, and hired heritage technicians to implement the heritage plan. Although primarily intended to address issues relating to BC Hydro, the agreement provides a new opportunity for developing a nation-wide approach to heritage stewardship.

Chapter Summary: From Practice to Power

Through their engagement with archaeology and archaeologists, the St’át’imc have become an influential participant in the heritage stewardship process. They have developed greater heritage stewardship awareness, knowledge and capacity. The importance of Elders, local knowledge, and St’át’imc traditions for effective heritage stewardship has been demonstrated. They have successfully challenged simplistic archaeological assessments, and through their fieldwork they have identified a greater density and distribution of archaeological and heritage sites. Moreover, the range of sites and heritage that is considered and managed in St’át’imc territory has been considerably broadened, while the importance of context and landscape in heritage stewardship has been emphasized.

Most important, the St’át’imc have successfully asserted greater control over the heritage stewardship process, with a dramatic increase in participation and authority.

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Although the form and effectiveness of heritage stewardship in St’át’imc territory has varied in the last few years, the promise and potential for implementing successful initiatives at the nation-wide level is great. In the end, the full impact of St’át’imc archaeological practice and heritage stewardship may not rest in what it has achieved thus far, but rather in what it may yet accomplish. In the next two chapters, I discuss a second example of Indigenous heritage stewardship in the mid-Fraser region that is comparable to the St’át’imc experience, but also distinct in its particulars.

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Chapter 6.

The Nlaka’pamux Nation and Archaeology

Our ancestors told us that if the Stein was destroyed, it would be the end of the Nlaka’pamux way of life.

Ruby Dunstan, Lytton, 2010

Like their St’át’imc neighbours to the north, the Nlaka’pamux have had a prolonged exposure to archaeologists, beginning with the earliest “scientific archaeology” in the interior of the province during the late nineteenth century.

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Although at first largely disenfranchised from archaeology, by the 1980s the Nlaka’pamux recognized archaeology was a useful political tool for addressing issues relating to Indigenous title and rights. Nlaka’pamux communities and organizations then began using archaeological research to further their own interests, often by hiring outsiders to conduct studies that countered those of industry proponents and the province.

Nlaka’pamux communities were not directly involved in the practice of cultural resource management (CRM) archaeology, so the actual work was largely left to consulting firms.

Since 2005, the Nlaka’pamux have begun to incorporate archaeology directly into their land and resource consultations and negotiations, and to demonstrate familiarity with the aims and methods of modern archaeology and CRM. A nation-wide heritage law is currently in preparation, and Nlaka’pamux communities are actively involved in the

CRM process. Even so, they retain an indigenous perspective on heritage that differs in fundamental respects from conventional archaeological practice and the provincial regulatory structure, while at the same time corresponding closely to that of their

St’át’imc neighbours. And like the St’át’imc, their worldview directly informs their approach to heritage stewardship and their relationship with archaeologists and government heritage managers. Moreover, archaeology and heritage stewardship are

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See Chapter 1 for a description of the the bands and communities that make up the

Nlaka’pamux Nation.

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seen as inherently connected to indigenous title and rights. The relationship between archaeological practice and the Nlaka’pamux is best understood in the context of efforts to reassert authority and sovereignty.

In this chapter, I describe the historical and contemporary relationships of the

Nlaka’pamux with archaeology and heritage stewardship, based on research with eight communities affiliated with the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (Figure 11). This narrative provides an interesting counterpoint to the St’át’imc experience outlined in

Chapter 4. In the St’át’imc instance, their initial exposure to archaeology was relatively recent and generally positive, and was predominantly in the context of academic research. This introduction to archaeological objectives and methods led to their direct involvement in CRM and encouraged more frequent collaboration with archaeologists. In contrast, the Nlaka’pamux had a much earlier and more negative experience with the discipline, and more recently have interacted with archaeologists in a predominantly development-oriented setting. This may have contributed to a more confrontational relationship with CRM, and a greater focus on landscape stewardship as opposed to heritage management. Despite these differences, the contemporary perspectives of both nations are remarkably consistent in terms of the value and limitations of archaeology, and the benefits and challenges of heritage stewardship.

I begin the chapter with a brief overview of the Nlaka’pamux encounter with archaeology from the late 1800s until the 1980s, presented within a political, historical, and social context, and primarily based on published literature. This is followed by a description of the specific events and issues leading them into direct conflict with the use of archaeology in the context of CRM, proposed developments, land claims, and landscape protection during the 1980s and 1990s. This section is supplemented with archival materials held by the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (NNTC) and information provided by staff at the tribal council. This chapter ends with a brief overview of the present transformation of Nlaka’pamux engagement with archaeology, which serves as an introduction for the case study found in the next chapter.

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Figure 11. Nlaka'pamux communities (red dots) on the Fraser River affiliated with the Nlaka'pamux Nation Tribal Council (map base courtesy Hope

Mountain Centre for Outdoor Learning).

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Looting and Collecting (1877–1927)

In British Columbia, the collecting of ethnological and archaeological curiosities commenced with the fur trade (Cole 1985), but the “scientific” collection of Indigenous artifacts and ancestral remains began in the 1870s (Killan 1998; Noble 1972). In 1875, the Geological Survey of Canada sent the geologist George M. Dawson to British

Columbia to carry out geological exploration during the mapping of the new province. His mandate included the collection of ethnological and archaeological data and materials from what was then perceived as the vanishing Indigenous peoples of the West (Cole and Lockner 1989a:18). In the 20 years prior to his visit, Nlaka’pamux society had suffered from a series of calamitous events, beginning with the Fraser River gold rush and “canyon war” of 1858, followed by the subsequent imposition of colonial rule and the devastating smallpox epidemics of the 1860s, and culminating with their forced settlement on small reserves (Harris 1992, 2002; Harris 1995; Laforet and York 1998; D.

P. Marshall 2002; Teit 1900, 1912). To outsiders, the people they called the Thompson

Indians appeared to be doomed.

On his second journey through the interior of British Columbia, Dawson stopped briefly in the frontier town of Lytton in May of 1876, where he found “Indian Remains” on the banks of the Thompson River (Cole and Lockner 1989b:191-192), although whether he collected any materials is unclear. He returned to Lytton on September 25, 1877 and in his journal he wrote:

[I] went across to point between Fraser & Thompson to see reported

Indian burial place, which told by Mr. Good & the Indians so ancient that those living know nothing about it, & do not even appear to Count the dead there as their friends. Find a wonderful display of bones and implements. Gather a large number of the latter, & return to Lytton. After getting packs off, go quietly with Douglas & appropriate seven skulls, the best we could find without excavation. Carry them back in a gunny sack & pack the whole collection in a couple of boxes for Victoria. [Cole and

Lockner 1989b:406-7]

Dawson obtained information about the site from Nlaka’pamux informants, although he suggests that they disavowed any connection with the “ancient” burials. He may have used this denial as ethical justification for the “appropriation” of the skulls, but his choice of words and the fact that he returned “quietly” to the site to undertake the collection suggests that he was aware that the Nlaka’pamux would object to the

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disturbance of these ancestral remains. Dawson’s furtive looting may have also been partly in response to the prohibitions of the colonial-era Indian Graves Ordinance, in force since 1865, however unlikely that any official in frontier Lytton would have felt compelled to enforce this law. Dawson hoped his admittedly unsystematic ethnological observations and archaeological collections, described in subsequent publications, would serve “as a useful contribution to the knowledge of the ethnography of the region” and assist future investigations (Dawson 1887, 1891:3).

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Within this ethos, the benefits of archaeology for the Nlaka’pamux people were elusive. Certainly they had little say in how or where archaeological collecting was done, much less if it should occur at all.

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Some ten years later, in September of 1887, the German botanist Carl A. Purpus revisited the Lytton burial site:

Shortly after we climbed up the sand dune covered banks of the two rivers, we came to an old Indian graveyard, covered with wind borne sand and surmounted by a lonely pine tree. The very same [graveyard] was ransacked by antiquity collectors, and skulls and bones were scattered everywhere, a sad picture of earthly transience. Amongst the bones, I found a couple of flattened copper pieces, covered with verdigris, and a pointed instrument made of bone, which is still used by Indians for the preparation of their elaborate baskets made from the bast of red cedar

(Thuja gigantean). [Purpus 1892a:393]

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His dismay and romantic sentiments contrast with the extant public attitude about indigenous antiquities. Indeed, a lengthy period of looting followed Dawson’s visit, perhaps accelerated by the arrival of the Canadian Pacific Railway in Lytton in 1884.

Purpus made an additional important contribution to the archaeological knowledge of the region by making the earliest published reference to local pictographs (Purpus

1892b:254).

In July of 1888, during his first expedition sponsored by the British Association for the Advancement of Science (BAAS), Franz Boas stopped briefly in Lytton with the intention of gathering a vocabulary and old stories (Rohner 1969). Finding that he had little luck collecting ethnographic material, Boas spent his spare time collecting

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Dawson’s collection, housed at the Museum of the Geological Survey of Canada, was later described and illustrated by Harlan I. Smith (1913).

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Dawson briefly returned to Lytton in 1888, at which time he travelled a short distance up the

Stein valley and attempted to climb Stein Mountain, but there is no evidence that he made additional collections on this trip.

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Translated from German by Ursula Arndt.

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specimens.

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In his diary for July 13, 1888, he wrote: “At seven this morning I breakfasted and then went in search of a suitable Indian. After some trouble I found one.

Before that I visited all the graveyards and gathered a few bones, but nothing of great value. I also found a bone dagger and a stone hammer” (Rohner 1969:99).

Like many other educated people in the late nineteenth century, Boas was convinced that the cultures and languages of Indigenous peoples were rapidly facing extinction, and indeed the people themselves were in danger of vanishing (Boas 1889,

1902). For Boas, collecting ancestral remains and artifacts was thus a scientific necessity in order to answer anthropological questions about human and cultural origins

(Cole 1985). In particular, Boas was interested in the earliest history of Indigenous peoples in North America and their relationship to the peoples of Asia (Boas 1903:73,

1910). He believed that coastal cultures had diffused from Asia through the mid-Fraser, and “it would be exceedingly interesting to obtain prehistoric skulls from this area” (Boas quoted in Carlson 2005:138). Boas promoted an early interest in the archaeology of

British Columbia, and encouraged archaeological collecting, with a particular emphasis on ancestral remains and grave goods from archaeological burials. He was keenly aware of the finite and imperilled nature of archaeological sites and artifacts, and advocated for their preservation and collection. This was an imperative, as the “once abundant material of old native crania and skeletons lying scattered all over the province is becoming more and more scarce as it decays” (Boas 1889:235). Although Boas lamented that “it is most unpleasant work to steal bones from a grave,” it still had to be done for the greater scientific good (Cole 1985:119; Rohner 1969:88).

Throughout the late 1800s, private collectors, including the Lytton Indian Agent

J.W. McKay, continued to scour sites in the Lytton area for human remains and artifacts.

Materials taken during “casual visits to the old burial-place near Lytton” were housed in the Provincial Museum at Victoria, the Royal Ethnographic Museum in Berlin, and the

Geological Survey of Canada, as well as in “various private cabinets of antiquities” in

British Columbia (Smith 1899b:129, 1913). One of the most prolific private collectors was

Charles Hill-Tout, a schoolmaster with a strong interest in ethnology and archaeology. In perhaps the first treatise on British Columbia archaeology (Noble 1972), Hill-Tout refers

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The Lytton artifacts collected by Boas were deposited with the Geological Survey of Canada in 1889 (see Lepofsky and Arnett 1988).

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to his collection of arrow and spear points, as well as jade pieces, “taken from the Lytton burial heaps” (Hill-Tout 1895:113).

On Boas’ fifth research expedition to British Columbia on behalf of the BAAS in

1894, he met James Teit at Spences Bridge on the Thompson River (Rohner 1969:140).

This fortuitous meeting initiated a research partnership that lasted until Teit’s death in

1922 (Boas 1923). Teit had lived in Spences Bridge since 1884, was married to a

Nlaka’pamux women, Susannah Lucy Antko, and had become fluent in the Nlaka’pamux language. Through his close association with the Nlaka’pamux, Teit had developed a scholarly interest in indigenous cultures that was encouraged and fostered by Boas

(Thompson 2007:17; Wickwire 1998). In addition to assisting Boas on research trips to the area, Teit also amassed a large collection of ethnological and archaeological objects from the region between 1895 and 1905 for the American Museum of Natural History. A significant contribution that Teit made was a detailed “ethnoarchaeological” description of stone tool manufacture, pithouse and lodge construction, pictograph, ethnobotany, and burial customs (Teit 1896, 1900, 1930). He recognized the relationship of contemporary and archaeological features and artifacts, and, unlike prevailing archaeological research of the time, saw the value in observing and interviewing

Indigenous peoples in terms of understanding the archaeological past. For the remainder of Boas’ field research, Teit acted as a much-needed local contact with the

Nlaka’pamux.

In March 1897, Boas launched the Jesup North Pacific Expedition for the

American Museum of Natural History, an ambitious archaeological and anthropological investigation of ethnological relationships between Siberia and the Northwest Coast

(Cole 1985:147). In the British Columbia interior, the archaeological work was entrusted to Harlan I. Smith, a staff archaeologist of the American Museum of Natural History. At

Spences Bridge, Smith spent a week photographing pictographs, “prospecting” in housepits, and excavating a single grave (Carlson 2005:141-142). Teit originally discovered this grave, and collected some artifacts after “digging into it” (Smith

1900:434). Some Nlaka’pamux assisted Smith as he excavated this grave, “which had been unknown to them,” but they did not wish him to “explore” numerous other nearby graves (Smith 1900). After a stint in Kamloops, where he encountered resistance to his grave digging from the local Secwepemc (Carlson 2005; Smith 1898), Smith travelled downriver to Lytton on July 4, where John J. Oakes and Charles Hill-Tout joined him.

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The latter assisted him for two or three weeks, probably as a volunteer (Maud 1978:15).

Over the next 18 days, Smith and his colleagues collected enough material to fill 33 boxes–29 filled with “antiquities” (artifacts and human remains) from housepit and burial sites, three filled with grave posts, and another containing ethnological specimens

(Carlson 2005:149; Lepofsky and Arnett 1988; Smith 1899b).

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Most of Smith’s investigations and collecting around Lytton took place at the large burial site on the north side of the confluence of the Fraser and Thompson rivers, which Smith considered “by far the most important site near Lytton” (1899:130). He described the site as a “well-known burial place where most of the remains have been disturbed by curiosity seekers” (quoted in Carlson 2005:149-150). Local men (likely

Nlaka’pamux) assisted Smith, but he did most of the digging himself as he found the workers to be expensive and hired as few as possible (Carlson 2005:149). Smith and

Oakes also made the first “scientific” investigation of the Stein pictographs, visiting three sites and making drawings and taking photographs of the paintings. Smith was led to these sites by a Nlaka’pamux guide named Jimmie (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988), although in a letter dated July 11 he complained that his “pack Indian” wanted too much money and food in return for his services (see Carlson 2005:149).

Like his experience at Kamloops, Smith also encountered resistance among the

Nlaka’pamux. In a letter from Lytton dated July 11, 1897 Smith states that “Both here and at Kamloops the site of work is on Indian reserves–at both places I was welcome to take stone, shell etc. but refused human bones” (quoted in Carlson 2005:145). At

Kamloops, this issue was at least partially resolved through a council meeting, but Smith never indicates if the issue was discussed or resolved at Lytton. Years later, he wrote:

In the same way that we desire to cling to the property of our ancestors, so the Indians reverence and guard the land of their forefathers. It was sometimes difficult to persuade the Indians who owned the land where most of the explorations were conducted to allow the work to be carried on. But when the purpose of the investigation was explained to them, some of the Indians highly appreciated the work… [Smith 1913:4]

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This review of Smith’s work in the Lytton area was aided by reference to copies of his notes and correspondence on file at the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council, Lytton, B.C. The provenance of the originals of these notes and letters are not always recorded in this collection. However, many of these letters are also cited and quoted extensively in Lepofsky and Arnett (1988) and Carlson (2005). Wherever possible the latter source is cited in order to permit readers access to information on the original source.

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Whether Smith successfully persuaded the Nlaka’pamux at Lytton to appreciate the disinterment of their ancestors is unknown, but in any case he was undeterred by their opinions. In a letter to Boas in mid-September, Smith confided that the Indian Agent from Westminster told him that “every Indian Agent here received notice that there was a liability of parties digging in Indian grave yards and to look out for them as it was against the law,” and the agents had been instructed to “warn the Indians & instruct them on the law” (quoted in Carlson 2005:152).

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As his future actions would indicate, Smith apparently felt comfortable that this law did not apply to his efforts.

During the 1898 season of the Jesup North Pacific Expedition, Smith stopped briefly in Kamloops, Spence’s Bridge, and Lytton. His interior fieldwork consisted mainly of “ethnographic collecting, photography of earth-houses, and re-checking of the areas he had excavated in the previous year, with some limited surface collecting and excavation in a pithouse at Spence’s Bridge,” the latter with the assistance of Teit

(Carlson 2005:156). More importantly, Teit read and commented on Smith’s draft paper on the archaeology of Lytton, and requested copies of the illustrations “in order that he may inform us of what he knows of them & enquire about them of Indians before we publish any of them” (quoted in Carlson 2005:155). In late September of 1899, Smith returned to the interior, where he and Teit spent two weeks in the Nicola valley above

Spence’s Bridge. Although much of his time was spent taking photographs, he and Teit also collected numerous skeletons and artifacts from talus burials. During this trip Smith was also able to review the artifact illustrations in his draft monograph with several

Nlaka’pamux elders (Smith 1900:440). According to Smith, “nearly all doubtful points

[were] explained” by information from these elders (quoted in Carlson 2005:160).

Although this information came too late to include in his Lytton memoir, he incorporated it in his subsequent paper on the archaeology of Spences Bridge and Kamloops (Smith

1900:440). On October 7, Smith left for Michigan, never to return to the interior of British

Columbia.

In a subsequent ethnographic report on the Nlaka’pamux for the BAAS, Hill-Tout again references his large collection of artifacts from Lytton, and notes that some of his artifacts were sent to the Provincial Museum in Victoria and the Geological Survey in

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It is unclear which law the Indian Agent from Westminster was referring to, as the federal government had repealed the pre-confederation Indian Graves Ordinance of 1867 in 1886

(although it may have still been on the books with the province) (Apland 1993:3).

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Ottawa (see Newcombe 1909:63; Smith 1899a:20).

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Like Teit and Smith, Hill-Tout recognized the applicability of traditional knowledge and ethnographic analogy in the interpretation of material culture. He relied on Nlaka’pamux informants for insights into the manufacture and function of what we would now consider to be archaeological artifacts and features, including housepits and the Stein pictographs.

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In particular, Hill-

Tout acknowledged the contribution of Chief Mischelle (or Machelle) whom he met in

Lytton around 1898.

Of all the late nineteenth century collectors, Smith had the greatest impact on the relationship of the Nlaka’pamux to archaeologists. His excavations differed little from that of looters, with the only favourable distinction being that the artifacts were recorded and housed in public institutions (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988:5). Some credit Smith with introducing the “first systematic archaeological fieldwork in southern British Columbia”

(Carlson 2005:134; see also Noble 1972:31). Smith also involved Indigenous peoples in fieldwork and interpretation to a greater degree than had occurred in the past. He recognized their interests and knowledge, men from the communities were hired as labourers (although he minimized this wherever he could), and before excavating burials on reserves he actively sought the permission of those communities. Smith also recognized that there was a cultural and historical connection between the archaeological record and living Indigenous peoples, and recognized the value of their knowledge for understanding and interpreting material culture and features. Notably, he acknowledged the contribution of his informants (see Smith 1900).

Some argue that Smith found his own actions “ethically problematic” (Carlson

2005), but his fieldnotes suggest that he was not overly perturbed. Even by the standards of the times he was complicit in the morally and legally questionable tactics of collecting human remains. His letters and fieldnotes make clear that he knew his actions were of doubtful legality, and he was well aware that Indigenous peoples generally opposed the excavation of burials. In some cases, Nlaka’pamux representatives appeared ambivalent about permitting graves to be disturbed, while in other cases explicit permission to excavate graves was given, albeit with restrictions. However,

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Smith (1913) later illustrated and described at least ten artifacts from Lytton and vicinity donated by Hill-Tout to the Museum of the Geological Survey of Canada.

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It is not clear from Hill-Tout’s report when he visited the Stein pictographs, but it may have been as early as 1894 in the company of James Teit (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988).

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Smith took active steps to avoid full disclosure of his activities, and his notes give the impression of relief that he got away with this deception. Even where permission from the appropriate community was sought or obtained, their wishes were not always fully respected. Although under intense pressure from Boas to collect as many skulls as possible, Smith furthered his own interests with his burial excavations, which yielded abundant and significant material culture intrinsic to his research. Despite the knowledge that their actions were questionable, Boas and Smith were swayed by their own scientific imperative and driven by the competition for developing impressive museum exhibits, all the time certain that they were salvaging the remains of a dying race.

After Smith’s departure from the interior, collecting persisted at archaeological sites in the mid-Fraser region (see Newcombe 1909:62). Notably, sometime before 1909 the compulsive and entrepreneurial collector Lt. George T. Emmons acquired a number of artifacts from Lytton that he later sold as part of larger Northwest collections to the philanthropist George G. Heye and to the Washington State Museum (now the Burke

Museum).

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Emmons may have travelled to Lytton specifically to collect jade artifacts, which he would have been aware of from Dawson’s earlier publication on the subject

(Dawson 1887). A comment on one of the Burke catalogue record notes that the “people of the present day have little or no knowledge of this art or manufacture,”

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but there is no evidence that Emmons had any contact with the Nlaka’pamux while at Lytton, much less sought their permission or knowledge.

James Teit continued to send material each year to New York and Ottawa right up until his death in 1922, but after the turn of the century “scientific collecting” declined throughout British Columbia, partly due to the decreased market among museums, as well as the diminished supply of objects (Cole 1985:212, 244). As their social and economic condition worsened after the turn of the century, the Nlaka’pamux and their neighbours began to organize themselves politically, assert claims to title, and exercise their rights (Tennant 1990:85). Interior Salish nations were among the most outspoken as they felt the most impact from the effects of settlement. Pressures on Nlaka’pamux

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Heye eventually established a private foundation to house his collections. Originally the

Museum of the American Indian in New York, it is now the National Museum of the American

Museum (Smithsonian Institute), in Washington, D.C. The Washington State Museum is now the Burke Museum, at the University of Washington in Seattle.

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Burke Museum catalogue record on file at the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council, Lytton,

B.C.

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heritage also increased. For example, in a series of letters to Harlan Smith, who became head of the archaeology division at the Geological Survey of Canada in 1911, Teit described how construction of the Canadian Northern Railway (CNoR) had disturbed old burial sites and how construction workers were taking artifacts away.

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In the end, Teit shipped a number of boxes of ancestral remains to Ottawa, but his correspondence with

Smith suggests that he was less upset by the actual impacts to the burials themselves than he was concerned that the skulls and bones were being lost to “science.” Teit’s response to the CNoR impacts is significant in that it was an example of “salvage archaeology,” long before the concept was articulated.

Over the next years, the interior tribes continued to lobby the federal government, but in April of 1927 the government unanimously rejected all claims of Indigenous title.

To make matters worse, the federal government immediately passed a n amendment to the Indian Act (s.141), prohibiting Indians from raising money for advancing land claims, filing court cases on land claims, or retaining a lawyer. Hope for greater control of their land and its resources, and by extension authority over their heritage, were thus significantly set back. This impediment to heritage stewardship also coincided with the end of the “great age” of museum collecting (Cole 1985:279), and marked the beginning of a long hiatus in archaeological research in the region. A further constraint on heritage was the enactment of the Historic Objects Preservation Act in 1925, which gave the province the power to designate any rock art site, structure, or “natural object” to be a

“historic object” protected from any form of disturbance (Smith 1927).

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Soon after, a

1927 amendment to the Indian Act (section 106A) prohibited the sale, removal, or disturbance of any “Indian grave-house, carved grave-pole, totem-pole, carved housepost or large rock embellished with paintings or carvings on a Indian reserve” without the written consent of the Superintendent General of Indian Affairs. With these instruments, the provincial and federal governments explicitly asserted that these objects were property of the Crown (Yellowhorn 1999b). Nlaka’pamux authority over their own heritage had reached a nadir, and they had essentially lost control of their ancestral remains and physical past.

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Canadian Museum of Civilization, Archaeology Archives, Box 1, File 12 Teit, and Box 14, File

2 Teit, Gatineau, PQ. Copies of Teit’s notes and correspondence cited here are also on file with the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council, Lytton, B.C.

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The text of the Historic Objects Preservation Act is appended to Smith’s 1927 paper.

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Culture History and Resource Management (1961–1980)

After the death of James Teit, archaeological research was absent from the mid-

Fraser region for nearly 40 years, although “relic hunters” continued to scour sites throughout the area, with Indian Agents and other persons of authority among the worst offenders (see Lepofsky and Arnett 1988). During this period, Nlaka’pamux communities increasingly came under the control of the local Indian Agent. Although Section 141 of the Indian Act was eventually repealed in 1951, the Nlaka’pamux required several decades to regain the nation-level political organization they possessed up until the

1920s (Tennant 1990:127).

The era of “modern” scientific archaeology in the province began in the 1950s when Charles Borden of the University of British Columbia (UBC) started his work in the

Fraser Delta region (Noble 1972:31-32). He also conducted the first archaeological research in the lower Fraser Canyon, when he excavated the Milliken site near Yale (just south of the mid-Fraser region) from 1959 to 1961 (Borden 1960, 1961a).

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Under

Borden’s influence, the Archaeological and Historical Sites Protection Act (AHSPA) was enacted in 1960, becoming the first comprehensive archaeological legislation in British

Columbia (Apland 1993). It firmly cemented the province’s claim of ownership over archaeological heritage, leaving little room for Indigenous authority, but it also addressed the growing threats to sites. In the first half of the century, the pace of agricultural, transportation, and resource development in the Lytton area had accelerated, leading to increasing impacts to archaeological sites, especially burials (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988).

In the spring of 1961, for example, Borden investigated a burial site at Texas Creek, on the west side of the Fraser River between Lytton and Lillooet, where logging operations and “subsequent uncontrolled digging” had heavily disturbed an unknown number of interments (Borden 1961b; Sanger 1968b). This incident was an early stimulus for salvage excavations at burial sites in British Columbia (Sanger 1966b, 1969b).

Acting on the recommendation of Borden, David Sanger, a young graduate student in archaeology from the UBC, undertook the first systematic archaeological research in the mid-Fraser since the time of Harlan Smith (Sanger 1961). Following

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Borden also judgementally surface collected various archaeological sites in the mid-Fraser region during the 1950s and 1960s, including the Lytton ossuary, which he visited at least five times between 1950 and 1964. Robert Kidd and D. Manders of UBC also made a surface collection in 1958. These collections are now held at the University of British Columbia.

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excavation of two graves in May of 1961, he began a three-month burial site survey along a 100-km stretch of the Fraser River, from north of Lillooet to Lytton (Sanger

1961:9). Sanger noted that various developments and “digging by totally untrained and unqualified persons” had taken a heavy toll on archaeological sites, and burial sites had

“suffered the most heavily” (Sanger 1961:2). For Sanger, “working with informants generally proved more productive than random test-pitting” (Sanger 1961:5). Yet his

Indigenous informants remain nameless, even though he identified a number of local landowners. For the final month he surveyed the west side of the Fraser River north of

Lytton, which he called the “most productive” area of the survey, with little evidence of looting. Sanger was also impressed with a “complex” of sites near the mouth of the Stein

River: “Several seasons could be spent investigating in this area, which has potential exceeding any area in the Interior plateau known to me” (Sanger 1961:21). He described the area as “inhabited solely by Indians” who were “eager to cooperate being pleased and flattered that such an interest should be taken in their fast disappearing past”

(Sanger 1961:13). To successfully survey in this area, he required a guide and interpreter, and in his acknowledgements he wrote that a “special note of appreciation is due to Andrew Johnny, Jr., a Thompson [Nlaka’pamux] youth who accompanied me during the month of September” (Sanger 1961:2). He also acknowledged the assistance of Andrew Johnny, Sr., the father of his guide and interpreter.

Despite the interest of Nlaka’pamux community members in Sanger’s work and their key logistical assistance, they had little authority over the archaeological research itself. For instance, Sanger notes that since “most of the sites are on Indian reserves, the

Superintendent of the Lytton Indian Agency ... initially should be contacted if any future work is considered” (Sanger 1961:21). In 1961, the Indian Agent still maintained local authority and band councils held little autonomous power; indeed, Sanger acknowledged the assistance of the local Indian Agent but made no mention of chiefs or councils

(Sanger 1961:2). Likewise, the contribution of contemporary Nlaka’pamux to the interpretation of the archaeological record is not acknowledged, while he cited the work of ethnographers such as Teit (Sanger 1961:26). Even in an area “solely inhabited by

Indians” that still practiced their “aboriginal skills and customs,” they had little voice in archaeological practice.

The near absence of the Nlaka’pamux from archaeological discourse would become even more striking over the next decade, when the “culture history” approach

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prevailed in British Columbian archaeology. In this approach, archaeological and contemporary cultures are distinct, and the latter are rarely considered as a source for interpretations. Following his burial survey, Sanger conducted extensive excavations at the Nesikep Creek and Lochnore [Lochore] Creek localities in 1962 and 1964 (Sanger

1962, 1964, 1966a). In a classic culture history approach, Sanger used the excavations to produce the basis for the first local chronology and artifact sequence for the mid-

Fraser region (Sanger 1967a, 1967b, 1969a, 1970). In this reconstruction, the

“ethnographic” and contemporary Nlaka’pamux are notably absent. For example, he states “[o]ur knowledge of aboriginal Thompson society is very limited,” save what can be reconstructed from Teit’s “meagre” descriptions and what little can be observed in

“present behaviour” (Sanger 1967:23).

In his Ph.D. dissertation, Sanger made no explicit mention of Nlaka’pamux individuals or agencies in two pages of acknowledgements (Sanger 1967b, 1970). Only in the list of field crewmembers is Andrew Johnny, Jr., acknowledged (although he is not explicitly identified as Nlaka’pamux). Indeed, the knowledge, assistance or authority of the contemporary Nlaka’pamux is absent from all of Sanger’s “official” academic publications, without any evidence that permission, or even approval, was sought from

Nlaka’pamux bands or community members. Even in his popular magazine account of his Lytton research, there is only a brief summary of the ethnographic record and no mention at all of the contemporary Nlaka’pamux (Sanger 1968a). Nonetheless, reading his unpublished burial survey report shows that Sanger relied extensively on

Nlaka’pamux for local knowledge, assistance and logistical support (Sanger 1961). This exclusion of Indigenous presence from the “official” archaeological literature served to distance living descendants from the practice of archaeology, and diminished the connections and links between the past and the present.

Sanger went some way toward rectifying this omission in 1988, when he wrote a letter in support of preserving the Stein valley as a significant sacred place for the

Nlaka’pamux (Sanger 1988). He describes how he was “fortunate enough to be hosted by Andrew [Sr.] and Sarah Johnny” while conducting his burial site survey in 1961, and how he and Andrew Johnny, Jr., around 17 years old at the time, became “fast friends” as they explored along the Fraser and “chatted with elderly Thompson people”: “So while I had the typical young man’s conviction that I knew it all (well, most all), I found a wealth of unpublished information that I had not the skills to document” (Sanger

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1988:179). Sanger’s belated recognition of Nlaka’pamux support coincided with the political and social changes that had swept through Indigenous communities, and society as a whole, in the years since his research in the area.

The 1970s saw a renewed sense of political unity and purpose among

Indigenous nations in British Columbia following the defeat of the 1969 federal “white paper” on Indian policy (Schaepe 2007; Shuswap Nation Tribal Council 2010; Tennant

1990). By the early part of the decade, the Indian Agent system had been dismantled, band councils were able to operate more autonomously, and tribal councils representing the interests of an entire nation had been established. At the same time, Indigenous communities were responding to the civil rights movement and the American Indian

Movement of the late 1960s with greater political activism, and some segments of society were becoming more sympathetic to Indigenous values and concerns. During this same period, archaeological practice in the province was shifting from a focus on pure research to a greater emphasis on “salvage” excavation, highlighting ongoing threats to sites and the need for conservation measures (Apland 1993; Canadian

Archaeological Association 1970; Carlson 1970; Fladmark 1981).

After Sanger’s fieldwork in the mid-1960s, no archaeological research was undertaken around Lytton until the early 1970s, with the exception of some research on several Stein pictographs (Corner 1968). In 1973, James Baker of Vancouver City

College (now Vancouver Community College) obtained provincial summer student funding to undertake an archaeological survey project in the Lytton region (Baker 1973a,

1973b). Baker had previously identified the Lytton to Lillooet region as a relatively untouched area that deserved additional archaeological attention: “Full scale archaeological investigations should be conducted in the area before the information that exists there now is irredeemably lost” (Baker 1970:53).

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Despite methodological shortcomings (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988:13), the project demonstrated the density of archaeological sites in the Lytton area–a point that would become important in the events of the late 1970s and 1980s. Notable aspects of this project include the permission sought from the Lytton Indian Band prior to conducting the survey, and the

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As an archaeology student at Simon Fraser University during the late 1960s, Baker also judgementally surface collected from sites in the Lytton area, including the Lytton ossuary.

His parents were also well known collectors, with all or part of their collections now held at

Simon Fraser University.

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employment of eight students from the band. A Lytton band council resolution (BCR) supporting the project was also remarkable in its assertion of Indigenous authority; not only did the BCR give Baker permission to conduct archaeological work on Lytton Indian reserves, but also on “lands formerly held or settled by Indian People.”

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Further, the

BCR stated that “all material recovered from the digs shall remain the property of the

Lytton Indian Band” but would remain on loan to Vancouver City College until such time that the band had an appropriate facility to display them.

The following summer, Baker undertook another project near Lytton in the

Botanie Creek valley, this time funded by the Canada Council and the provincial

Archaeological Sites Advisory Board (Baker 1975). Again, Lytton Indian Band council gave permission for the project, and many of the twenty members on the Botanie crew were from the band. Additional community members were acknowledged for their interest and the “information provided to the project” (Baker 1975:ii). The 1973 and 1974 surveys were unprecedented in terms of the degree of Nlaka’pamux involvement and in the recognition of their authority. Many years would pass before this level of community engagement would be duplicated again in Nlaka’pamux territory.

By the 1970s, the focus of research along the middle Fraser had shifted northward to the Lillooet area. For the next 40 years, academic archaeologists largely neglected the Lytton area, and research in the region shifted to ethnographic, ethnobotanical, and linguistic studies (much of which is, of course, relevant to archaeology).

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On the other hand, the province carried out salvage excavations near

Spences Bridge (von Krogh 1977) and Siska Flat (Sneed 1977, 1979), as the emphasis in the region soon turned to “conservation archaeology,” particularly after passage of the

Heritage Conservation Act in 1977 (Apland 1993:11). For example, the Heritage

Conservation Branch undertook a “Heritage Resources Study” of the entire mid-Fraser region in 1977, with the intention of providing the “necessary regional framework for heritage conservation” in the region (British Columbia Heritage Conservation Branch

1980:7; Sneed and Smith 1977). The study identified the value of “heritage resources” in strengthening community and identity, and its educational, recreational and tourism

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Lytton Band Council Resolution, dated 3 July 1973, on file in the archives of the Nlaka’pamux

Nation Tribal Council.

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Although a number of research projects occurred in the late 1980s in the Cornwall Hills and upper Oregon Jack Creek areas, well within Nlaka’pamux territory, these projects lie outside the mid-Fraser region geographical scope covered by this dissertation.

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benefits, but also recognized that this heritage must be protected and “managed.” The study acknowledged the particularly strong connection of the region to Indigenous communities: the extensive native Indian settlement … is a predominant cultural force in the study area. Heritage conservation objectives thus should include assistance in the protection, enhancement and interpretation of Indian history and culture… the desirability of greater Indian involvement in developing local resources and particularly their own cultural heritage.

[British Columbia Heritage Conservation Branch 1980a:29-30]

The study identified the Lytton-Stein area as “especially rich in aboriginal cultural heritage resources,” and notes that prior heritage conservation efforts in the region focussed on primarily on the inventory of archaeological sites and non-native historical structures. Even so, the study recommends that the emphasis at Lytton should focus on post-contact transportation features (e.g., HBC Brigade Trails and the Cariboo Wagon

Road) and “Indian history and culture.”

The province’s interest in heritage conservation in the mid-Fraser region was short-lived, and the brief period of direct government involvement in inventory and salvage projects soon came to an end. In 1979 and 1980, the Heritage Conservation

Branch conducted the last region-wide archaeological assessments of government referrals within the mid-Fraser region (Rousseau 1979; Rousseau and Richards 1980).

With the adoption of the “proponent pays” model in the early 1980s came a rapid increase in the number of consulting archaeologists and firms, and “cultural resource management” or CRM supplanted academic research and conservation archaeology

(Apland 1993:12; Fladmark 1993). The implementation of CRM coincided with a reinvigoration of Nlaka’pamux political activism, which would lead to a dramatic collision between industry, archaeologists and First Nations. Like the St’át’imc and CP 146, the ensuing conflict served to strengthen the unity and resolve of the Nlaka’pamux nation.

Nlaka’pamux Activism and Archaeology

During the 1970s, several provincial mega-projects exposed the Nlaka’pamux

Nation to the potent mix of environmentalism and Indigenous politics, and the potential of these forces in the context of heritage stewardship. When BC Hydro and Power

Authority briefly revisited plans in 1970 for the enormous Moran Dam on the Fraser

River north of Lillooet (originally proposed in the 1950s), a coalition of environmental

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groups quickly swung public opinion against the project (Evendon 2004:227). First nations up and down the Fraser River also strongly opposed the dam on the basis of its impact on the salmon fishery. The provincial government was forced to retreat, and the project never went beyond initial geotechnical work. This victory signalled the growing influence of the environmental movement. It also provoked the Nlaka’pamux into taking collective action on other major developments affecting them, and identified environmental groups as potential allies.

Soon after plans for the Moran Dam were abandoned, work began on another energy mega-project, this time within Nlaka’pamux territory just north of the mid-Fraser region. In 1974, BC Hydro initiated preliminary studies for a large open-pit coal mine and

2,000 Mw coal-fired thermal power plant in the upper Hat Creek valley, with a combined potential impact footprint of up to 2,500 ha. The preliminary environmental impact study noted the generalized concerns of local “Indian bands,” which were “accentuated by their perception of historical injustices and the land claims issue” (BC Research and Dolmage

Campbell & Associates Ltd. 1975:11). The environmental assessment was also notable in that it recommended that the Crown corporation initiate an archaeological study of the proposed project through the Provincial Archaeologist (BC Research and Dolmage

Campbell & Associates Ltd. 1975:98).

Two years later, the Provincial Archaeologists Office contracted academics from the University of British Columbia to subject the upper Hat Creek valley to an impact study that became a multi-year, large-scale inventory and research project (Beirne and

Pokotylo 1979; Pokotylo 1976, 1978; Pokotylo and Beirne 1978). It was a significant departure from previous CRM studies in British Columbia, because none had previously integrated the aims of conservation archaeology with those of academic research goals.

Specifically, the project incorporated elements of the “New Archaeology” in vogue at the time, and utilized a stratified probabilistic sampling method for identifying survey quadrats in the large study area. Over four years the team identified 199 archaeological sites, and predicted a further 1,085 sites for the entire study area. Test excavations unearthed substantial evidence for higher elevation root gathering and processing

(Pokotylo and Froese 1983). The Hat Creek archaeological project was one of the largest surveys ever undertaken in the province (Fladmark 1981), but unfortunately it all but ignored contemporary Indigenous peoples. In keeping with the zeitgeist of the New

Archaeology, traditional knowledge was seen as offering little to research goals.

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Nlaka’pamux involvement in the Hat Creek project, either as labourers or informants, was apparently absent, while their interest in heritage stewardship went unrecognized.

This absence would soon become a flashpoint during future archaeological assessment projects in the region.

Like the Moran Dam, the Hat Creek coal mine and power plant proposal met strong opposition from the strengthening environmental movement. The Nlaka’pamux and neighbouring First Nations were also united in their resistance. Ultimately, BC Hydro was forced to abandon the plan in the 1980s. The Moran Dam and Hat Creek megaprojects galvanized Nlaka’pamux communities around their common opposition to proposed industrial development of their land. In particular, they would thereafter take an active and direct role in the “assessment and management” of archaeological and heritage sites. This experience aptly prepared them for mobilizing against the subsequent development proposal that would cut right through the heart of their territory.

CN Rail Twin-Tracking (1983–1988)

As one corporate interest was defeated, another emerged as a threat to

Nlaka’pamux heritage. In the early 1980s, CN Rail’s proposed “twin-tracking” of the existing rail line from Valemount to Vancouver became a source of controversy. This project would affect a lengthy stretch of Nlaka’pamux territory along the Thompson and

Fraser rivers, cutting through numerous reserves. The Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal

Council, the Stó:l! Nation Tribal Council, and several Secwepemc communities emphatically opposed the project, and together they formed an ad hoc “Alliance of Tribal

Councils” to fight the proposal. Their alliance represented 36 communities potentially affected by the twin-tracking project, with a combined constituency of more than 7,000 people.

The alliance was particularly concerned about potential impacts on the salmon fishery from construction activity. In a disturbing historical parallel, they also recognized the impacts the project would have on their archaeological heritage. Less than 75 years earlier, James Teit had complained about the negative impacts on Nlaka’pamux burials during the original construction of the Canadian Northern railway in 1911-1914. As one representative of the alliance noted, heritage sites had already been unearthed once by railway construction, and now CN Rail was about to do it again (Mohs 1984:3). Except for Teit’s limited salvage of burials, the company had never been held accountable for

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the impacts to archaeological sites from the construction and subsequent operation of the railway. By the early 1980s, the provincial government no longer had a direct role in organizing and implementing archaeological impact assessments, and these were now the financial and regulatory obligation of development proponents. As such, CN Rail hired a private archaeological consulting firm to undertake an inventory and assessment of the proposed twin-tracking route as part of the environmental impact assessment. The subsequent non-permit inventory and assessment was conducted over a four-month period during the winter of 1983-1984, with numerous archaeological sites identified and registered throughout the length of the study area.

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When the Alliance of Tribal Councils reviewed the resulting report, they felt that “many heritage sites had either been missed or overlooked by the heritage consulting company … hired by Canadian National railway and that Indian concerns were not being adequately addressed” (Mohs 1984:3).

The alliance representatives considered the study to be incomplete, with inadequate consultation with Indigenous communities and informants. As such, they hired Gordon Mohs, an archaeology graduate student at Simon Fraser University, to conduct a similar study for presentation to the Federal Environmental Assessment

Review Panel. The objectives of the study were to: 1) record heritage sites known to

Indigenous informants but had been missed in the previous study, 2) survey additional areas reported to have heritage sites that were overlooked, 3) document Indigenous knowledge and concerns, and 4) draw the public’s attention to these matters (Mohs

1984:7). It was a significant turning point in the relationship of the Nlaka’pamux nation to the practice of archaeology, and it was the first instance where archaeologists were recognized as potential allies. Over the summer of 1984, almost 30 community members from the North Thompson River to the lower Fraser River were consulted or interviewed.

Reported archaeological and other heritage sites were identified and recorded, and selected sections of the proposed twin-tracking right-of-way were surveyed. Within the

Nlaka’pamux portion of the twin-tracking project, five community members were consulted or interviewed by researchers, and 6.8 km of right-of-way were surveyed between Ashcroft and Kanaka Bar. Of nineteen heritage sites identified or revisited, twelve were newly registered, and seventeen were in potential conflict with the proposed

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The report for this study [Stryd, A. H. and S. Lawhead (1984) C.N. Rail Twin Tracking Project:

Valemount to Vancouver, Final Statement, Heritage Resource Inventory and Assessment

(Non-Permit). Arcas Associates, Kamloops, B.C.] is unavailable, but project results and site descriptions are found in the provincial site records.

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development. Based on these survey results, the study estimated that an average of two sites per kilometre had been missed or overlooked during the CN Rail-sponsored impact assessment (Mohs 1984:22). The report also noted that only a small sample of the CN

Rail line had been surveyed, and that there had been insufficient time to search for many of the sites reported by informants. The author concluded that, “the current evidence would indicate that the Nl’akapxm [sic] leaders are right” that the number and extent of heritage sites along the railway is “greater than reported” in the initial study (Mohs

1984:31).

Within a few weeks of releasing its preliminary results, their heritage study was getting public attention. A Kamloops newspaper article reported that the twin tracking would “damage more than 100 Indian heritage sites that are up to 3,000 years old”

(Morran 1984). Meanwhile, the shortcomings of the CN Rail heritage study were raised at a public meeting of the environmental assessment review panel in Kamloops

(Patterson 1984). At a subsequent news conference the Native Brotherhood of British

Columbia and the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs pledged their support

(Anonymous 1984), but the publicity surrounding the heritage studies eventually led to controversy within the archaeological community itself (Bernick 1984). The Alliance of

Tribal Council’s final report recommended that “a moratorium on Twin Tracking development be implemented until such time that a complete and thorough inventory is completed” (Mohs 1984:61). Fallout from the conflicting studies forced CN Rail to conduct a follow-up inventory and assessment by the original consulting firm, as well as additional survey by alliance personnel (Mohs 1987). Over the next several years, archaeologists from both the CN Rail and the NNTC carried out competing surveys of the proposed

In the end, the twin-tracking proposal through Nlaka’pamux territory was shelved indefinitely, not because of heritage concerns, but instead due to a court-ordered interlocutory injunction (Pasco vs. C.N.R., [1985] B.C.J. No. 2818, 69 B.C.L.R. 76). After negotiations fell apart, a blockade of the railway line began on April 1, 1985. Risking their lives, members of the Nlaka’pamux Nation stood on the tracks and stopped the trains. Not coincidentally, the blockade was located at an ancient burial site.

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Subsequently, an application for an injunction was led by Robert Pasco of Nteq’em,

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a

Nlaka’pamux community that would be directly affected by the project. The community claimed rights to the Fraser River fisheries, including rights based on Aboriginal title.

Although the judge did not give weight to this argument, he granted an injunction against further work by CN Rail pending the outcome of a court action examining the infringement on fishing rights and underlying title on reserves. This case has never gone to trial, and the interlocutory injunction remains in place to this day.

The Alliance of Tribal Council’s heritage study of the CN Rail twin tracking proposal brought archaeological and heritage sites to the forefront of Nlaka’pamux efforts to oppose unrestrained development, paralleling the similar situations evolving at the same time elsewhere in the province, most notably the conflicts over logging and heritage at Meares Island and Gwaii Haanas (Blomley 1996; Wilson 1998). The CN Rail controversy also introduced the Nlaka’pamux to the potential of using archaeology as a political tool in issues of title and rights, while highlighting archaeologists as prospective opponents and allies. For the author of their study, however, the experience precipitated a shift in perspective, whereby the conception of heritage now extended beyond the physical archaeological site to encompass intangible heritage and landscape context. He wrote: “In the course of these investigations, a few native Elders expressed a concern that Twin Tracking would impact several of their 'spiritual sites'. Others pointed out that the question of impacts to their heritage and spiritual places extended well beyond the proposed right-of-way of the railroad and that past, present, and future concerns should also be addressed (Mohs 1987:2).

Up to that point, CRM archaeologists and provincial heritage managers in British

Columbia had paid little attention to matters of sacred sites and landscape–issues that remain largely unresolved to this day. Several reasons contributed to archaeologists’ reluctance to address these issues, including the processual emphasis on physical evidence and tangible values, the limited interaction between archaeologists and

Indigenous peoples, and the confidential nature of spiritual information (Mohs 1987:3-4).

For the Nlaka’pamux nation, all of the heritage issues and limitations of CRM raised by the twin tracking experience–local knowledge, sacred sites, intangible heritage,

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Nteq’em is one of the communities that comprise the Oregon Jack Creek Indian Band, and

Robert Pasco was and still is the band chief.

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landscape context–would figure prominently in their next conflict with a proposed development and their battle to save the Stein valley.

The Stein Valley (1984–1988)

By the late 1960s, logging roads and industrial logging activities had penetrated almost every major valley in the mid-Fraser region, and one of the last intact watersheds was the Stein River northwest of Lytton (M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988). Encompassing more than 106,000 ha, the Stein watershed contains extensive snowfields, alpine meadows, and forests (Figure 12). Stands of ponderosa pine are found in the dry lower valley, Douglas fir forests dominate the mid-valley, and hemlock, cedar, spruce and fir grow in the higher elevations (Figure 13). The Stein has also long been known for its significant pictograph sites and the concentration of archaeological sites near the mouth of the river (Baker 1973a; Corner 1968; Purpus 1892b; Sanger 1961; Smith 1899b; Teit

1900). Until the 1970s, few archaeologists had explored beyond the first few kilometres of the valley.

Although timber companies had contemplated logging the Stein valley since at least the 1920s, its inaccessibility and the high cost of road building had always made industrial logging uneconomical. In 1972, however, the British Columbia Forest Service completed a new feasibility study for logging the Stein valley, and appeared to give forestry operations the green light to proceed. This development set the stage for a divisive conflict lasting for more than two decades, which pitted the provincial government against environmental groups, eventually drawing archaeologists and First

Nations into a political and philosophical debate that exposed shifting values within the profession.

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Figure 12. Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Park and associated Lytton First

Nation reserves (map courtesy of Lytton FN).

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Figure 13. The lower Stein River valley.

Alarmed at the prospect of timber harvesting in a pristine valley, late in 1973 the provincial Fish and Wildlife Branch and the Federation of Mountain Clubs of British

Columbia both urged a moratorium on logging (Freeman and Thompson 1979;

M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988). The provincial government responded early in 1974 by suspending forestry planning for a two-year period in order to prepare the Stein Basin

Moratorium Study. Completed in February of 1976, the study concluded that logging was not currently economically feasible and as such the valley should be removed for the time being from annual allowable cut allocations (see M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988;

Wilson 1998). It also identified potential recreation and wilderness preservation values in the Stein (British Columbia Heritage Conservation Branch 1980), but recommended that the Stein valley “should be operated for a mix of resource uses, as and when this option becomes economically feasible” (see M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988; Wilson 1998). At the same time, the Federation of Mountain Clubs of British Columbia conducted its own study highlighting the substantial recreational values of the valley (Freeman and

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Thompson 1979). In the end, even before Stein Basin Moratorium Study was completed, a newly elected Social Credit government announced that logging in the Stein would proceed, rendering the study recommendations moot.

As the Forest Service renewed their logging plans, seventeen environmental organizations formed the Save the Stein Coalition in early 1977 (Freeman and

Thompson 1979:154). The coalition launched a public awareness campaign, raising the profile of the river and valley. One of its early efforts was the publication of a trail guidebook, which brought the issue to a wider audience (Freeman and Thompson

1979). It next succeeded in forcing the Ministry of Forests to create a Stein River Public

Liaison Committee (PLC) in 1978, which compelled a number of coalition members to set aside their politics and participate (Wilson 1998). Initially the committee had some success with preservation issues, but it had little power to influence policy decisions. The terms of reference of the PLC were ultimately based on the premise that logging would proceed, and in 1981 it began drawing up logging plans that initially advocated a “backdoor” route to haul out logs that spared the lower valley (Wilson 1998). Against this advice, the Forest Service unilaterally announced in 1982 that timber would be hauled out via the lower valley, thus eroding confidence in the effectiveness of the PLC. In protest, many coalition members withdrew from the committee, which then disbanded.

With this setback, groups opposed to logging in the Stein turned their focus to studies showing the economic disadvantages of timber harvesting, and the benefits of recreation and heritage tourism (M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988). Nonetheless, early in

1985 the Ministry of Forests announced that road building into the watershed would commence as soon as possible. The demise of the PLC and the subsequent roadbuilding announcement were the catalysts that ultimately turned the Stein cause into a major grassroots protest movement. With the announcement of impending road building, local residents from Lytton and Lillooet were prompted into action and created the Stein

Action Committee. Like-minded environmentalists formed the Stein Wilderness Alliance in Vancouver, and together with the Western Canada Wilderness Committee they began a major campaign to raise public awareness of the threats to the Stein (Western Canada

Wilderness Committee 1985a). This movement would ultimately intersect with the political and cultural interests of the Nlaka’pamux.

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A significant characteristic of the early years of the Stein conflict was the absence of First Nation voices from the public debate. The government did not encourage their participation, and the restricted terms of reference of the PLC

“effectively precluded the local Indian Bands from participating, unless they were willing to prejudice their land claim interests” (M'Gonigle 1988:110-111). Ethnographic research was not undertaken in conjunction with the committee's work, and the Ministry of Forests remained largely unaware of the cultural significance of the Stein to the Nlaka’pamux

(M'Gonigle 1988). On the other hand, the Heritage Conservation Branch conducted a preliminary survey of archaeological sites in the lower Stein, in order to create an inventory prior to proposed logging operations (Rousseau 1979). This brief survey of the trail identified five previously unregistered archaeological sites and four new pictograph sites. The Lillooet-Fraser Heritage Resources Study also identified the lower Stein as one of the most archaeologically significant areas in the mid-Fraser region (British

Columbia Heritage Conservation Branch 1980). However, neither of these studies influenced the debate.

For those opposed to logging in the Stein, the primary issue was largely framed in terms of environmental values versus economic values. Their emphasis on

“wilderness” preservation and maintaining recreational opportunities for urbanites was the impetus for efforts such as the hiking guidebook Exploring the Stein River Valley

(Freeman and Thompson 1979). It briefly describes Indigenous peoples’ use of the valley, mentions several of the pictograph sites, and acknowledges the contributions of several Nlaka’pamux individuals. However, the spiritual and cultural significance of the landscape to the Nlaka’pamux was never identified as an argument for preservation.

This perspective, however, would change dramatically by the mid-1980s, when indigenous activism forced the Canadian public to recognize their issues. Meanwhile, cooperation between environmental and Indigenous groups had proven effective, as demonstrated by the escalating campaigns at Meares Island and Gwaii Haanas (see

Ross 2005; Wilson 1998).

Despite their exclusion from the public planning process, the Nlaka’pamux were well aware of the Stein debate. In 1982 and 1983, Lytton First Nation, along with Lil’wat

First Nation (affiliated with the Lillooet Tribal Council), hosted a Stein cultural hiking program for young people from native and non-native communities in the area. Later in

1984 the Nlaka’pamux Nation filed a comprehensive land claim with the federal

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government that included the Stein (M'Gonigle 1988). Tom Waterland, then Forests

Minister, responded by saying “I'm not concerned with any Native claim on the Stein.

The British Columbia government, regardless of what party has been in power has never recognized land title claims” (Lay 1985). The provincial government’s hard-line stance against land claims served to galvanize local First Nations into action. A significant development in the Stein preservation campaign occurred when the Lillooet Tribal

Council publicly declared their opposition to logging in the summer of 1985. In conjunction with this declaration, the Lillooet Tribal Council, in collaboration with environmental groups, announced that they would sponsor a “Voices for the Wilderness” festival to be held in the Stein valley (Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1985b).

Their motivations were to “bring public attention and awareness to the Stein Valley, and to create better understanding between Native and non-natives working to protect the

Stein” (Rainer 1985). Chief Perry Redan of the Lillooet Tribal Council declared, “For the

Stein Wilderness, for our Cultures, this festival will be a step toward survival” (Western

Canada Wilderness Committee 1985b). On the Labour Day long weekend in 1985, more than 500 people hiked via Texas Creek into the upper Stein watershed of North

Cottonwood Creek to attend the festival (M'Gonigle and Wickwire 1988; Rainer 1985).

The festival presented one of the first opportunities for members of the St’át’imc and

Nlaka’pamux nations to speak directly to the urban preservation movement, marking a significant turning point in the preservation campaign strategy (Rainer 1985; Western

Canada Wilderness Committee 1985b; Wickwire 1992:64-65).

The Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc continued to use the Stein campaign to present their values and perspectives. Additional festivals were held over the next four years, culminating in 1989, when over 30,000 people attended the Voices for the Wilderness festival hosted by the Lil’wat Nation at Mt. Currie. Speaking to receptive audiences,

Indigenous elders and leaders made emotional speeches that mobilized public support

(Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1987a). Indigenous advocates identified traditional resources, title and rights, and spirituality as the values of greatest significance in the Stein (see M’Gonigle and Wickwire 1988:136, 143, 147).

Environmental groups quickly capitalized on the public relations value of incorporating indigenous voices in its campaign. Before long, statements on spirituality and the sacred value of the Stein became fixtures in their campaign literature, shifting the tenor of the debate (Rainer 1985; Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1985c, 1987d).

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In September 1985, Lytton First Nation joined with the Lillooet Tribal Council to formally declare their opposition to the Stein logging plans (M'Gonigle and Wickwire

1988; Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1985c). In a press release , Chief Ruby

Dunstan identified the main issue was that logging would violate their Aboriginal title, which had never been relinquished. Chief Dunstan stated that the Nlaka’pamux

“specifically oppose any Stein development, including tourism, until their Nation's general land claim is settled,” and that they “want the Stein preserved because it is a place with special spiritual and sacred significance” (Western Canada Wilderness

Committee 1985c). When the Nlaka’pamux added their voice to the Stein debate, archaeological and other heritage features became a major issue, and the movement for preservation gained strength.

To this point, ethnographic and archaeological studies had been marginal issues, but they soon became central to the political conflict (Wickwire 1992). In the summer of

1985, the provincial Heritage Conservation Branch ordered BC Forest Products to conduct an archaeological impact assessment of the proposed logging haul road, one of the first forestry-related archaeological impact assessments in the province, which had until this time been a low priority (see Klimko et al. 1998). In the politically charged atmosphere, however, an AIA was considered prudent. The well-known archaeological significance of the lower Stein (Baker 1973a; British Columbia Heritage Conservation

Branch 1980; Rousseau 1979; Sanger 1961) was also likely a factor behind requirements for an AIA of the haul road.

In the summer and fall of 1985, a consulting firm conducted an archaeological inventory and assessment within a 50-m-wide corridor and associated impact zones along 32 km of the proposed road right-of-way up the Stein valley as far as Cottonwood

Creek (Wilson 1988b).

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A two-person crew accompanied by an “observer” from the

Lytton Indian Band identified seven new sites for the proposed logging road, and an additional 13 previously recorded sites were re-visited and updated. The preliminary report for this project, released in October 1985, identified four sites that were in potential conflict with construction of the road: two artifact scatters without “further archaeological value” would be completely destroyed by road construction, and two

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This AIA also included a brief reconnaissance of the proposed location of the bridge crossing the Fraser River, but an impact assessment and recommendations for this area were not provided.

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pictograph sites at the bottom of talus slopes that were in potential danger from falling rocks during construction (Wilson 1988:94).

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Impact assessments or management recommendations were not provided for “recent activity” sites, including a large stand of culturally modified cedar trees, nor was the trail itself evaluated for its heritage significance. The report concluded that, “the archaeological record indicates that beyond its mouth, the Stein River was only sporadically utilized on a subsistence basis, probably for short periods of time” (Wilson 1988:89). Even so, the report recognized that “ based on the high proportion and relative frequency of pictograph sites, the study area was of mythical or spiritual significance” (Wilson 1988:90). However, consideration was not given to the potential impacts to intangible values associated with this heritage.

In conjunction with the archaeological impact assessment, an ethnographic and ethnohistoric study of Indigenous peoples’ land use and history in the Stein valley, based on archival sources as well as interviews with local Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc informants, was prepared and appended to the archaeological report (Bouchard and

Kennedy 1988). This study included a historical summary, an inventory of named places, resource areas, and other sites, and a summary of corresponding indigenous knowledge for each place. The authors concluded that the Stein valley was not an important travel route, and that it had not been used in the past century for spiritual purposes. As such, the ethnographic study supported the general conclusions and recommendations of the archaeological impact assessment (Wickwire 1992). Just as the preliminary archaeological and ethnographic reports were released, a road building contract for the

Stein haul road was awarded in October of 1985.

In response to these “official” reports prepared for BC Forest Products, groups opposed to the logging commissioned their own studies (Wickwire 1992). The first of these was an archaeological survey of the Cottonwood Creek area on behalf of the Stein

Heritage Committee and the Institute for New Economics, funded by the BC Heritage

Trust (Rousseau 1985). Although the project was intended to be “independent” research with the objective of determining the archaeological potential of the area (Wickwire

1992), the final report presented its findings in the standard format of an archaeological

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Two additional pictograph sites on a “protected” rock face were not re-visited in the fieldwork, and the preliminary assessment report released in 1985 did not assess potential impacts to these sites ; as described later in this section, these sites were visited and assessed in the

1988 final report in response to the criticisms raised by researchers working on behalf of the

Nlaka’pamux.

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impact assessment complete with mitigation recommendations. It identified nine postcontact heritage sites, including cabins, recent activity areas, and culturally modified cedar trees, but only four of these places were considered to meet the provincial criteria for regulated archaeological sites. Mitigation recommendations were presented for the

“protected” sites and the culturally modified tree site. Significantly, this study did not involve Indigenous peoples, although it did utilize ethnographic information from the

1985 study. In the end, the limited number of sites identified, and the absence of precontact sites, did not serve the purposes of the preservationist camp.

Likewise, Lytton and Lil’wat (Mt. Currie) First Nations commissioned their own study of the Stein valley, with a greater focus on ethnographic research. Released in

February of 1986, the Stein River Heritage report consisted of two parts: an ethnographic study and an archaeological study (Wickwire and Lepofsky 1986). The first part critiqued the ethnographic research in the BCFP report, and argued that there was substantial evidence for Indigenous peoples using the Stein valley in the past and continuing well into the twentieth century. In particular, the spiritual significance of the valley was greater than reported in the BCFP study, as shown by the pictographs and as described in Nlaka’pamux traditions and ethnographic studies. The second half of the report evaluated the archaeological component of the BCFP study. In response to concerns that sites had been overlooked in potential impact zones, the author identified two additional pictograph sites in the lower Stein valley and a grove of culturally modified cedar trees on Stryen Creek. The report also described a pictograph cave located high above the mid-valley, first observed in the fall of 1985, and also noted that the trail itself was not treated as a heritage site, despite its historic significance. It also contested the assumption that Indigenous peoples made limited use of the middle and upper valley, given the extensive ethnographic and historic evidence throughout the watershed. Most important was recognition that spiritual and heritage values associated with pictograph locations encompass the surrounding environment and landscape. In other words, the entire Stein valley, as a place for vision questing and spiritual training, was a “site” with intrinsic cultural value for the Nlaka’pamux (Wickwire and Lepofsky 1986:58-60). This perspective anticipated the cultural landscape concept well before this term had entered the archaeological vocabulary in British Columbia.

To address the growing controversies over wilderness protection, the provincial

Ministry of Environment appointed an eight-member Special Advisory Committee on

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Wilderness Preservation (generally referred to as the Wilderness Advisory Committee) in

October 1985 (Wilson 1998). Its terms of reference stipulated a three month window to resolve outstanding issues through hearings held across the province, including Lytton.

The growing strength of the alliance between environmental groups and First Nations, and the real prospect of direct action, elevated the priority of the Stein (M'Gonigle 1988;

Wilson 1998). To diffuse tensions, a moratorium on road-building in the Stein valley was established for the duration of the committee’s work (Wickwire 1992).

In January of 1986, the authors of the Stein River Heritage report made presentations to the Wilderness Advisory Committee at the Vancouver sessions

(Lepofsky 1986; Wickwire 1986). In particular, Wendy Wickwire described the role of

“wilderness” in native culture, and how logging in the Stein valley would destroy an area central to Nlaka’pamux spirituality (Wickwire 1986). Notably, she described wilderness as “unchanged” and “undisturbed nature,” where the fundamental physical character of the landscape is unaffected by culture. Although this representation is somewhat at odds with contemporary notions of landscape and the illusory idea of “wilderness,” it was intended to support the contention of the Stein valley as a “pristine” setting for spiritual activities. The Wilderness Advisory Committee also heard Lytton First Nation state its opposition to development in terms of unextinguished indigenous title in the Stein, and their suspicion that the province was attempting to strip the land before addressing their claim (M’Gonigle 1988; M’Gonigle and Wickwire 1988:139). In the end, the committee recommended that logging should be permitted in order to save local forestry jobs, but at the same time recommending that archaeological sites in the lower Stein be managed in consultation with Indigenous peoples, and road-building should proceed only with a formal agreement between the government and Lytton First Nation (Wickwire 1992

While the province considered the committee’s recommendations, the Lytton and

Lil’wat communities took further steps to assert their rights to the valley. They initiated the “Stein Rediscovery” program in the summers of 1986 and 1987, during which local youth were taken on two-week long trips in the Stein valley and taught wilderness skills and cultural traditions (Anonymous 1986; M'Gonigle 1988; M'Gonigle and Wickwire

1988; Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1987e). The annual Voices for the

Wilderness festivals continued to draw large crowds, and the Lytton First Nation worked with the Western Canada Wilderness Committee to making the Stein more accessible to supporters by clearing trails, building bridges, and installing cable crossings (M'Gonigle

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1988; Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1988a). In response to threats of a court injunction halting this trail work from the Ministry of Forests, the Nlaka’pamux pointed out that they had been using trails in the valley for generations (M’Gonigle 1988). Facing a media backlash about protesting trail construction where they intended to build a road, the Ministry quickly ended their threats.

In the fall of 1987 the provincial government announced that logging would proceed in the Stein, thus over-riding the Wilderness Advisory Committee position that an agreement with Lytton First Nation should precede road-building (Western Canada

Wilderness Committee 1987b, 1987d; Wickwire 1992). This unilateral action prompted

Chief Ruby Dunstan of Lytton First Nation and Chief Leonard Andrew of Lil’wat First

Nation to sign the Stein Declaration in October 1987, which forcefully reiterated their position concerning unextinguished title to the Stein watershed (Lytton & Mt. Currie

Indian Bands 1987). The declaration also stated that the valley would be maintained in perpetuity as a wilderness area under the cooperative authority of both bands.

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By this time, an injunction against logging had been imposed on Meares Island, and Gwaii

Haanas was in the process of being converted into a national park. The logging industry thus saw the Stein as their symbolic “last stand” and they launched a public relations campaign in local communities that explicitly discounted claims of Indigenous title

(Wickwire 1992; Wilson 1998:117). For its part, the Western Canada Wilderness

Committee held public meetings in Boston Bar, Lytton, and Lillooet wherein they

“endorsed the native spiritual and physical connection to the land” (Wickwire 1992:65).

Meanwhile, the Lytton and Lil’wat First Nations turned up the pressure on the provincial government by preparing a formal complaint to the United Nations that alleged that the province had violated their human rights by permitting road construction (Western

Canada Wilderness Committee 1988b). Given the inflexibility of the province, the obstinacy of industry, and the growing assertiveness of the Lytton and Lil’wat leadership, confrontation seemed inevitable.

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The Stein Declaration is remarkable in the similarity of its wording and tone to that of the

Laurier Memorial of 1910. Like the Memorial, the Declaration stresses the unresolved issue of Indigenous title and the failure of the Crown in following through with promises, while at the same time offering to share the land with those that respect Nlaka’pamux sovereignty and values. In other words, the fundamental position of the Nlaka’pamux on sovereignty and sharing remained unchanged, stretching in an unbroken thread from the Spintlum treaty of

1858, through the Nlaka’pamux constitution of 1879 and the Laurier Memorial of 1910, to the

Stein Declaration.

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Against this backdrop, the heritage debate continued to develop. The logging industry established the Stein Task Force, which distributed a “Share the Stein” newsletter in May of 1988 that included interviews with the BCFP archaeologists and ethnographers praising its work in protecting heritage. One article entitled “Forest

Companies Protect Native Culture” claimed that the BCFP impact assessment was “the most extensive archaeological and ethnographic … study ever conducted for a proposed logging road” (quoted in Wickwire 1992:68). Ironically, this was indeed the case, despite the many limitations identified in these studies by opponents and the logging-friendly nature of the recommendations (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988:14).

Nonetheless, the Stein preservation movement intensified its efforts at capitalizing on the heritage angle, making potential impacts to the pictograph sites a major point in their campaign, and they strongly criticized the BCFP archaeological assessment (Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1987c). The original archaeological impact assessment and ethnographic report on the Stein logging road was revised in early 1988 to address some of the criticisms levelled against it, without amending the conclusions and recommendations (Wickwire 1992; Wilson 1988b).

Subsequently, the Western Canada Wilderness Committee released a

“dendrochronological analysis” of the lower and middle valley that focussed on the culturally modified cedar trees (CMTs), an approach that this group had used effectively in other campaigns on the coast. In late 1987, the three CMT sites recorded in the 1985 and 1986 studies (see Lepofsky 1986; Rousseau 1985; Wilson 1988b) were revisited by a dendrochronologist, who also examined four additional sites located within or near the proposed road right-of-way and logging blocks (Parker 1988). Increment core samples were used to date twenty CMT features at six sites, with the resulting ages ranging from before 1836 to as late as 1936. An unusual feature on a cedar CMT scar known as an

“arborgraph,” consisting of charcoal drawings resembling the painted pictographs found elsewhere in the Stein valley, was found at one site. The study confirmed that the planned logging would destroy many CMTs of considerable historical and scientific significance.

In response to publicity from this study (Wickwire 1992), the BCFP archaeologist reviewed Parker’s report and revisited the CMTs. This review critiqued the increment coring method, arguing that cutting down the trees to get “stem-round” samples was more accurate, and questioned the authenticity and age of the arborgraph (Wilson

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1988a).

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The potential impacts from road building were also minimized, leading to the conclusion that “only a few CMTs would be affected by road construction” while the arborgraph was not in any danger (Wilson 1988a:8). The author also argued that scientific objectives trumped conservation values because the CMTs would eventually rot and die anyway, and “more information can be gained from these trees by cutting them down and obtaining stem-round samples than from avoiding them” (Wilson

1988a:8). Nonetheless, a detailed study of the CMT sites was recommended prior to road construction. Archaeologists working for the Nlaka’pamux called the BCFP justification for cutting down the CMTs “fallacious” and “irresponsible,” as adequate dates could be obtained from increment cores (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988:16). Moreover, they pointed out that CMTs held other cultural and historic values beyond knowing their calendar age.

In the summer of 1988, yet another archaeological impact assessment was conducted for BCFP, this time focussing primarily on the westernmost 23 km of the same proposed road right-of-way (Wilson and Eldridge 1988). In addition to identifying potential impacts to archaeological sites, the assessment was also intended to document the CMTs identified in the Western Canada Wilderness Committee study.

Although no new sites were identified, the consultants mapped and recorded 229 CMTs in four separate stands (Wilson and Eldridge 1988:10). No dates were obtained, as this step was proposed for the actual road construction phase, nor was their significance evaluated. The authors estimated that 34 of the CMTs would be affected by road construction, but they concluded that these impacts would be mitigated by the additional scientific information obtained from the felled trees. In the end, the recommendations in this study remained the same as those found in the previous BCFP archaeological assessments, with the exception of recommending further dating of felled CMTs.

As the BCFP archaeological assessments were in process, the Lytton and Lil’wat

First Nations were actively pursuing their own research agenda in the Stein. In late 1987, the province rejected the requirement for a formal agreement with Lytton First Nation, but facing a potential injunction the province agreed to meet. In February of 1988, Chief

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The issues of authenticity and age of the arborgraph were not raised in the subsequent impact assessment (Wilson and Eldridge 1988), and the CMT specialist involved in the study has recently acknowledged that the charcoal drawings are likely Indigenous in origin and may date closer to the age of the scar (Morley Eldridge, pers. comm. 2011).

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Andrew and Chief Dunstan met with then Minister of Forests Dave Parker and argued that a logging moratorium was necessary to give the communities more time to conduct their own studies and identify alternatives to logging. After intense negotiations the

Minister agreed to a seven-month long study period so that this research could take place (Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1988c; Wickwire 1992). The Minister also acknowledged that the Stein had significant historic, economic, and spiritual values for the Nlaka’pamux, and agreed to respect the Wilderness Advisory Committee recommendation that no logging road be built without a formal agreement with Lytton

First Nation (Western Canada Wilderness Committee 1988c). Following this breakthrough, the Nlaka’pamux Nation Development Corporation obtained funding for a feasibility study for wilderness tourism and a proposed cultural centre, and money was set aside for ethnographic and archaeological research to support this initiative.

Although several ethnographic reports had been prepared in response to the proposed logging, “a larger and more systematic field study, covering a larger network of

Native consultants, was necessary to give a more complete picture of the Valley” for the tourism and cultural centre project (Wickwire 1988a:2). Over the course of three weeks during the summer of 1988, 27 people were interviewed, with the majority being

Nlaka’pamux residents in the Lytton area (Wickwire 1988a, 1988b).

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Knowledgeable people with information on the historical and “ethnographic” use of the Stein valley were

“far more numerous than had been expected” and not all potential consultants contributed to the study (Wickwire 1988a:2). The interviews provided extensive data on place names, traditional resources and resource areas, resource activities (e.g., plant and medicine gathering, hunting, fishing, trapping), travel routes, and associated oral histories and traditions, demonstrating that the entire Stein watershed, including the headwaters and tributary valleys, was utilized by the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc

(Wickwire 1988a:4). Moreover, the study showed the persistence of spiritual values remained within their contemporary communities.

The Stein ethnographic study proved effective for Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship for a number of reasons. It provided a volume of traditional knowledge about a specific place that was unprecedented for the region. It also employed a

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Twelve of the interviews were recorded on audiotape (currently housed at University of

Victoria). The final report for this ethnographic study also included transcripts of interviews with four individuals made in 1985, with two of these individuals interviewed again in 1988.

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landscape approach that incorporated tangible aspects of heritage (archaeological sites and traditional resources), as well as intangible aspects (place names, oral traditions, spiritual and ceremonial values). In its scope and intent, it was a precursor of the

“traditional use study,” which would not become commonplace until the following decade. It also bore features of the “cultural landscape” approach that was emerging in international contexts such as the U.S. National Park Service and UNESCO (Fowler

2003b; Page et al. 2005), but still relatively unknown in British Columbia. The study revealed the heritage priorities of the Nlaka’pamux consultants, with place names, traditional resources, and spiritual places ranking higher than archaeological sites and material culture. Last, the study was an example of an “applied ethnography” with primarily practical objectives, in this case environmental protection and the economic potential of cultural tourism.

At the same time as the ethnographic study, the Nlaka’pamux commissioned two archaeological studies to support their plans for wilderness tourism and a cultural heritage centre. One focussed specifically on a systematic evaluation of the pictographs in the Stein valley by Brian Molyneaux, a rock art specialist (Molyneaux 1988), while the other concentrated on gathering available information on Stein “prehistory” (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988). The pictograph report was highly critical of the recording methods used in the earlier BCFP assessment, which lacked “even the most basic information necessary for further analysis” (Molyneaux 1988:3). A close examination of the pictographs resulted in revised identifications and the discovery of additional elements, panels, and even sites. Importantly, the pictographs were recognized as “part of the natural and cultural landscape,” and their significance was deemed greatest in an environment that retains its original integrity (Molyneaux 1988:9). The entire valley presented a rare opportunity to be “conceived and studied as an integrated environment,” with potential for studying related cultural deposits and spatial associations (Molyneaux 1988:12). In a newspaper interview, Molyneaux described the

Stein pictographs as “absolutely astounding” and “world-class” in significance (quoted in

Wickwire 1992:69). The logging plans were a serious threat to the integrity and context of the pictographs, and would result in the tragic loss of a significant heritage.

The second archaeological study involved several days dedicated to updating pictograph records along with comprehensive archival research and documentation of artifact collections (Lepofsky and Arnett 1988). Following an overview of previous

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archaeological research in the area, the authors compiled a list of artifacts held in various institutions across North America, and listed and described the archaeological sites in the Stein. The report also provided interpretive information on the archaeological heritage there that could support development of heritage tourism and a cultural centre.

The report also devoted an entire chapter to the Stein pictographs, providing a comprehensive overview of past research, detailed pictograph descriptions, and interpretations of the images and sites based on ethnographic, historical, and contemporary data. The pictograph chapter is notable for its careful incorporation of traditional explanations of the paintings, including new information obtained from interviews with Nlaka’pamux elders. The authors stressed the opportunity for public education and for promoting cross-cultural awareness and understanding through archaeology, and they identified the Stein as an excellent candidate for “Native operated wilderness tourism.” The report recommended incorporating archaeology into an interpretive centre, hosting public archaeology excavations, and completing a systematic inventory of sites.

All three of the heritage reports commissioned by the Nlaka’pamux, along with four economic and tourism studies, were presented to the Minister of Forests in October of 1988 (Wickwire 1992). Together, the seven studies presented a detailed plan for a wilderness tourism and cultural heritage approach to economic development in the Stein watershed. At this point, however, the 15-year campaign to preserve the Stein had effectively come to a halt. Lytton First Nation and the Ministry of Forests had continued negotiations since the beginning of that year, but this process had been terminated shortly before the reports were delivered (M’Gonigle 1988). In September 1988,

Fletcher-Challenge Canada Ltd., a New Zealand-based multinational, bought BC Forest

Products. Soon after, Fletcher-Challenge unilaterally declared a one-year moratorium on logging in the Stein valley (Wickwire 1992). I n 1989, the Lytton and Lil’wat First Nations declared the entire watershed to be “Stein Valley Tribal Heritage Park: A Living Museum of Cultural and Natural History” (BC Parks 2000) .

The Minister of Forests never responded to the Nlaka’pamux studies, and after the Fletcher-Challenge moratorium ended in 1990, neither the province nor the logging company took further action on development. In the early 1990s, the Social Credit government, beset by scandals, had little appetite for resolving the Stein controversy, and it largely fell off the government’s agenda. With the election of a New Democratic

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Party (NDP) government in the fall of 1991, a new era of wilderness preservation and reconciliation with First Nations was at hand. In November 1995, the provincial government announced that the entire Stein watershed would be permanently protected as a “Class A” provincial park, to be cooperatively managed by Lytton First Nation and

BC Parks (BC Parks 2000:3).

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Formal protection of the Stein was a major victory for the Nlaka’pamux, as well as a significant lesson for the environmental movement in British Columbia.

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc activism in the “wilderness” campaign was a decisive factor tipping the balance in favour of preservation. Indeed, with the emergence of indigenous involvement, environmental groups were effectively sidelined in terms of negotiations with the province (M’Gonigle 1988). The Nlaka’pamux also shifted the emphasis of the

Stein campaign from one that saw “nature” as the priority to one that focussed on

“culture,” simultaneously supporting preservation while undercutting the idea of a pristine

“wilderness” untouched by humans. Thereafter, collaboration between environmental groups and First Nations became a fixture in subsequent preservation campaign strategies (M’Gonigle 1988).

Initially, the Stein victory also seemed to be a clear example of how archaeology and ethnography could benefit the interests of First Nations. Like the 1984 CN Rail twintracking study, Nlaka’pamux communities had independently commissioned and directed successful archaeological and ethnographic research for their own purposes.

“Advocacy research” was another significant strategy developed by the Nlaka’pamux for asserting greater control over land and heritage (M’Gonigle 1988). It also exposed the widening gulf between the perspectives and practices of CRM and activist practitioners, ultimately pitting individual archaeologists and ethnographers against each other.

Dramatic differences in results and recommendations from competing consultants in the

Stein dispute showed that independent and neutral archaeologists and ethnographers were non-existent (Wickwire 1992). Conflicting “ideologies” led to both sides entangling their conclusions according to their interests and those of their clients. Whereas advocates of indigenous interests viewed culture as present and ongoing, those

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The management plan for Stein Valley Nlaka'pamux Heritage Park states that the Lil’wat (Mt.

Currie) Nation declined participation in the negotiations that led to the 1995 Cooperative

Management Agreement with Lytton First Nation, but subsequently the Lil’wat Nation

“indicated a renewed interest in participation” (BC Parks 2000:6). However, the Lil’wat Nation currently does not participate in the Stein Management Board.

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supporting corporate interests viewed the assessment process as an inventory of the remnants of a past culture. As research funded entirely to fulfil regulatory requirements is inherently biased in favour of corporate interests, First Nations had to find their voice and assert their authority while archaeologists and ethnographers had to reflexively critique their methods (Wickwire 1992).

The Stein valley heritage debate was an important milestone for sacred sites and cultural landscape discourse in the mid-Fraser region. It highlighted the epistemological problems with the “site-specific” approach used in the legislated archaeological assessment process, which involved creating an inventory of physical remains separated from the larger landscape, thus allowing each site to be “managed” and mitigated in isolation, without reference to its cultural and physical setting. For example, considering cultural and landscape context is essential for understanding why pictographs exist and what they mean. In this way, ethnography imbues the Stein valley with meaning and significance, which cannot be determined on the basis of sites and artifacts alone (Wickwire 1992).

The successful Stein campaign seemed like a good model for future landscape management planning throughout Nlaka’pamux territory. It also appeared to signal the onset of a new era in community-based archaeology, with the Nlaka’pamux poised to assert greater sovereignty over heritage stewardship in their territory. Over the next years, the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (NNTC) focussed on developing the skills and building the capacity needed to undertake heritage research, even as development pressures made this objective increasingly difficult.

NNTC Heritage Research (1987–1994)

The Nlaka’pamux experiences with CN Rail and the Stein valley highlighted how archaeological and ethnographic research could advance their interests. By the late-

1980s, the NNTC had stepped up its own heritage research program, with Deb McIntyre from Skuppah and Doug McAlister of Lytton conducting place name research, oral history interviews, fishing station inventories, and archival studies in support of specific land claims and other title and rights issues. Around the same time, the NNTC began to develop an active program of archaeological research in their territory, largely independent of CRM objectives and designed primarily to support Nlaka’pamux goals.

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In 1987, Chief Wilfred Campbell of the Boothroyd band approached Sylvia

Albright, an archaeologist on staff with the NNTC, with the idea of conducting an archaeological inventory in his community, “since a number of old sites known to elders of the band had not been recorded during previous surveys” (Albright 1988:1). Using funds from the federal Challenge ‘88’ Program and the British Columbia Heritage Trust,

Albright and eight students from the band spent five weeks in 1988 surveying the terraces above the Fraser River in the Boothroyd area. Information collected from interviews with five elders informed the survey design, resulting in the identification and recording of 45 sites. The crew also updated several previously recorded sites, and carried out a limited excavation at a housepit feature (Albright 1988). Several of the newly recorded sites were threatened by the proposed CN Rail twin-tracking, while other previously identified sites in the right-of-way turned out to be larger than originally recorded. Their fieldwork also revealed that many of the sites in the survey area had been heavily impacted by construction and maintenance of the railway lines and the highway (Albright 1988).

With the success of this project, another survey was launched the following year, again with funds from the federal Challenge ‘89’ Program and the British Columbia

Heritage Trust. In this case the project was undertaken on behalf of the Cook’s Ferry band, with the survey area along the Thompson River at Spences Bridge (Albright

1989). Eight elders provided the local knowledge used to design the project, while six students from the band participated in the survey. Eighty-three archaeological sites were identified and recorded, along with a number of post-contact Nlaka’pamux “historic” structures. Many of the sites were impacted by construction of the CN and CP railways.

Moreover, relic collectors had by then removed most of the diagnostic artifacts from the sites. Like the previous year’s project, the 1989 survey stands as an example of a proactive Nlaka’pamux research designed for their own purposes, as opposed to a reactive CRM approach.

Over the next years, Albright and Deb McIntyre compiled ethnographic and archaeological information in support of specific claims and other projects in the Nicola valley, Oregon Jack, Siska, Skuppah, and Spuzzum areas (Albright 1992b).

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They also addressed heritage issues arising from Lytton Indian Band-initiated developments, such

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Also see Archaeology files (NAb), NNTC Archives, Lytton.

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as on-reserve logging plans in the Botanie valley, and the construction of a pump house and water line from the Stein River to reserves in the vicinity of Lytton (Albright 1992a).

Even so, outside consultants were still hired to conduct the fieldwork for the waterline

(Rousseau 1992a), and a subsequent 1994 excavation of one of the sites (Handley and

Merchant 1995). These projects were notable for their limited Nlaka’pamux involvement, despite the fact that the developments were community-initiated and much of the work took place on reserves. Concerned that the Nlaka’pamux perspective was not heard,

NNTC researchers became involved with indigenous forums reviewing the development of new provincial heritage legislation. Influenced by developments ongoing with other

First Nations, the need for a Nlaka’pamux nation heritage policy was identified as early as 1992 (Albright 1992b).

As CRM expanded in the early 1990s, responding to development referrals became one of the major duties for the NNTC archaeologist. For example, the proposed

Scuzzy Creek Hydroelectric Project established a benchmark for Nlaka’pamux involvement in CRM projects, even though the initial AIA disregarded them (see Carlson

1990). After reviewing the report for this project in early 1992, the NNTC wrote the

Ministry of Energy, Mines and Petroleum Resources with a number of heritage issues, including inadequate background research, insufficient field survey, and a lack of consultation. A subsequent independent review of the 1990 AIA dismissed the major concerns, while identifying shortcomings in the research and fieldwork (Rousseau

1992b). One passage in this review illustrated how archaeology consultants still had much to learn from the conflicts of the 1980s. The author of the review wrote:

I fully agree with Albright that the Boston Bar Band and the Nlaka'pamux

Tribal Council should have been notified prior to conduction of the archaeological impact assessment study. This responsibility rightly befalls to both the development proponent and the archaeological consultant, and notification would have provided these groups with the opportunity to participate in the study, and to assist in providing oral information about traditional and/or historic Native land use within the project area. As a consultant, I have found that cooperation and direct consultation with

Band informants is an excellent way to secure important oral information, and to develop and strengthen good public relations between development proponents and local Bands. [Rousseau 1992:3]

This same critic was later contracted to conduct a “post-impact” assessment of the Scuzzy Creek archaeological sites disturbed by construction of the power house

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access road in 1993 (Rousseau 1994). In this case, however, the Boston Bar community participated in the study, and the NNTC and its legal counsel reviewed the report before it was submitted to the province.

By 1992, the Nlaka’pamux Nation had made “considerable effort in negotiations to have greater input into management decisions concerning forestry resources and logging activities” (Albright 1992b:2). As a consequence, the NNTC was asked to conduct an overview of heritage resources and values in the Nahatlatch River valley as part of the “integrated resource management” planning process of the Chilliwack Forest

District. This was their opportunity to produce a comprehensive study of an entire watershed utilizing the full range of heritage information being gathered by their researchers, including place name information, oral history interviews with knowledgeable Nlaka’pamux community members and local residents, ethnographic and historic sources, and archaeological evidence. Moreover, the Nahatlatch employed a holistic view of heritage, encompassing all the tangible and intangible elements of a group of people that in combination represents their cultural identity (Albright 1993:2). It also identified habitat and landscape integrity as central to the ability of the Nlaka’pamux to continue and maintain traditional practices and values. The final draft of this study provided a high-level heritage planning document that countered the narrow-focus of the

“site-specific” CRM reports typically produced for impact assessment purposes (Albright

1993). By challenging the prevailing management ethos, the NNTC study introduced the concept of landscape stewardship and protection to integrated resource management planning in the region.

The Nahatlatch report also recommended that a systematic heritage inventory be undertaken in the areas that were most exposed to recreational use, with priority given to the “high potential” flats and benches in the valley bottom (Albright 1993). A subsequent field inventory sponsored by the Ministry of Forests identified fourteen heritage sites, with the consultant concluding that the results “substantiate the conclusions of Albright's 1993 Overview Report, that the Nahatlatch valley bottom is an area of high heritage potential” (Zacharias 1994a:35). A subsequent AIA of a proposed talc mine near the mouth of the Nahatlatch River was modelled after this overview

(Zacharias 1994b). In keeping with the general goals of integrated resource management, the author recommended for maintenance of habitat integrity to minimize impacts to traditional Nlaka’pamux resource activities. In the end, the Chilliwack Forest

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District never followed through with the full potential for integrated resource management planning in the Nahatlatch valley. However, the NNTC landscape approach was partially validated in 1999 when an area covering 1,760 ha in the valley bottom was designated a provincial park and protected area.

Through the early 1990s, the NNTC continued to document the archaeological, historical and traditional significance of various places to support specific claims and review CRM projects in the areas of Boston Bar, Kanaka Bar, Nicomen, Nohomeen,

Oregon Jack, Spapium, and Tuckozap.

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By the mid-1990s, the escalating pace of development in the region led to a surge in the number of CRM projects in Nlaka’pamux territory, with five times more CRM permits issued by the end of the decade than in the

1980s (Figure 14). However, integration of archaeological management into forestry practices was an even more important factor affecting Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship.

The Nlaka’pamux and Forestry Archaeology (1994–2004)

The 1991 and 1993 court decisions in the Delgamuukw case compelled the province to make greater efforts at consultation and reconciliation with First Nations. At the same time, changes to forestry practices led to the 1994 protocol agreement between the Archaeology Branch and the Ministry of Forests and the subsequent incorporation of heritage values into forestry legislation. Later that year, the first forestryrelated AIA under this new process took place in Nlaka’pamux territory, and by the end of the decade, 23 Heritage Inspection permits for forestry AIAs had been issued for the mid-Fraser region along with an additional six forestry alteration permits. Indeed, by the end of the 1990s, forestry AIAs exceeded the combined total of all other types of CRM projects for the entire decade (Figure 14). With forestry developments suddenly subject to archaeological assessments, NNTC research staff could no longer effectively monitor the number of incoming archaeology referrals, a situation made especially acute with the departure of the staff archaeologist in 1995. Consequently, the involvement of the NNTC and Nlaka’pamux communities in forestry AIAs varied over the next few years.

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See Archaeology files (NAb), NNTC Archives, Lytton, B.C.

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Figure 14. Number of archaeology permits issued by decade in Nlaka'pamux territory, mid-Fraser region.

With the shift in power relations in the post-Delgamuukw environment, the

Nlaka’pamux Nation took a firmer stance on resource development issues. A major turning point in their advocacy was the 1995 declaration of the Nlaka’pamux Nation

Resolution on Natural Resources and The Principles of Their Management, which set out the position of the Nation in the context of indigenous title and rights. Despite issues with capacity, Nlaka’pamux perspectives on resource development influenced CRM practices and the forestry AIA process during this period. For example, in a 1995 project undertaken with the “cooperation” of the Cook’s Ferry band (a Nlaka’pamux community not affiliated with the NNTC), consulting archaeologists hired field assistants from the community, Elders and community members provided traditional knowledge (Bailey

1996). Chief David Walkem reviewed the permit application and draft report, and the acknowledgements section of the report gives a hint at the nature of his comments and the shifting attitudes of archaeologists:

The study could not have been a success without the participation

of

the

Cook's Ferry Band. We thank Chief David Walkem for his valuable

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comments on the permit application and for his interest and cooperation throughout the project. Chief Walkem's comments on a draft of the report reminded us how pervasive our own world view is, and how much it affects our archaeological interpretations. [Bailey 1996:vi]

The following year, these consultants undertook another forestry AIA in the same general area, but now in a location where both the Cook’s Ferry band and the Oregon

Jack Creek band (affiliated with the NNTC) had an interest. Whereas the former band participated in the AIA, the latter declined to do so, instead focussing on developing a protocol agreement with the forestry company (Eldridge et al. 1997). By the fall of 1996, other communities affiliated with the NNTC were declining to become involved in forestry

AIAs (Biely and Wilson 1996), and by early 1997 the NNTC was informing consulting companies to refrain from conducting AIAs pending the development of a protocol governing these studies (Biely 1997). This position stemmed in part from the concern that several bands had participated in a traditional use study that the NNTC felt had undercut their efforts to assert their title and rights.

To implement the new NNTC protocol, developed in late 1997, and to address the growing number of referrals, the NNTC hired an archaeologist, Karen Aird, to work with their Resource Policy Advisor. They immediately began investigating proposed cutblocks prior to archaeological assessments (Aird 1997), and liaising with forestry proponents in the hope that Nlaka’pamux perspectives would be considered and community concerns addressed during their operations. Although some consulting companies simply chose to ignore the NNTC and made no effort to involve Nlaka’pamux communities, others complied with the protocol or honoured its spirit. For example, of the eleven forestry-related AIA permits issued to six archaeological consulting firms in

1997 through 1999 for work in their territory, four firms holding eight permits informed bands of the proposed work, solicited information from the community, and hired community members, while the remaining two companies (holding three permits) did not involve them in a meaningful way.

Several companies elected to work closely with the NNTC or Nlaka’pamux communities, knowing this business practice would ultimately be in their best interests.

For example, in 1997 the NNTC and Golder Associates Ltd. jointly held archaeological assessment contracts with two forestry proponents, and in 1998 the NNTC held contracts with two forestry proponents and the Ministry of Forests where Golder was

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subcontracted to provide archaeological services (Wada and Bailey 1999; Wada et al.

1998b). These projects led to the inspection of 37 cutblocks, three roads, and a landing.

In 1997 Forest Renewal BC also awarded the NNTC with a major grant to undertake an inventory of trails within the portion of Nlaka’pamux territory falling within the Chilliwack

Forest District, and again Golder was subcontracted to assist with this project. The objective of this study was to compile baseline data on traditional Nlaka’pamux trails, in order to contribute to archaeological site modelling and enhance heritage management in forestry operations (Wada et al. 1998a).

Nlaka’pamux communities also turned to forestry-related AIAs for evidence, particularly in the form of CMTs, to support their pursuit of Aboriginal title and rights (see

Perreault 2002:74; Ross 2005:65). In one case, Siska First Nation (a Nlaka’pamux community not affiliated with the NNTC) worked closely with a consulting firm on a forestry-related AIA in the upper Siska Creek valley. They identified 17 cedar CMTs, all presumed to post-date AD 1846 (Hill and Nussberger 1997). This result led to a protracted battle over logging plans. Siska First Nation had declared a Tribal Park in the

Siska valley in September of 1994, but four years later J.S. Jones Timber Co. began building a road into this area. Among other values in the valley, including its use for sustenance and spiritual practices, Siska First Nation had specific concerns over the post-1846 cedar CMTs identified in the archaeological assessment (Ross 2005:65,107).

A legal petition asking for a court injunction against further road-building was dismissed in July of 1998, and one year later the Ministry of Forests issued a cutting permit for several cut blocks. Logging proceeded until October 6, when about 40 members of the

Siska First Nation blockaded the road, trapping some logging contractors behind the barricade. That led to a physical confrontation between the two sides, which ended the next day when a court injunction was obtained against the protestors to remove the blockade.

Subsequently, Siska First Nation sought a judicial review of decisions made by the Ministry of Forests, and petitioned for an interlocutory injunction against roadbuilding in the Siska valley. They argued that this activity would infringe aboriginal rights and title, and that the Crown failed to fulfil its duty to consult with them before granting the approvals in question. Specifically, they asked for an injunction against alterations of

CMTs and other sensitive heritage values. However, the judge asserted that the actual concern of the First Nation was not “site-specific” in nature. Instead,

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[t]he real issue dividing the parties arises out of their different perspectives. The respondents want the Band to identify what are described as site-specific infringements so that they may take steps to prevent them. The Band insists that it does not rely on site-specific infringements but on intangible values that involve all things in the watershed. As the petitioner's counsel put it, the Band takes a holistic approach to the watershed and asserts that any timber harvesting activity whatsoever will permanently damage the cultural and spiritual practices of its members. [Siska Indian Band v. British Columbia 1998]

In the end, the judge ruled that road building would not interfere with any “sitespecific interests of the Band,” and furthermore, the petitioner did not demonstrate

“significant irreparable harm to the Band's asserted rights”. In a subsequent 1999 petition by the Siska First Nation for an interlocutory injunction against timber harvesting, the judge ruled that the harm to the logging company and the broader community that would come from preventing logging outweighed the harm to the Siska community.

These decisions illustrate the sharp epistemological divide between Nlaka’pamux and legislative approaches to heritage stewardship. Whereas in the 1980s First Nations had used the “court of public opinion” to successfully halt logging in the Stein valley, in the late 1990s the legal system was not nearly as sympathetic.

The pace of logging operations and the logistics of forestry CRM projects strained the capacity of First Nations. After 1998 the NNTC no longer directly held contracts with logging companies or other proponents, and by the new millennium consulting companies began dealing directly with individual communities. As in the preceding years, most consulting companies informed communities of the proposed work, solicited information from them, and hired their members. Of the 11 forestryrelated permits issued to seven consulting firms from 2000 to 2004, all but three included the involvement of Nlaka’pamux bands, although whether these relationships were in the best interests of the nation and it’s communities is not certain. Nonetheless, a broader nation-based “integrated resource management” approach to land use planning, CRM practice, and heritage stewardship, modelled on the Nahatlatch Valley experience earlier in the decade, remained unrealized.

Chapter Summary: Renewal and Transformation

The Nlaka’pamux engagement with archaeology and heritage stewardship over the past 135 years reflects the decline and subsequent renewal of indigenous activism

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and authority, as well as the growing recognition of the responsibility of the discipline to descendant communities. The fifty-year period beginning in 1877 is characterized by diminishing Nlaka’pamux authority over land, resources, and heritage. At best, archaeologists during this period sought permission from Nlaka’pamux communities while working on reserves, and community members were hired only when necessary.

By 1927, the proclamation of federal and provincial legislation firmly asserted Crown ownership over Indigenous heritage.

The period from 1927 until the late 1960s represents the nadir of Nlaka’pamux political power. The accompanying decline in their participation in heritage stewardship was not due to a lack of interest in exercising their rights but instead was a matter of systemic exclusion. Permission from communities for archaeological projects was no longer sought, and the shift to culture-historical archaeology led to the near total absence of Nlaka’pamux voice within research products. Even the modest economic benefits accrued from archaeology in the late nineteenth century was absent, with

Nlaka’pamux workers largely replaced by the voluntary labour of university students. A limited transfer of authority to the Nlaka’pamux occurred in the late 1960s and early

1970s with the political revitalization of First Nations. This led to a greater role for

Nlaka’pamux communities in archaeological projects, and increased recognition of their interests in the archaeological record. Nonetheless, this progress was weakened by the shift to cultural resource management and consulting archaeology during the late 1970s and early 1980s. In the CRM paradigm, corporate interests and economic imperatives left little room for Nlaka’pamux involvement.

In the early 1980s, the Nlaka’pamux reacted strongly against prevailing CRM practice. Some archaeologists began directly supporting Nlaka’pamux objectives, and challenging the practices and ethics of other members of their discipline, particularly those working for development proponents. While they did not acquire any greater legal authority over their heritage, Nlaka’pamux moral authority was on the rise. Along with the

CN Rail twin-tracking heritage project, the successful “save the Stein” campaign during the late 1980s was a high water mark of Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship. However, the Stein outcome was not duplicated elsewhere in the mid-Fraser region, and the potential for Nlaka’pamux archaeology was not fully realized.

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In the 1990s, legal decisions and regulatory changes favoured greater recognition of Nlaka’pamux authority over heritage, particularly in the forestry sector.

CRM archaeologists increasingly accepted a place for Indigenous peoples in heritage stewardship, and the Nlaka’pamux took on a larger role in archaeological practice, as participants, managers, and decision-makers. Although not universally embraced, the responsibility of archaeologists to Indigenous peoples reflected a shifting of ethics in the discipline as a whole. In the early years of the new millennium, the Nlaka’pamux had less direct involvement with archaeological consultants and development proponents, but continued to actively pursue heritage research in the context of specific claims research. By the middle of the 2000s, the NNTC and member communities were searching for new opportunities and approaches to heritage stewardship.

The Nlaka’pamux experience described in this chapter differs in a number of ways from that of the St’át’imc. The latter nation was first exposed to archaeology in a substantial manner in the 1970s, a period when Indigenous political revitalization was underway and academic archaeologists made somewhat greater efforts to acknowledge and involve Indigenous peoples. This may have encouraged greater collaboration with archaeologists, and acceptance of CRM practice, by the St’át’imc, and led to successful efforts at development-specific heritage stewardship. In contrast, the more confrontational approach to CRM taken by the Nlaka’pamux in the 1980s and 1990s led to a number of successes against major developments, but this strategy did not translate into a collaborative relationship with industry. Nonetheless, the similarities between

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc perspectives on heritage and stewardship are pronounced, and both nations share common aspirations for archaeological practice and landscape stewardship. In the next chapter, I describe how these perspectives and aspirations converge in current Nlaka’pamux efforts at asserting greater authority over heritage and landscape.

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Chapter 7.

Nlaka’pamux Case Study: Tradition and

Landscape in Heritage Stewardship

Those First Nations active in protecting heritage are those who have a strong sense of identity and confidence; a core need for maintaining tribal identity.

Raymond Phillips, Lytton, 2010

Over the last decade, the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal Council (NNTC) has been compelled to react to growing pressure from resource and industrial activities in their territory. Even as timber harvesting waned in the region, other major projects have been proposed or initiated, such as solid-waste disposal sites near Ashcroft and Cache Creek, expansion of the Highland Valley copper mine, and the BC Hydro Interior-Lower

Mainland transmission line. Likewise, most unprotected watersheds are now being considered, or under development, for so-called independent power projects (run-of-theriver hydroelectricity facilities). All this puts heritage at greater risk of disturbance and destruction, while the Nlaka’pamux struggle to balance economic and stewardship needs. This encroachment on the integrity of their lands has created a sense of urgency for Nlaka’pamux concerned with heritage stewardship. Against this backdrop, the NNTC recognized a need for a more proactive engagement with development referrals and heritage impact assessments, with the objective of more effectively asserting their role as both stewards and owners of heritage.

The case study presented in this chapter is based on the processes and outcomes of two significant Nlaka’pamux heritage stewardship initiatives launched since

2005. The first is the NNTC effort to develop a heritage law and regulations that will apply to research and development projects within their territory. This project involved consultation via community meetings and workshops, and resulted in the documentation of substantial Nlaka’pamux traditional knowledge pertaining to heritage. The second is

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the specific effort by Lytton First Nation to commemorate the Stein and Botanie “cultural landscape” as a National Historic Site of Canada. A successful outcome of this project was the accumulation of a large collection of knowledge about specific places on their land (Figure 15). At the same time, it also exposed some of the challenges and limitations facing First Nations in their attempts to manage their own heritage within a settler society.

Figure 15. Alison Duncan and John Haugen of the NNTC ground-truthing place names on Stryen IR 9, 2006.

This Nlaka’pamux case study is at once analogous to and distinct from the

St’át’imc experience (presented in Chapters 4 and 5). In the preceding chapter I related the past engagement of the Nlaka’pamux with archaeology, which described a different historical arc than that of their St’át’imc counterparts. Whereas the St’át’imc had a relatively recent introduction to archaeology and its potential benefits, the Nlaka’pamux had a much earlier and generally negative exposure to the discipline. These contrasting experiences may have influenced the two nations to differ in their responses to the

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practice of archaeology over the last few decades. By the 1990s, the St’át’imc had pragmatically adapted archaeological methods to suit their own needs, and their case study described how they successfully engaged in the practice of development-specific

CRM while collaborating with archaeologists, albeit with their own objectives, processes and methods. In contrast, beginning in the 1980s the Nlaka’pamux reacted strongly against CRM practice and countered it with their own research emphasizing their perspectives, while employing both archaeologists and ethnographers as their allies. On the other hand, except for a few brief ventures, the Nlaka’pamux did not directly engage in CRM practice, instead focussing their efforts on landscape level planning and stewardship. Despite the initial differing responses of the two nations, their efforts and approaches are now converging. The St’át’imc now emphasize landscape level stewardship in the context of development-specific CRM, while the Nlaka’pamux are moving toward greater direct involvement in development-specific CRM in the context of landscape stewardship.

In this case study, I review the underlying principles that inform Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage stewardship, particularly in the context of asserting greater authority over heritage stewardship, and consider how these principles might be put into effect in the protection of the Nlaka’pamux landscape. In the first half of the chapter, I describe contemporary Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage, as found in traditional knowledge and community attitudes. Although largely derived from the research conducted by the NNTC for their heritage law, I supplement their documentation with the results of my own research and information from conversations with individuals. In the second half of the chapter, I describe the genesis and background of the Stein-Botanie

Nlaka’pamux cultural landscape National Historic Site of Canada proposal, and its relationship to their ideas of landscape and intangible heritage. This project is a “realworld” example of integrating Nlaka’pamux heritage perspectives with the priorities and principles of community-based research. I also examine some of the obstacles facing cultural landscape designations, and consider the pros and cons of alternative management and stewardship approaches, in the context of archaeological practice and heritage stewardship objectives.

The two projects described here illustrate differing conceptions of heritage as articulated by government policy and Indigenous peoples. This case study highlights the

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complexities of stewardship, offers insights into developing new forms of archaeological practice, and reveals the importance of place and landscape in relation to heritage.

Nlaka’pamux Perspectives on Archaeology and Heritage

In late 2008, the NNTC began community consultations for developing a comprehensive heritage stewardship law.

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By 2010, two roundtable planning meetings, a technical staff workshop, and six community workshops had gathered the information that formed the nucleus of their proposed heritage regulations. At their request, I participated in the planning and implementation of the community research, attended the meetings and workshops, provided a summary of the responses, and analyzed the results. Subsequently, I helped develop the structure and content of the proposed regulations for review and revision by their leadership, technical staff, and community members. My participation in the NNTC heritage regulations research provided me with substantive insights and privileged information regarding Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage and stewardship, and the following sections contain my synthesis of these viewpoints.

Research Methods

Before beginning the community research for my dissertation, a research protocol and information-sharing agreement with the NNTC was signed (Appendix B).

The process for developing the NNTC heritage law started in October 2008. My involvement began with reviewing heritage policies and processes of other First Nations in the province, and developing potential heritage impact assessment methods and procedures for the NNTC . By the summer of 2009, a preliminary protocol was in place, complete with field forms and report templates. At the same time, I helped develop preliminary research questions for gathering community perspectives on heritage

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In the context of this discussion, I use the term “law” to encompass the various terms proposed by the NNTC for their instruments intended to implement cultural heritage stewardship, including principles, policy, and regulations.

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stewardship, largely derived from similar research (see Bell and Napoleon 2008a:491) and the heritage policies of other First Nations in British Columbia.

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Community discussions for the law started with two roundtable meetings organized by NNTC technical staff in the fall of 2009. The first was used to outline the potential content of the heritage law, and review the proposed research questions for subsequent forums. At the second meeting they reviewed and approved the preliminary outline and overall objectives of the heritage law. Thirty-eight invited shaytknmahh

(Nlaka’pamux people) and other participants attended these meetings, with an emphasis on Elders and leaders but also including administrators and technical staff, all told representing a wide range of parties with experience in heritage stewardship.

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They identified core issues and spoke to concerns that should be addressed by heritage protocols. Videotapes of these planning meetings were transcribed, and summaries of key points from both meetings were prepared. Guided by the results of these meetings,

10 questions were developed for use in subsequent community workshops in order to gain the specific direction and data for developing the content of the law (Table 13).

In January of 2010, a “pilot” workshop was held with 16 administrative and technical personnel of the NNTC and a facilitator. Eight shaytknmahh also provided written submissions. Based on the results and feedback gathered from the workshop and written submissions, a revised set of nine questions were prepared for the subsequent community workshops held during March 2010 in the Nlaka’pamux communities of Boothroyd, Boston Bar, Kanaka Bar, Lytton, Skuppah, and Spuzzum.

Members from both Ashcroft and Oregon Jack Creek attended the earlier planning meetings, but did not participate in the workshops. A facilitator verbally posed the research questions to each of the groups, and the ensuing responses and discussions were recorded on compact disc and also summarized in point form on flipcharts. In total,

43 shaytknmahh participated in these community workshops, including several that took part in the pilot technical workshop.

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The heritage policies reviewed included those of the Sto:lo Nation, the Upper Similkameen

Indian Band, the In-SHUCK-ch Nation, the Lil’wat First Nation, and the Gitanyow, as well as heritage-related memoranda of understanding from the Hul’quminum Treaty Group and

Ktunaxa Treaty Council.

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Nineteen individual shaytknmahh and four shAma. (non-Native people) attended one or both planning meetings.

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Table 13. Questions used in the Nlaka’pamux Community Heritage Workshops.

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

What is Nlaka’pamux cultural heritage?

Why is it important to protect heritage?

What are Nlaka’pamux teachings (customary laws) about caring for and protecting cultural heritage?

What are the major threats to Nlaka’pamux heritage, and some of the challenges for protecting it?*

What should be the priorities for protecting heritage?

Should heritage stewardship be community-based or Nation-based, or a combination of the two?

What role should Elders, leadership, technical staff, and community members have in decision-making and implementing a heritage policy?

Should there be rules concerning copyright and confidentiality, and rules about collecting objects and intellectual property?

What actions should be taken against those that disregard Nlaka’pamux laws and regulations? 9

* In the original set of questions, “threats” and “challenges” were posed as separate questions.

All told, 59 Nlaka’pamux individuals (and six non-Nlaka’pamux) participated in the roundtable meetings, technical workshop, and community forums, and an additional seven provided written submissions (Appendix B). They represented the voices of

Elders, chiefs and councillors, tribal and community technical staff (natural resources, heritage, language, fisheries, health and social services), band and tribal administrative staff, and ordinary community members (Table 14). The participants do not represent a randomly selected cross-section of the Nation’s membership, as they were invited or self-selected on the basis of their own interest in the process and subject. In terms of the community roles, however, the participants represent a fairly even number of Elders, leaders, administrators, and members, providing each of these segments with a similar degree of authority. Although technical persons are over-represented, this is not unexpected given the nature of the process.

Members from six communities affiliated with the Nlaka’pamux Nation Tribal

Council attended the meetings or workshops (Table 15), with the majority coming from

Lytton First Nation (the largest of the NNTC communities). Individuals from three communities (Ashcroft, Lower Nicola, and Nooaitch) not affiliated with the NNTC also attended. Lytton is under-represented on the basis of total registered population, while the remaining participating NNTC communities are over-represented. Overall, the process used in the roundtable meetings and workshops reflected Nlaka’pamux values and customs. The roundtable meetings with invited participants provided an opportunity for Elders and leadership to provide initial guidance, reflecting the respect for their knowledge, wisdom, and experience. The workshops, on the other hand, provided all

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interested members of the Nation with an opportunity to comment and expand on the initial guidance and themes provided by the Elders and leaders, reflecting the pluralist, communitarian, open and accessible characteristics of Nlaka’pamux decision-making and civic life. This approach is not intended to submerge variation or suppress individual opinion; rather, consensus in a group meeting is consistent with Nlaka’pamux traditions.

Table 14. NNTC Workshop Participants. Table 15. NNTC Community Participation.

Community Role # %

Elders

Leadership

Ex-leadership

NNTC technical

Community tech

NNTC admin

Community admin

Community member

14

11

4

12

11

6

3

15

18

15

5

16

15

8

4

20

TOTAL 76* 101†

* Total exceeds 59 because some individuals were identified with multiple community roles.

† Total exceeds 100% due to rounding.

Community

Ashcroft

Boothroyd

Boston Bar

Kanaka Bar

Lytton

Oregon Jack

# Part.

1

8

3

8

22

1

Skuppah

Spuzzum

Unknown

Lower Nicola

6

5

3

1

Nooaitch

TOTAL†

1

59

† Total exceeds 100% due to rounding

%

1.7

13.6

5.1

13.6

37.3

1.7

10.2

8.5

5.1

1.7

1.7

100.2

The following sections summarize of the responses to each question from the community workshops, the pilot workshop, and the written submissions. These summaries are based on the flipchart notes taken during the workshops, supplemented with information from the community planning meetings and other sources as indicated.

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Nlaka’pamux Heritage

When asked to define Nlaka’pamux cultural heritage (Question 1), workshop participants described a range of features, attributes, and values that extend beyond conventional conceptions of heritage, both in the narrow sense of archaeological heritage and in the broader sense of culture. Seven broad categories coalesced from the diverse responses to this question (Table 16).

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Due to technical difficulties, not all workshop recordings were usable, and for consistency’s sake only flipchart notes were used to summarize the workshop data for this dissertation.

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Table 16. Categories and Components of Nlaka’pamux Heritage.

Category

Knowledge

Language

Traditions

Including place names

Customs and laws, including those pertaining to ceremonies, drumming, dances, songs, games, rituals (death, burial, puberty), and healing

Traditional practices Activities pertaining to land and resource use, such as fishing, hunting, gathering, and the methods for tanning, making clothing, basketry, carving, net- and tool-making, food preparation and preservation

Land and resources Including water, air, ecosystems and the environment, as well as all animals, fish, plants, and traditional foods

Cultural places

Cultural objects and technology

Components

Stories, history, and teachings, as well as knowledge of the land, water, animals, and plants

Spiritual sites for fasting and visions, coyote and transformer sites, landmarks and historical sites (e.g., battlefields), structures and dwellings, river crossings, trails, gathering and trading sites, hunting grounds, gathering areas, fishing sites, culturally modified trees, and all places conventionally categorized as archaeological sites, including pithouses, cooking pits, cache pits, fishing sites, burial grounds, pictographs (rock paintings) and petroglyphs (rock carvings)

Traditional tools (e.g., dipnets, baskets, digging tools, carvings, canoes), as well as archaeological artifacts

Participants strongly emphasized the intangible aspects of Nlaka’pamux heritage, and consistently identified knowledge as the single-most important feature, followed closely by language, traditions, and traditional practices. The land and the related aspects of water, air and resources were also frequently included in their conception.

Less common were references to tangible heritage, such as places and sites (e.g., sacred sites, archaeological sites, fishing sites) as well as artifacts, objects, and technology. The relative emphasis placed on each category is graphically represented in a “word cloud” (Figure 16), where the size of each term represents the relative frequency that it was identified by workshop participants.

Specifically, heritage is derived from the knowledge and traditions learned from ancestors, and passed from generation to generation. More generally, it includes the history of the Nlaka’pamux, and where they came from: “the story about who we are, where we lived, [and] how we survived.”

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It also consists of Nlaka’pamux knowledge and use of the land, water, trees, fish, animals and plants, in the past and present: “What our people have been doing for thousands of years.” Elders now carry this knowledge and these traditions, and are the teachers of the children, but the responsibility for

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All quotations in this and the following sections are taken directly from the community workshop flipchart notes, which represent the paraphrased statements of individual participants. Although not necessarily word-for-word statements, each of these were vetted by the participants during the workshop and accurately represent their views.

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passing on this knowledge is a common duty. Significantly, nlha.kApmhhchEEn (the

Nlaka’pamux language) is the main vehicle for passing on Nlaka’pamux culture and traditions, and a central marker of their identity.

Figure 16. A “word cloud” representing the relative frequency of terms used in the workshops.

Participants made little distinction between intangible and tangible features of heritage–instead, they are viewed as inextricably related components. Moreover, their conception incorporates all facets of the natural environment needed for survival, and their respect for the land, water, air and natural resources. Indeed, their expansive view encompasses all aspects of the world that allow them to exist as a distinct people.

Overall, participants described heritage as the source of Nlaka’pamux identity. This expansive point of view challenges conventional perspectives of heritage stewardship, which generally focus on tangible and site-specific features, and a better analogue for the Nlaka’pamux conception of heritage is the contemporary anthropological idea of the

“cultural landscape.”

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Protecting Heritage

Not surprisingly, given their broad vision, shaytknmahh in the workshops attached considerable significance to preserving and protecting heritage (Question 2).

Responses to this question spoke to the following themes: 1) maintaining traditions and language, 2) maintaining identity, 3) saving the land and places, 4) showing responsibility to future generations, 5) asserting title and rights, and 6) educating and guiding broader society. Their answers were often statements that simply expressed

“why heritage is important.”

Maintaining Traditions and Language. On a fundamental level, preserving traditions and language are considered inherently important, because they represent the essence of being Nlaka’pamux–a “good way of life that we don’t want to lose.” Indeed, loss is a common theme that ran through these conversations, and therefore a concerted effort at protecting what is left is essential. Some thought the “true

Nlaka’pamux way and language” is in danger of disappearing, because the “language and traditions are slipping away, traditions are changing, [and] things have been added.”

The participants recognize that Nlaka’pamux communities are losing knowledge at a rapid pace, especially as Elders pass away, instilling a fear that their heritage “will end up only in books on shelves.” In particular, one participant bluntly stated that the “death of a people’s language is the death of a people.” Without heritage and language, “people are lost, [and become] assimilated.”

Maintaining Identity. Preserving a Nlaka’pamux sense of identity was important to the participants, and protecting heritage is a vital component of this goal. As one participant put it, “those First Nations active in protecting heritage are those who have a strong sense of identity [and] confidence; [it is] a core need for [maintaining] tribal identity.” Cultural heritage “says who we are, [that we’ve] been here a long time, and

[are] not going anywhere–so our ancestors can hear us.” Protecting heritage was about ensuring that “our identities won’t be lost and so that our children and future generations can survive on the land and inherit our traditional ways of life, so that they can continue to pass on this knowledge and experience to their future generations for many years to come.”

Saving the Land and Places. Tangible heritage–artifacts, pithouses, rock paintings, and the environment itself–reflects and encapsulates Nlaka’pamux culture and

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history. Much of the land has already been disturbed, and development continues to destroy the environs and resources important to them. As such, they “need to protect what we still have, [as] enough has been taken away [already].” Protecting tangible heritage and stewardship of the land are important facets of maintaining Nlaka’pamux identity.

Responsibility to Future Generations. A common refrain in the workshops was the participants’ collective responsibility to future generations of Nlaka’pamux. Many expressed the critical importance of teaching children and youth about customary lifeways, so that this knowledge is available to future generations. As one participant explained, “we are protecting what our ancestors wanted us to know.”

Asserting Title and Rights. Cultural heritage also has inherent properties that hold political and practical implications. As indigenous title to their land has never been extinguished, protecting heritage is their way of asserting, maintaining, and exercising their collective title and rights. Practising and preserving their traditions “confirms and proves we are the original people, [and] ensure[s] the well-being of the people.” The

Nlaka’pamux verify their presence through the sites and features found on the land, which recounts their long history of occupation.

Education and Guidance. Educating society about their culture and history is a duty that they equally share. By building awareness of Nlaka’pamux heritage, they hope that Canadians and corporations will be more supportive and understanding of their aspirations. Their efforts will also provide guidance to non-Nlaka’pamux about their heritage stewardship values and priorities. However, participants felt that Nlaka’pamux knowledge and heritage should be controlled to prevent its misuse, appropriation, and exploitation by others. In this vein, some participants felt that any financial gain from their heritage, whether commercial or institutional in nature, should stay with them. One respondent noted that the Nlaka’pamux are “willing to share, but need something back.”

Traditional Teachings

Responses to Question 3 overwhelming conveyed three general themes: 1) respect and responsibility, 2) take only what you need, and 3) teaching by example.

Although participants did not specifically identify traditions relating to the care and protection of heritage, the importance of traditions and customary practices relating to

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hunting, fishing, gathering, puberty, and death were emphasized. These interrelated principles illustrate an overall Nlaka’pamux ethic towards heritage stewardship.

Participants indicated that caring for and protecting heritage begins with showing respect to the land and other beings. They do this by giving offerings and prayers before using the land and its resources, by giving thanks for what is received, and by giving back to the land. This reciprocal arrangement, for instance, is manifested in the tradition of burning forests and grasslands to rejuvenate plant growth and improve food for game animals. Sustainability, in their view, is only possible if you take just what you need, never let anything go to waste, and share what you have with others. Some participants also pointed out that in the past there was no need for “laws” to protect heritage, and stewardship was just a part of everyday life. Parents taught children what to do, and they

“watched and learned from the way people behaved.”

Their observance of the principles of respect, sustainability, and teaching by example are evident by specific traditional practices. For example, in the “first fish” and

“first deer” ceremonies, novice hunters and fishers demonstrate their generosity and gratitude by giving away the first deer they kill and the first salmon they catch, thereby ensuring that sometime in the future they will be recipients of someone else’s kindness.

When digging cedar roots, people had to have a “respectable appearance, had to be out of there [the cedar grove] before dark, thank the tree for taking its roots, leave a tobacco offering, [and] leave the site the way you found it.” Hunters will talk to the animals, and explain what they need. After killing and cleaning an animal, they will thank it for giving up its life for them. All of these practices keep the Nlaka’pamux mindful of their responsibilities to maintaining and conserving the land and its beings.

Participants emphasized the importance of traditions relating to death and burial.

They described a variety of observances in the presence of graves and human remains that show their respect for their ancestors. Furthermore, any human remains encountered should be left undisturbed wherever possible, while artifacts associated with graves should be avoided and left where they are found. If disturbance to human remains and associated artifacts is unavoidable, appropriate protocols must be followed.

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Threats and Challenges

The Nlaka’pamux participants were keenly aware that their heritage is under extraordinary threat, from both internal and external sources.

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Responses to Question 4 related to the following themes: 1) social, economic, and political threats; 2) assimilation and loss of knowledge; 3) industry and developments; 4) lack of capacity; 5) government policy; 6) environmental issues, and 7) collectors.

Social, Economic, and Political Threats. Many of the participants identified social, economic, and political factors as the biggest threat to Nlaka’pamux culture and heritage. These threats come from both outside and inside their communities. Changes in their society began with the arrival of Simon Fraser, while colonization took away traditional lifestyle, leading to social problems, economic hardships, and political upheaval. The subsequent Indian Act imposed by Canada created the reserve system that divided the nation, and eroded their unity and strength. Internal divisions and disputes with neighbours over land and resources have weakened the Nlaka’pamux nation, and they are now “selling resources instead of using them.” Some felt that introducing the cash economy led to greed and a dependence on money, which has become the source of many social problems, including dependence on drugs and alcohol. Outside cultural influences, such as mass media and the internet, continue to erode Nlaka’pamux identity, to the extent that many of the younger generation do not want to learn or practice traditional ways. Many Nlaka’pamux “who disavow language

[and] traditions are becoming assimilated [and] giving up their rights.” The participants stressed that they need to unite as a nation, and work together to revitalize their heritage.

Assimilation and Loss of Knowledge. As happened for other Indigenous peoples in Canada, the greatest rupture in Nlaka’pamux knowledge occurred during the residential school period. Alienating children from their language, their families, and their connections to the land and to traditional practices was intended to force their assimilation into Canadian society. While residential schools were responsible for the initial catastrophic loss of knowledge, the challenge facing them now is how to halt this ongoing erosion, and revitalize their ancestors’ knowledge and practices.

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In the workshop with NNTC staff, “threats” and “challenges” were posed as two separate questions. Their responses to these questions have been combined in this section.

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Industry and Development. Although their encounter with colonization resulted in substantial erosion of intangible Nlaka’pamux heritage, extant industrial development and resource exploitation now threaten the land and tangible heritage. Participants identified mining, forestry, hydroelectric, transportation and tourism developments as the main causes of the “mass destruction” of archaeological sites, graves, hunting areas, plant gathering areas, and other physical manifestations of Nlaka’pamux heritage.

Commercial exploitation of renewable resources, such as fish and mushrooms, has also led to over-harvesting. An emerging threat involves pharmaceutical companies bioprospecting for medicinal plants. These activities are undertaken by “people who have no respect for the land and from people who want to change the land–which in the end leads to environmental issues, impacts over the years and it affects many things such as the animals, our way of life, the natural traditional foods, [and] the air we breathe.”

Lack of Capacity. Although participants readily identified the external and internal threats to their heritage, they also readily acknowledge that a critical challenge is the lack of community capacity to protect, manage, and promote it. As a whole, the

Nlaka’pamux nation does not currently possess sufficient personnel, training, education, resources, or time to effectively and independently take on heritage stewardship. To a certain degree, the resolution to this situation is internal, but through promoting education, revitalizing traditions, and prioritizing heritage stewardship alongside economic development they can yield positive results. At the same, the solution must also come from external sources, such as the provincial government, non-governmental organizations, and even resource companies with an interest in their area.

Government Policy. The federal and provincial governments were also identified as sources of threats to heritage. A succession of federal and provincial laws, from the federal Indian Act to the provincial Heritage Conservation Act, have disregarded

Aboriginal title and rights and curtailed Nlaka’pamux sovereignty, and have impeded their efforts to control their own heritage. Respondents commented on how laws, regulations, and policies favour the interests of the federal and provincial governments over those of the Nlaka’pamux. Some laws also differ on-reserve and off-reserve. The current treaty process is also not seen as a solution to the problem, as it will involve the loss of title and rights.

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Environmental issues. Dangers to Nlaka’pamux heritage sometimes emanate from far beyond the borders of their land. Climate change and El Niño, the pine beetle infestation, pollution in the Fraser River, and the decline of the salmon runs are among the external environmental threats identified by the participants that arise in distant places. They often feel powerless to combat these destructive forces, which compromise their desire for “seeing that the land, food, water and air are in a ‘Healthy’ state for our future generations so that they will be able to survive in the future and to carry on with our traditional ways of life.”

Collectors. The actions of looters and collectors threaten both tangible and intangible heritage. Nlaka’pamux artifacts and objects have been stolen and sold, both in the past and the present, and even some band members traffic in artifacts and heirlooms. Because money is involved, protecting these artifacts is difficult. In the past researchers from universities and other institutions have also taken away recordings of stories and songs, and in some cases the Nlaka’pamux have lost rights of access to this intangible heritage. Several of the participants also linked the threat posed by collectors to other issues, including the need for an inventory of collections, repatriating objects and artifacts from individuals and institutions, and protecting intellectual property.

Priorities for Preserving Heritage

Confronted by profound cultural loss, participants identified preserving and passing on Nlaka’pamux knowledge and traditions to future generations as their highest priority for the preservation of their identity and heritage (Question 5). In particular, maintaining and enhancing the Nlaka’pamux language was stressed as essential.

Tackling these priorities will require an emphasis on education and traditional teaching, as well as enhanced research and documentation of heritage. In addition, protective measures for the land, resources, and cultural places and objects were identified as a priority. Successfully achieving these goals rest on aspirations to further develop

Nlaka’pamux laws, based on traditional teachings and the guidance of Elders.

For many, the key to preserving Nlaka’pamux heritage begins with teaching their language and traditions. Language training and heritage education should start in the school system, with curricula designed for all grade levels. Even so, learning language in school is different than a living language. As such, Elders should also teach the younger generation “on the land,” while learning and teaching traditional ways should also involve

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families, which will serve to strengthen family ties. Organizing cultural retreats, workshops, and gatherings involving entire communities or the nation would further facilitated education and teaching. A greater focus on training, capacity, and resources, including training in archaeology and other heritage professions, was also identified as a priority.

Comprehensive traditional use and occupancy studies, along with research and documentation of all aspects of Nlaka’pamux culture, would serve as a baseline for heritage preservation and protection. Audio and video recordings would be an important step for preserving the stories, histories, and traditional knowledge of Elders. An inventory of places and objects should also be a focus; for instance, mapping and documenting sacred places, cemeteries, and burial locations using GPS and GIS.

Private and public artifact collections also need to be identified, while archival sources need to be copied and deposited in a central repository. All communities would benefit from a comprehensive, centralized inventory that safely and securely preserves

Nlaka’pamux heritage, while a cultural centre or museum would serve to enhance education and teaching.

Revitalizing traditional practices by incorporating them into daily life was also a prime concern for workshop participants. Cultural heritage has to be actively practiced in order for it to be retained, so traditions need to be encouraged and reinforced. These include first fish, first deer, smokehouse, and sweatlodge ceremonies, as well as rites of passage such as vision quests for boys and puberty training for girls. However, several participants pointed out that external influences have altered some traditional practices, such as pan-Indigenism, making authenticity a critical issue.

Whereas preserving intangible heritage (i.e., language, knowledge, and traditional practices) was considered critical, considerable emphasis was also directed to tangible heritage (i.e., the land, resources, places, and objects). Participants felt that traditional teachings should be used to guide how tangible heritage is treated and protected. For instance, portable cultural objects (e.g., artifacts, tools, carvings) should not be taken, damaged or sold, while sacred sites should be respected and avoided. On the other hand, specific measures should also be implemented to protect places, resources, and the land. Although significant places need to be protected individually, similar measures must be implemented on a landscape scale, because places are

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closely associated with resources, features and the environment. For example, one participant pointed out that teaching and maintaining cedar root basketry has become very hard because of the difficulty in finding suitably large cedar trees. In other words, protection of the landscape itself is necessary for traditional practices to continue and flourish.

Developing and implementing rules, policies and guidelines for the protection of all aspects of heritage also must be a priority for the nation. Both the leaders and members need to “take control of what little is left.” Through communal effort the goal of developing a coherent heritage law based on traditional teachings and “customary law” is considered achievable. Drafting these regulations would enhance communication and cooperation between communities. It would also serve to educate “outsiders” and raise awareness of the requirements for protecting Nlaka’pamux heritage.

The Role of Communities and the Nation

Not surprisingly, consensus did not exist among participants in regards to whether heritage stewardship should primarily be a community concern or if that responsibility belongs to the nation (Question 6). Although linked by language, traditions, and history, the Nlaka’pamux Nation constitutes fifteen politically autonomous “bands” under the federal Indian Act. Many of these bands are also comprised of one or more communities organized along residential and ancestral lines. This is further complicated by the affiliation of the bands with two separate tribal councils. Although they often work together toward shared goals, this is the source of tension as these various entities struggle to balance band and community interests against common causes. Those who favour a community-based approach point out the importance of family rights, and champion the importance of grassroots power. Strengths identified for this case include: local knowledge, special interests, grassroots authority, and control over sensitive information. Others favour a nation-based approach, as they feel heritage stewardship affects everyone equally. Advantages identified for this position include: capacity, consistency, unity, sovereignty (title), and authority. Moreover, developing and implementing a heritage law requires shared capacity building, communication, and education from individuals, communities, and the nation. Nonetheless, the majority of the participants saw heritage stewardship as a joint responsibility of the communities and the nation, with complementary roles for both entities. Whereas participants felt that the

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nation as a whole should take the lead, substantive input, guidance and assistance is required from advisors from each community. This arrangement recognizes the diversity and differences of the communities, while at the same time giving the law more consistency, “clout,” and authority.

Ideally, all 15 Nlaka’pamux bands and their constituent communities would be involved in developing and implementing a heritage law. Indeed, this was seen as an ideal opportunity for the nation to enhance unity, by working together on a shared and common goal. One participant recalled that this was the process used in the past to make decisions. According to her grandmother, if a decision was needed the issue “was always brought to the people” first. Their decision would then go to each council for review and discussion, before passing it along to the chief of each community. Finally, the decision would be reviewed and approved by the head chief. If a decision is rejected at any stage of this process, it would go back to the people again: “this was the way it was [done] always till we were split up [by the imposition of bands under the Indian Act].”

Decision-making and Implementation

The participants recognized roles for Elders, community members, technical staff and leadership in heritage stewardship initiatives (Question 7). In particular, there was strong support for the role of Elders, who are recognized as having the most relevant experience and knowledge. Workshop participants recommended establishing an

Elder’s Council, with membership drawn from all communities, to provide guidance. To ensure substantive input and guidance from the nation, local advisory bodies nominated by the communities must be involved at every stage. The advisory body should be composed of members with appropriate skills and experience because its main purpose would be liaising with community members. At the same time, leadership and technical staff have specific expertise and skills needed to develop and implement a heritage law.

Ultimately, the participants identified decision-making as the people’s responsibility, and the role of leadership to act on their decisions.

Collecting Intellectual and Cultural Property

While participants were in favour of rules protecting intellectual and cultural property, there was less certainty as to how to specifically tackle these in a Nlaka’pamux heritage law (Question 8). There was general support for asserting copyright using

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existing federal laws, which should be utilized and enforced to their full extent. The idea of copyright was also wrapped up in the issue of research practices. For instance, some participants expressed their concern about researchers in the past taking knowledge

(e.g., stories, songs) from Elders and then either using it for their own gain, or not returning the information to the “informants” or the nation when requested. In cases like this, stronger protection for intellectual property was desired. Other participants were concerned about the possibility of pharmaceutical companies obtaining and

“trademarking” or patenting medicinal knowledge and medicinal plants. They suggested that the Nlaka’pamux should take steps to halt such a possibility, perhaps by using trademarks and patents themselves.

Participants were more specific in their concerns with confidentiality. In particular, there was a strong feeling that medicinal knowledge should not be disclosed to outsiders, and locations of culturally significant places kept confidential. Elders may also have proprietary interest in ceremonial or traditional knowledge, and disclosure of this information should be left up to each individual. In order to maintain confidentiality, a system of rules was needed, including confidentiality agreements, information-sharing protocols, consent forms, and release forms. These rules should apply equally to consulting projects and academic studies, so that information can be controlled by the nation under all circumstances.

Some participants also stressed that collecting objects and artifacts should be prohibited except under special circumstances. In cases where artifacts and objects must be collected, they should be recorded first and they should remain within the territory. Although one participant suggested that community members be permitted to collect objects and artifacts for their own use, most others indicated this was not acceptable. Some felt that all artifacts belonged to the nation, while others pointed out that they should be respected as the property of the ancestors and left in place. There was also general agreement that objects, artifacts and ancestral remains already collected and stored in museum collections be repatriated to the Nation, so that they could be reunited with the land and the ancestors.

Consequences

Without effective sovereignty over traditional lands, implementing and enforcing a

Nlaka’pamux heritage law poses difficulties (Question 9). Nonetheless, respondents had

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opinions about how to deal with those who contravened a Nlaka’pamux heritage law.

One approach would be to base enforcement on customary or traditional law. In other words, a contravention of the law would be brought before a council of Elders that would review the case and recommend an action. The recommendation would then be taken to leadership for review and a final decision. Some suggested that punishment should also be based on traditional methods, such as banishment from the community, posting or advertising the names of offenders, restrictions or taking away rights to certain places or resources, demands for restitution and compensation, and apologies. Others felt that fines or even imprisonment should be considered, although the process for implementing this action was abstract.

The “restorative justice” model was another proposal for applying a heritage law, where the intent is not punishment but rather to create an opportunity for people to make amends. By emphasizing education and community service, the hope is to change attitudes and behaviours, in keeping with Nlaka’pamux traditional ways. Such a scheme has been implemented with some success in other situations within their communities.

Knowledge and Traditions, Places and Landscape

A common thread running through the responses recorded during the community workshops is a pervasive sense of loss–of language, traditions, connections to places, and, most lamentably, the loss of identity. At the same time, the participants were hopeful they could mitigate, and perhaps even reverse this distressing trend. The community workshops show that the Nlaka’pamux have a clear awareness of what heritage is, why it is important, and why they must protect and preserve it. Moreover, these convictions are rooted in traditional knowledge and teachings, and grounded in a strong sense of identity. Although they were not a random sample of the population, they represent those individuals with an interest in heritage, and have a potential role in its stewardship. Perspectives expressed within this group are remarkably consistent, reflecting a strong internal cultural cohesion, derived from common experience, shared knowledge, and sense of identity. Despite more than 150 years of colonization, missionization, confiscation of land, and the abrogation of their rights, the stewardship of heritage remains important to Nlaka’pamux.

As a collective inheritance, heritage is passed down from the ancestors with stewardship the responsibility of each generation. Although broadly accepted, this

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principle is complicated by community members who collect artifacts and objects for personal use, and by the fact that heirlooms, such as baskets or songs, are passed down within families. Contemporary perspectives on heritage stewardship are founded in traditional Nlaka’pamux knowledge and teachings. The basic components of respect, sustainability, and guiding by example are reinforced by traditional ceremonies and teachings. Core responsibilities of contemporary Nlaka’pamux include respect for ancestors and Elders, and passing on their cultural legacy to future generations. Their highest priority is their language, nlha.kapmhhechEEn, which they regard as fundamental to maintaining their distinct identity and critical to their assertion of sovereignty.

The Nlaka’pamux participants were acutely aware of the forces eroding their language, traditions, and places, and the challenges they must overcome to preserve them. Confronting these will require research and education, along with building capacity and public support. Managing and mitigating negative external pressures will also require the development of a comprehensive law that stems the ongoing loss and diminishes the threats to heritage. Although there is demonstrated support for this approach, the parameters of a law to safeguard heritage must clarify a number of issues, such as jurisdiction and enforcement. International instruments, such as the UN

Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (United Nations General Assembly

2007), express broad support for indigenous authority over heritage, but their tenets are more aspirational than operational and are not codified in Canadian or provincial laws.

For Nlaka’pamux laws to carry legal weight would require instruments derived from the assertion and recognition of indigenous title and rights. However, until such time the state fully recognizes their sovereignty or they achieve self-government through negotiation, a Nlaka’pamux heritage law would be largely “extra-legal” in nature–in other words, mostly without legal force in federal or provincial courts. When considering options for enforcement, the most effective influence is through moral persuasion leading to protocols with third parties, such as municipalities, industries, and ministries.

A particular challenge is resolving the tensions between the interests of the individual communities and those of the Nlaka’pamux nation as a whole, as well as sorting out the competing concerns of the different tribal councils and their agencies. On the other hand, this also presents an opportunity for the various communities and tribal councils to work together for a common cause. As expressed by one workshop

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participant, once the people have voiced their preferences, leadership’s responsibility is to act on those decisions. Complicating matters is the dual role of leaders who must balance their advocacy for economic development with heritage stewardship. The need for Nlaka’pamux economic development is unequivocal, but the danger of yielding to double standards is also present. As such, participants stressed that vigilant oversight from the people is necessary, and the same standards need to apply to all parties, whether on- or off-reserve.

The Nlaka’pamux perspectives documented here have informed their past heritage stewardship efforts and guide the current heritage discourse. Industrial development and resource exploitation continue to have an impact on their meaningful places and the land itself. Their conception of heritage is exceedingly inclusive, and encompasses not only tangible and intangible features, but also the land and environment. All of these interdependent components form a single entity, and as such they cannot be compartmentalized or addressed separately. This broad conception of heritage challenges the conventional approach to legislated stewardship, which is biased toward the protection and management of places and things. While protecting significant places is important because these features are manifestations of their culture and history, from the Nlaka’pamux perspective heritage stewardship must also incorporate intangible heritage. Given the connections between knowledge, traditions, places, resources, and the land itself, landscape becomes a critical component of protecting their heritage. In the following section, I discuss the challenges for heritage stewardship in the context of the Nlaka’pamux landscape.

The Stein-Botanie National Historic Site Project

In 2005, Lytton First Nation initiated the process to nominate the Stein and

Botanie valleys as an “Aboriginal cultural landscape” under the federal National Historic

Sites of Canada program (Figure 12 and 17). Given its status as an undeveloped protected area with demonstrated cultural significance, the Stein Valley clearly fits the criteria of this program. The Botanie valley, on the other hand, is a “multiple-use” area with a variety of ongoing land activities and numerous public and private stakeholders.

Key parts of it have been Indian Reserves since the 1860s, and resource tenures and private land holdings occupy the greater part of the watershed. The province also created an ecological reserve above its headwaters in 1978, in recognition of its

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significant subalpine ecology. Although held in particular esteem by the Nlaka’pamux, the diversity of land uses and resource extraction activities makes the Botanie a more difficult candidate for National Historic Site of Canada designation (Lytton First Nation and Klahanee Heritage Research 2006).

The documented “traditional use” of the Stein Valley reveals a continuum of activities from ancient times until the present. It has played a significant role in the traditional economy, with hunting, trapping, and gathering (primarily cedar and mushrooms) frequent activities. More important, Nlaka’pamux continue to regard it as a spiritual area. In the past, power was sought in isolated locations and visions were subsequently recorded as pictographs. Non-indigenous use of the Stein watershed has been minimal, with limited prospecting, small-scale mining, hunting, and trapping from the late 1800s until the mid-twentieth century, while recreational activities became more frequent by the late 1900s.

In contrast, the Botanie Valley has always played a larger economic and social role in Nlaka’pamux society, which explains the allocation of several reserves near its heart (Figure 18). Although an important deer hunting area, it is known in particular as a significant source of berries and root crops. Traditionally, Nlaka’pamux travelled there every spring and summer to gather these abundant foods, and during these times large social gatherings were common. To this day, Nlaka’pamux continue to pursue these activities in the valley. Roads penetrated the Botanie in the early 1900s, and its accessibility has subjected it to extensive development activities, such as agriculture and forestry, and much of the valley bottom is now privately owned. Despite their different roles and histories, both the Stein and Botanie valleys also figure prominently in Creation stories.

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Figure 17. Botanie Valley (dashed line), Skwaha Ecological Reserve, and associated Lytton First Nation reserves (map courtesy of Lytton FN).

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Figure 18. The upper Botanie Valley, on Bootahnie IR 15.

Lytton First Nation sought commemoration of the “Stein-Botanie Nlaka’pamux

Cultural Landscape” for a number of reasons (Lytton First Nation and Klahanee Heritage

Research 2006). Official recognition confers a national and international profile on the areas, and highlights their cultural and historical importance. The feasibility study was an opportunity to collect comprehensive Nlaka’pamux knowledge about the valleys, and to archive and map these data for research and educational purposes. A successful nomination would also make potential sources of assistance available for developing conservation and presentation plans. National Historic Site of Canada designation also ties in with future opportunities for cultural tourism and a proposed cultural heritage centre, as well as “cultural rediscovery” programs for Nlaka’pamux youth and community members. Ultimately, commemoration would instigate a management plan for the

Botanie Valley to complement the one for the Stein. Despite the potential benefits and strong support from Lytton First Nation, pursuit of this designation has faced a number of obstacles.

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National Historic Site Designation and the Stein-Botanie

Designation of National Historic Sites of Canada (NHSC) occurs under the provisions of the federal Historic Sites and Monuments Act [R.S., c. H-6, s. 1], which established the Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada (HSMBC), and gave it the mandate to make recommendations to the Canadian government for designating places, people and events of national historical significance. As of 2011, the federal government has commemorated more than 2,000 places, people, and events under this act. A strategic priority of the HSMBC is a focus on designating under-represented historical themes, such as the history of Aboriginal peoples, women, and ethnocultural communities (Parks Canada 2000:39). Since 1999, the HSMBC has also recognized

Aboriginal Cultural Landscapes as places eligible for commemoration (Historic Sites and

Monuments Board of Canada 2008:14).

Designating historic sites begins with submitting an “application for nomination,” prepared by interested individuals, groups or agencies, to the HSMBC secretariat. Next, with the assistance of Parks Canada, a preliminary evaluation determines if the nomination meets the criteria of national historic significance. If so a detailed

“submission report” follows, generally prepared by Parks Canada or jointly with the nominating organization or agency. The submission report is then considered at one of two annual meetings of the HSMBC, at which point a supplementary report may be requested for clarification of the nomination or to provide additional information. Based upon further review, the board provides a positive or negative recommendation to the

Minister of Environment. The designation process takes a minimum of two years, or longer depending on the complexity of the nomination property. In the case of the Stein-

Botanie cultural landscape, a feasibility study funded by Parks Canada preceded the formal application. It gathered and summarized the relevant information to determine if the proposed nomination met the specific criteria.

The initial feasibility study prepared for the Stein-Botanie cultural landscape highlighted a number of potential obstacles facing the nomination, namely the identification of the proposed boundaries of the cultural landscape, obtaining support of all owners and lessees, and demonstrating the integrity and appropriate management of the proposed landscape (Lytton First Nation and Klahanee Heritage Research 2006).

The boundary issue was a particular concern, as the HSMBC will not consider an application for designation without the written consent of all property owners or

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landowners. Moreover, for Aboriginal cultural landscape nominations “the Board must be satisfied that there is agreement by all interested parties, Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, before considering a cultural landscape for its historic significance” (Historic Sites and

Monuments Board of Canada 2008). A submission report must also demonstrate the integrity of the nominated property, identify all development pressures and threats, and the type and level of protection provided to the nominated property. Given these stringent requirements, nominating a cultural landscape with multiple land uses is a difficult and complex undertaking. An additional hurdle involves the issue of land claims:

“Before the HSMBC begins evaluating a potential national historic site related to the history of Aboriginal peoples and located on federal or provincial land subject to pending or ongoing land claims, all such claims must first be settled and land ownership clearly established” (Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada 2010). Given that the

Nlaka’pamux submitted a comprehensive land claim to the federal government in 1985 asserting ownership to all Crown land in their territory, this presents a considerable potential impediment for including public lands in a nomination. However, the HSMBC may consider including Indian reserves in a nominated place even if land claim negotiations are pending or underway, provided that written consent has been obtained.

Most of the potential obstacles facing the application revolve around the issue of the cultural landscape boundaries. In the 2006 feasibility study, Lytton First Nation proposed boundaries that corresponded to those of Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage

Park, Skwaha Ecological Reserve in the upper Botanie valley, and five reserves located in and adjacent to the Stein and Botanie watersheds (two at the mouth of the Stein, and three within the Botanie watershed). Consultation with Lytton First Nation also revealed a strong interest for expansion of the cultural landscape proposal to encompass the entire Botanie Creek watershed (Lytton First Nation and Klahanee Heritage Research

2006), which would serve to achieve greater Nlaka’pamux involvement in the management and heritage stewardship of this area. Such a designation, however, presented a number of challenges endemic to landscape stewardship. Since the

Crown’s assertion of colonial rule in 1858, land and resource use has followed very different trajectories in the Stein and Botanie valleys. The environmental conditions that favoured traditional resources in the Botanie also made it attractive for settlement, agriculture, and forestry, which has meant that much of the bottomlands were pre-

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empted by settlers, while the remainder of the valley is subject to agricultural leases and forestry tenures.

Heritage stewardship on a landscape scale is complex and controversial because of the inherent presence of competing interests, and the Stein-Botanie cultural landscape is a case in point. Protection of the Stein valley was publicly contentious and took decades to resolve, even though the land tenure issues were relatively simple.

Heritage designation and stewardship in the Botanie valley, on the other hand, are considerably more complex to sort out. Devising a workable co-management strategy for landscape heritage stewardship in the context of the Botanie valley is a challenge, and the NHSC designation efforts expose the difficulties inherent in multiple-use land management, and the conflict between land tenure and the underlying issue of indigenous title and sovereignty.

Co-management and Multiple-use

Judging from their previous efforts with land and resource issues, heritage stewardship on a landscape scale has long been a high priority for the Nlaka’pamux.

The designation of the Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Park in early 1995 demonstrated the potential of this approach. The successful outcome of the Stein campaign proceeded from their direct involvement in following actions:

• Formal opposition to a proposed development in a “pristine” landscape.

• Public campaigning and collaboration with environmental groups.

• Extensive traditional use and archaeological research.

• Assertion of sovereignty over disputed area.

• Unilateral declaration of a “tribal park.”

• Direct negotiation with government.

Notably absent during the Stein preservation campaign in the 1980s was direct action, such as blockades, physical confrontation, and court actions. Moreover, the involvement of Lytton First Nation in the campaign led to the development of a comanagement approach for the Stein valley, and the lack of industrial land use and resource tenures on provincial Crown land made eventual protection feasible.

Environmental groups had confronted the provincial government on the Stein issue since the early 1970s, but only after the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc entered the

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debate in 1985 did the balance finally tip in favour of preservation. While the

Nlaka’pamux as a whole supported the Stein preservation initiative, approval was not universal within the nation or Lytton First Nation (M'Gonigle 1988:121). Under the leadership of Chief Ruby Dunstan, Lytton First Nation rallied public support and broader

Nlaka’pamux backing to save the Stein valley from logging. The successful collaboration between First Nations and environmental organizations owed much to the latter’s effective use of media, events, and advocacy to mobilize public support (M'Gonigle

1988). Yet the positive outcome of the campaign ultimately turned on the argument of

Nlaka’pamux title and rights, bolstered by their extensive research establishing their long-term use and cultural significance of the valley. Indeed, by the late 1980s, First

Nations firmly controlled the Stein preservation agenda, and environmental groups were largely absent from the negotiations that eventually led to the designation of the park.

As a consequence of their activism, Lytton First Nation and the Government of

British Columbia signed the Stein Valley Nlaka'pamux Heritage Park Cooperative

Management Agreement on the same day that the park was publicly announced (BC

Parks 2000).

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It stated that management and development of the park would be

“designed to complement and highlight the historical and cultural presence of the Lytton

Nlaka'pamux in the Stein watershed, as well as to preserve and maintain traditional

Lytton Nlaka'pamux sustenance, cultural and ceremonial activities in the area” (BC

Parks 2000:6). Moreover, the agreement “provides assurances to the Lytton First Nation that their rights and interests are not prejudiced by the creation of the park,” and “defines the manner in which the Lytton First Nation will participate with the Government of British

Columbia as an equal partner in the planning and management” of the park (BC Parks

2000:6). Most important, it established a management board, consisting of three representatives of the Government of British Columbia and three representatives of the

Lytton First Nation, to “oversee and manage all initiatives and undertakings relating to the planning, operation and management of the park” (BC Parks 2000:4).

Embedded in the cooperative management plan was a cultural heritage subagreement ensuring that “recognition, understanding, preservation, protection, communication and proper management of cultural heritage resources” was a primary

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Although Lil’wat (Mt. Currie) First Nation had also been deeply involved in the Stein preservation campaign, it declined participation in the negotiations that led to the signing of the cooperative management agreement (BC Parks 2000:6).

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goal of park management (Ministry of Environment Lands and Parks 1997:62).

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Among the provisions of the sub-agreement were commitments to strike a cultural heritage management committee, draft cultural heritage resource management plan and policies, establish cultural heritage wardens to implement the provisions of the sub-agreement and subsequent management plans, develop regulations governing research activities in the park, and carry out inventory and monitoring of cultural heritage resources (Ministry of Environment Lands and Parks 1997). The Cultural Heritage Resource Management

Plan was intended to form a separate, special section, highlighting the central role of heritage in park planning. On June 30, 2000 both sides approved a management plan for Stein Valley Nlaka’pamux Heritage Park, confirming Lytton First Nation as an equal partner in the planning and management of the park, and incorporating the principles of the cooperative management agreement and cultural heritage sub-agreement in the park management and zoning concepts (BC Parks 2000). Since then, the Stein

Management Board has met on a quarterly basis to implement provisions of the park management plan and sub-agreements.

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The Stein management regime set a precedent not only for cooperation between the province and a First Nation, but also for the central role of heritage in the management of provincial land. Short of full recognition of Indigenous title over the watershed, designation of the park and the subsequent co-management agreement likely represents the highest level of protection and greatest degree of Nlaka’pamux control over the Stein cultural landscape possible. However, the groundbreaking approach they employed in the Stein is not necessarily workable in all situations, as indicated by subsequently attempts elsewhere in the mid-Fraser and the British

Columbia interior.

Seeking a similar level scenario for the Botanie has proven much more complicated, with a number of issues making it less feasible to seek protective status for the watershed. The Stein watershed was primarily Crown land with few active resource tenures prior to becoming a provincial park. In contrast, private landholdings and several

Lytton First Nation reserves with land and resource interests occupy most of the Botanie

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Additional sub-agreements pertaining to fisheries and wildlife and tourism were signed at the same time.

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Although a separate cultural heritage management plan has yet to be completed, the Stein

Management Board continues to work towards that goal (John Haugen, pers. comm. 2011).

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valley bottom, while grazing, forestry and mining tenures encumber the Crown land in the watershed. Only a single, small protected area exists within the watershed (Skwaha

Ecological Reserve), with limited potential for expansion. Moreover, considerable agriculture in the lower valley and extensive logging in higher elevations has altered the landscape considerably, and from the perspective of environmental proponents much of the landscape is far from “pristine” and there are few natural values remaining to conserve. At this point, alternative strategies for “multiple-use” regime in the Botanie are required, and potential landscape stewardship alternatives include interim measures and treaties, industry sector agreements, and land-use plans.

Since 1992, those First Nations in British Columbia involved in the federalprovincial treaty talks have used that forum to address heritage stewardship. Ratified agreements routinely include a culture or heritage “chapter” that includes provisions for the managing heritage sites on settlement lands, and measures for protecting key sites of cultural and historical significance outside those boundaries. In some cases, “interim measure” agreements provide protective measures before or during treaty negotiations for situations where immediate attention is needed. For example, in 2001 Cowichan

Tribes and Hul’qumi’num Treaty Group signed a renewable agreement with British

Columbia and Canada to protect 1,700 ha of Crown land encompassing a sacred site known as Hu’teshatsun, with the expectation that this provision would be incorporated into the final agreement they negotiate (BC Treaty Commission 2001; Ross 2005:188).

However, this approach is not presently feasible for the Botanie valley as the

Nlaka’pamux disagree with the terms of the current treaty process. Even if provincial treaty talks were to be initiated, this would not resolve the issue of the private property within the Botanie valley.

More commonly, heritage stewardship in British Columbia now involves the inclusion of specific objectives in high level provincial land-use planning, such as Land and Resource Management Plans (LRMP), Sustainable Resource Management Plans, and Ecosystem-based Management plans. In the 2008 Sea-to-Sky LRMP, for example, the province agreed to protect areas of cultural significance to the In-SHUCK-ch,

Squamish, and Lil’wat nations using a number of land-use designations, including new conservancies (protected areas), wildland zones (where mining and tourism are permitted, but commercial logging is not), cultural places, and cultural management areas or CMAs (British Columbia 2008). Cultural places are locations embued with

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meaning to First Nations, and may include traditional use areas, village sites, and sacred places. Although not formally or categorically protected, the management intent of the

LRMP is to maintain the cultural values of these places. Specific implementation direction is provided for these sites, and may include the withdrawal of these places from future tenures issued under the Land Act. CMAs are larger tracts with historic and contemporary significance identified by First Nations in government-to-government agreements. All forms of resource and economic development are permitted within them, but these “require that full consideration be given to First Nation interests, including cultural and heritage resources” (British Columbia 2008:91). Existing procedures for managing heritage values under current legislation also remain in place.

Including cultural places and CMAs in high-level provincial land use planning was a significant development, as their management is specifically intended to maintain and enhance opportunities for cultural and spiritual uses. Another important benefit of these designations is their equal application to all resource ministries, thereby avoiding the need for separate agreements for areas of cultural significance. These plans also specifically identify the role of First Nations in setting management objectives for cultural areas. Overall, this suggests that opportunities for collaborative heritage stewardship exist under these high-level plans, and they could have advantages over the existing regulatory regime.

During the planning process for the Lillooet LRMP area, which includes the

Botanie valley, an opportunity for incorporating cultural places and CMAs existed.

However, the NNTC, along with the St’át’imc nation, declined to participate for a number of reasons. One concern is that CMA designations institute a two-tier system for heritage stewardship, thus implying that some areas within a nation’s territory are less significant than others. The St’át’imc Nation, for example, countered with its own land-use plan, in which they recognized that all parts of its territory are equally significant (St'át'imc Land and Resource Authority 2004). Their plan requires that the same levels of consultation and co-management apply throughout their territory. Moreover, they point out that the provincial LRMP does not provide any additional legal protection for heritage, over and above the existing legal obligations of the provincial and federal governments for consulting with First Nations where title and rights may be infringed. Indeed, for the

Nlaka’pamux, participation in LRMP planning was not acceptable because the process

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was wrapped up in the issue of their indigenous title. Without recognition of Indigenous title, the NNTC refused to recognize provincial authority in the planning process.

Lacking St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux participation, the provincial government unilaterally established six new parks and two park additions, along with three “mining and tourism areas,” within the Lillooet LRMP planning area in April 2010 (British

Columbia 2010). No other land use planning designations or management regimes were included in this order. With this action, the province considers the LRMP process to be completed, although “other aspects of the draft plan have been provided to statutory decision makers as operational guidance for the management of Crown land and resources, subject as appropriate, to further First Nations consultation” (Ministry of

Forests Lands and Natural Resource Operations 2010). As such, future opportunities for designating a CMA or similar land zone for the Botanie valley within a high-level provincial land use plan appear limited.

In the end, the lack of viable options for landscape designation or comanagement for the Botanie Valley highlights the underlying issue of Nlaka’pamux sovereignty. The extant provincial legislative and regulatory framework is incompatible with their autonomy because the issue of Aboriginal title remains a legal burden. In the absence of a comprehensive settlement, perhaps the only short-term alternative is rethinking the heritage stewardship and regulatory paradigm, shifting it from top-down to co-management, and from site-specific to landscape. As such, opportunities and challenges for co-management of the Botanie will benefit from a review of the concept of the Nlaka’pamux landscape.

The Nlaka’pamux Landscape

The Stein Valley research compiled in the 1980s demonstrated the breadth and depth of Nlaka’pamux knowledge available about this landscape. An abundance of intangible and tangible heritage was documented and recorded: place names, sacred places, oral histories, traditional use areas, resources and activities, trails, archaeological sites, culturally modified trees, and pictographs. These data represent a seminal articulation of the cultural landscape concept, even though the researchers never framed it in those terms. This conception was further borne out in the 2010 community workshops in which Nlaka’pamux heritage was described as a diverse and

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holistic range of features and attributes bound together by a web of relationships, anchored in the land and in significant places.

In the context of the National Historic Site of Canada proposal, the Botanie Valley is an instructive example of how the Nlaka’pamux used and perceived their landscape.

The valley figures prominently in a number of their spataqulh (Creation stories) and

spEElahhem (histories), all of which highlight its significance as a place for hunting, plant collecting, and social gatherings. One story describes the supernatural origins of the valley’s abundance of root crops (Teit 1917). In it, a woman named KwEskapI'nEk wished to provide for her children after she married the Sun: “ Therefore she filled her basket with edible roots. She repaired to BEta'ni (or Bota'ni), and emptied her basket, saying, ‘Henceforth roots will grow in abundance in this place; and my children shall repair here to dig them.’ Therefore almost all kinds of edible roots now grow there” (Teit

1917:21).

The powerful nature of the valley and its sacred origin is reinforced by the

Nlaka’pamux belief that the first root-digging visit of the season brings on rainy weather

(Teit 1912:374). The Botanie was also the original home of the four Black Bear Brothers, and the place where they escaped from Grizzly Bear, before they became transformers

(Boas 2002 [1895]:84; Hanna and Henry 1995:71; Teit 1912:218). More famously, the

Botanie valley is where Ntl’ík’semtm (Coyote’s son) had many of his adventures (Boas

2002 [1895]:88; Hanna and Henry 1995:28-31, 35; Teit 1898:24-27, 1912:297). After having been tricked into the sky country by his father, who coveted his son’s wives,

Ntl’ík’semtm is lowered back to earth in a cedar basket at Lytton, where he discovers that all of his people including his wives have left for the Botanie to dig roots and hunt deer. He follows their trail up the valley, performing miracles along the way, with a named place corresponding to the location of each of these events (see Hanna and

Henry 1995).

One of the oldest spEElahhem or histories, on the other hand, relates that many

Nlaka’pamux were camped in the Botanie valley during the height of the root digging season when Simon Fraser and his party visited nKemchEEn (Lytton) during late June of 1808 (Teit 1912:414). Other histories describe an encounter with a war party, the murder of an evil shaman, and the death of Chief Spintlum, all taking place during times when the Nlaka’pamux had gathered in the Botanie for root digging (Teit 1912:403, 407,

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413). More recent narratives reflect its continuing economic and social significance

(Hanna and Henry 1995:134, 149, 150). In one of these, recorded in 1973, Mary

Williams recounts experiences of her youth:

In the month of August, the people gathered up in Pétani [Botanie Valley].

People gathered from all over–Spences Bridge, Nicola, and 30 Mile…

Lots of people went up there to the flat up at the place they call Red

Crown or Top [for] foot races, horse races, and everything else… Then the people dug roots such as sk’á´mats [yellow avalanche lily], tatúwen

[western spring beauty], water leaf and tiger lily; and they picked mountain berries and gathered all the other kinds of food there. They shot deer and roasted them over open fires… They dried their meat and fruit and even made jam… My, we used to have nice times in those days!

[Hanna and Henry 1995:149]

In another interview, Annie York echoed this sentiment: “They come down to

Botanie Mountain, everybody from everywhere. From Spences Bridge, they come there to dig their roots… that’s where they come to… That mountain’s one of the wealthiest mountains with roots food” (quoted in Turner et al. 1990:123). Other informants said that in the past people would spend between ten days to three weeks in the Botanie digging roots, and in good areas a medium-sized basket could be filled in a few hours (Turner et al. 1990:123).

Having first come to the notice of European and Canadian scientists in the late

19 th

century, the Botanie has long been recognized among researchers for its cultural and historical significance. While making a botanical collection in the valley in July 1887, the German botanist Carl Purpus observed Nlaka’pamux camps surrounded by drying roots (Purpus 1892a). As he travelled up the valley, “more and more groups of Indians came out of the woods and cheerfully greeted us while passing” as they returned from their camps near Botanie Lake:

Each of the Indians drove two or three ponies ahead, packed with household goods and baskets that were filled with roots, which had been collected by the women in the mountains. The digging of roots and collection of berries is the main activity of the Indian women over the summer in this area while the responsibility of the men is hunting and fishing. In June, when the snow has melted and the mountains have attained their spring robe, no Indian can be held in their cramped dwelling. He packs his belongings and moves with wife and child, bringing

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their ponies into the mountains, where they spent most of the summer.

[Purpus 1892a]

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Three years later, the geologist George M. Dawson entered this passage in his diary for July 4, 1890: “Move on to a camp … near head of Botanie Valley… Several camps of Indians up here at present, the women being engaged in digging roots…”

(quoted in Turner et al. 1990:15). The next day he observed, “Before we left Camp this morning, a number of Indian women passed on way to dig roots, each with a basket on back & digging Stick…” (quoted in Turner et al. 1990:15). Dawson subsequently translated the meaning of Botanie as “perpetual root place” (Dawson 1891:40), and wrote that it was among the “most noted localities” for the collection of edible roots such as those of the avalanche lily (Dawson 1891:20). In his words, the Nlaka’pamux considered it their “special resort.”

Likewise, James Teit noted that the Botanie was “from time immemorial a gathering-place for the upper divisions of the tribe, chiefly for root-digging during the months of May and June. Sometimes over a thousand Indians, representing all the divisions of the tribe, would gather there” (Teit 1900:294). Word of the natural and cultural significance of the upper Botanie valley eventually reached John Davidson, the provincial botanist. In 1914 he made an extensive collecting trip through the area, with

James Teit acting as guide and translator (Davidson 1915):

At the time of our visit many Indians were met, and much interesting information was obtained regarding the uses of several of the plants which abound in the mountains and valleys… The information obtained from the Indians was supplemented by Mr. Teit’s knowledge of the uses to which many of the plants are put by the Indians, and visits to old camping-grounds showed to what an extent these nomadic peoples depend on the native flora to supply their needs. The remains of root-pits, earth-ovens, sweat-houses, etc. were pointed out and their uses explained. [Davidson 1914:44]

In the 1970s and 1980s researchers working with the Nlaka’pamux renewed their interest in the Botanie, amassing considerable data on the area. For example, an archaeological inventory recorded a number of roasting pits and camp areas near

Botanie Lake (Baker 1975). Around the same time, the ethnolinguist Randy Bouchard travelled with the elder Louis Phillips through the Botanie valley and adjacent upper

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Translated from the original German by Ursula Arndt.

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Laluwassin watershed, recording 53 place names in nlha.kapmhhchEEn and photographing their locations (Bouchard n.d.). During the 1980s, Nancy Turner, an ethnobotanist at the University of Victoria produced a compendium of Nlaka’pamux plant use, in which the upper Botanie Valley figured prominently (Turner et al. 1990). She pointed out that the Botanie valley warranted “special attention” because it “was and is such a unique and important resource area” (Turner et al. 1990:15-17). Toponyms and plant names from Turner’s research were subsequently incorporated into a Nlaka’pamux dictionary and orthography (Thompson and Thompson 1992, 1996). More oral narratives and histories from the Botanie and elsewhere in their territory were gathered during the early 1990s (Hanna and Henry 1995). Over the past 15 years or so, the NNTC supported an active program to document Nlaka’pamux geographical and historical knowledge of their territory, compiling additional data for the Botanie valley.

Beginning in 2005, as part of the Stein-Botanie National Historic Site of Canada nomination research, extant Nlaka’pamux narratives and histories pertaining to the

Botanie valley were gathered and organized. Named places, resource areas, sacred places, trails, archaeological sites, and historic locations were ground truthed and mapped with GIS, and their records updated. During this process additional named places and archaeological sites were located and recorded. Historic and archival sources dating from Simon Fraser’s visit in 1808 until the early twentieth century were identified, along with numerous archival collections with materials relating to the Botanie, including maps, photographs, archaeological artifacts, ethnological objects, song recordings, and interview tapes. On the basis of the accumulated data, the Botanie

Valley was one of the most intensively studied and best-documented indigenous landscapes in British Columbia, if not Canada. Still, a cultural landscape is more than an inventory of places, stories, and archaeological sites. Nlaka’pamux perceptions and knowledge of the Botanie landscape reveal that it hosts a web of relationships between intangible heritage and meaningful places, linking the land to people, both in the past and the present.

Heritage, Landscape, and Archaeology

At the centre of Nlaka’pamux heritage is nlha.kapmhhchEEn, their language, as it is through language that heritage is passed down from generation to generation. It also includes their spataqulh (Creation stories), spEElahhem (histories), ash hhken

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(knowledge), and shzaytn (practices), as well as their nkshaytkn (relations) between people, ancestors, neighbours, and other living beings. In addition, heritage encompasses all of the wA.hhten (places), hhA.hh.OOyemwuh (spiritual areas), and

chOOmeen (objects) that are important to them and linked to their history and traditions.

Moreover, heritage incorporates the temEEwuh (land) and nwha.pEEtn (resources) necessary for survival and the practice of their traditions.

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Given the wide range of heritage attributes, and their interrelationships with resources, environment, and land, the concept of landscape is a useful approach for encompassing and understanding

Nlaka’pamux heritage.

The Nlaka’pamux landscape incorporates the tangible and intangible aspects of their past, but contemporary perspectives shape the landscape’s cultural meaning in the present. One way to imagine this layering of past and present is to think of landscape as a “palimpsest,” the analogy being a writing surface where inscriptions have been erased and written over, but where traces of earlier drafts can still be detected (Nabokov 2005).

In this sense, a cultural landscape is the “accumulation of layers of beliefs” and “the stacking of the stories that fix them in tradition,” with all of these attached to place

(Nabokov 2005:149). Moreover, the layers are fused to produce what we perceive today, with the past conflated into a synchronic present (Figure 19). Peeling the layers away may reveal glimpses of beliefs, and associated physical alterations, related to prior conceptions (Figure 20), but ultimately we can only comprehend place and landscape from the perspective of its contemporary manifestation.

Because their experience with their landscape occurs primarily in the present,

Nlaka’pamux place much less emphasis on chronology and temporality. While they recognize a historical aspect to places, determining the specific age or a chronology for them is not a priority. Indeed, in traditional Nlaka’pamux thought, there are only two time periods: the distant past, the time of spataqul (the Creation stories), and the more recent past, the time of spEElahhem (memories and personal histories). These periods are marked on the landscape with names and stories. For example, the place in the lower

Botanie known as

shqueekooTLquaTLt shwuhA-yem

(Entrails Thrown) is where transformers, after killing a monster, threw the entrails and smeared them across the rock face in the distant past (Figure 21). The place known as

QUooQUooTLa.hhAtn

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I am grateful to John Haugen and Beverly Phillips of Lytton First Nation for providing the transcriptions and translations of nlha.kapmhhchEEn words used in this section.

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(Race Track), on the other hand, is the location in the upper Botanie where historically the people would gather for competitions and games in the recent past. In other words, knowing precisely when something happened is not important. Instead, recalling where and why an event occurred are more germane to their cognitive geography. Although influenced by and grounded in history and tradition, the meaning and significance of places is ascribed in the present day.

Figure 19. A generalized view of cultural landscape attributes: place names, archaeological sites (red triangles), and resource areas (yellow polygons).

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Figure 20. Cultural landscape attributes may be discernible within one or more

“layers” of time, but all are perceptible, and meaningful, in the present.

Nlaka’pamux also imbue their landscape with a nested hierarchy of spatial, contextual, and cognitive relationships that form a multi-layered network of meaning. For example, a culturally significant place is only one node in a lattice, with each node connected by its physical, cognitive, and temporal relationships with its neighbours.

These relationships extend ever outward, bounded only by the limits of an observer’s interests, experiences, or perceptions. Each place is associated with a specific event, memory, or activity, while an entire valley is an interconnected grid of places that create a physical and temporal space containing a related set of Creation stories, memories, subsistence activities, and social gatherings. In turn, each valley is a node within the larger Nlaka’pamux landscape that holds the accumulated history, experiences, and places of the nation.

These conceptions of landscape differ from conventional archaeological perspectives in a number of ways, and as a consequence have implications for archaeological theory and practice. As archaeologists consider their discipline to be the study of changes in human behaviour evidenced by the relationship of material culture to the environment over time, they tend to gravitate to material evidence analyzed in the

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context of chronology and environment. As such, they often place much less emphasis on immaterial attributes and generally overlook those qualities that give places contemporary cultural meaning. The study of cultural landscapes, on the other hand, is concerned more with how the past is manifested in the present, a palimpsest instead of discrete chronological layers.

Figure 21. The striped rock face known as

shqueekooTLquaTLt shwuhA-yem

(Entrails Thrown), in the lower Botanie Valley.

Moreover, archaeologists generally think of objects and sites as the basic units of analysis, but a cultural landscape involves different conceptions of boundedness. Unlike archaeological sites, which ostensibly have a discrete boundary, Nlaka’pamux places are diffuse–they blend with the larger landscape. And whereas a significant focus of archaeological studies is environmental context, cultural landscapes take on meaning from cultural context, in the form of both tangible and intangible attributes. Places exist in a wider setting, both physical and cognitive, that gives them significance: place names, environmental setting, spiritual values, association with trails and travel, connections to stories, relationships to traditional resources and land use, and links to people.

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Chapter Summary: Landscape and Practice

In the first half of this chapter, Nlaka’pamux participants in the heritage workshops expressed their deep interest in heritage, and their strong desire to see it protected from internal and external threats. They described many of the challenges facing Nlaka’pamux efforts to preserve and revitalize their heritage, but also identified how Elders, individuals, communities and the nation could work together to develop and implement a comprehensive heritage stewardship framework. Most important, the

Nlaka’pamux participants stressed that their conception of heritage was broad and inclusive, incorporating all the material evidence (e.g., archaeological sites) and the accumulated knowledge (e.g., traditions) of their culture, history, and identity. From their perspective, Nlaka’pamux heritage guides them in their relationships to the world around them. It is the source of their identity, and defines who they are as a people.

Although this chapter has focussed on Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage and landscape, these conceptions are remarkably homologous to those expressed by participants in the St’át’imc case study (Chapters 4 and 5). In both studies, heritage was integral to identity and cultural revitalization, and in both cases archaeology and heritage stewardship are seen as critical components of asserting authority and sovereignty.

Moreover, the idea of cultural landscape closely corresponds to Nlaka’pamux and

St’át’imc conceptions of heritage, and provides a framework for landscape stewardship that can encompass tangible and intangible attributes. Conversely, the site-specific and materialist approach of conventional archaeology is a poor fit with indigenous perspectives on heritage, and has contributed to the uneasy relationship of Indigenous peoples with archaeologists. However, this is just one of a number of factors that have affected this relationship over time. In the next chapter, I evaluate the evolving engagement of St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux in archaeology and heritage stewardship, and discuss how this engagement reveals potential ways for archaeological practice to better accommodate indigenous views, from the perspective of ethics, authority, intangible heritage, and landscape.

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Chapter 8.

Discussion:

Indigenous Aspirations, Better Practices

Overall, two overarching themes emerge from this exploration of St’át’imc and

Nlaka’pamux perspectives on heritage stewardship and their engagement with archaeology. One is their strong desire to increase their level of meaningful participation in stewardship and assert greater authority over the archaeological process. The other is their insistence that archaeological practice is transformed so that it better addresses their needs and reflects their perspectives, particularly in relation to intangible heritage values and landscape contexts. In this chapter, I assess these themes in greater detail.

First, I examine earlier models that attempt to evaluate the extent and effectiveness of indigenous engagement in archaeology, and present an alternative evaluative framework that addresses the separate issues of participation and authority.

Using these dual axes, I gauge the levels of involvement and control of the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc nations in the practice of archaeology and heritage stewardship, both in the past and present. In the second part, I examine four areas of archaeological practice amenable to critique and transformation based on indigenous perspectives highlighted by the case studies, namely the ethics of heritage stewardship, indigenous authority and sovereignty over heritage, intangible heritage and traditional knowledge, and indigenous conceptions of the cultural landscape. In many cases, international “best practices” in these areas have evolved beyond the current state of affairs in British Columbia, and I highlight these approaches where appropriate. These offer a potential strategy for bridging disciplinary goals and indigenous expectations for archaeological practice.

Measuring Indigenous Engagement

The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux have a long history of interacting with archaeologists, but their level of engagement with the discipline has fluctuated, relative

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to their level of political authority and social cohesion. In the last two decades, however, both nations have become deeply engaged with archaeology and heritage stewardship.

Evaluating where they have been, where they are now, and where they want to be in terms of their participation and authority in heritage stewardship helps us to understand the challenges still facing them. In most discussions evaluating indigenous or community engagement in archaeology, two approaches are generally used. The first uses a checklist of criteria that typify community participation and effective collaboration. An alternative approach envisions community involvement falling at a particular point along a ladder or a continuum, progressing from a lower to higher degree of involvement.

In the first approach, criteria that might characterize successful archaeological collaboration with a community include: mutual respect, building relationships, collaborative research design and project planning, willingness to subordinate academic objectives, flexibility, willingness to localize project benefits, sharing credit and voice, willingness to participate in corollary projects, and willingness to share expertise and resources (see Carr-Locke 2004:40; see also Moser et al. 2002; Tully 2007). In a

Canadian example, Sarah Carr-Locke identified nine elements of successful communitybased archaeology: understanding indigenous issues, local indigenous involvement in research, respecting community protocols and traditions, local training and education, community curation of artifacts and materials, development of local culture histories, involvement in long-term projects, accessible results, and indigenous rights taking precedence over academic or institutional interests (Carr-Locke 2004:93). However,

Carr-Locke points out that this list is not exhaustive, and not all of the elements need to be present in a project for it to be considered to be community-based. Likewise, in her book Community-based Archaeology, Sonja Atalay identified five principles that

“community-based participatory research” archaeological projects have in common, namely they are community-based partnerships, participatory in all aspects, capacitybuilding, involve reciprocity, and recognize multiple knowledge systems (Atalay

2012:63). Community members collaborate in all aspects of the project, including: planning, funding, defining a research question, developing research strategies, designing research instruments, collecting and interpreting data, disseminating results, and curating data (Atalay 2007, 2012:63).

These collaborative elements are present in various combinations in different examples of community-based archaeology. Although not presented as a prescriptive

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set of rules, presumably when more of these elements are incorporated into a project a greater degree of participation is achieved, while the inclusion of all of them represents an ideal level of collaboration. Checklists such as these are useful for developing a research design or for project planning, but they do not specifically measure or rank the relative degree of community involvement in archaeological projects or heritage stewardship.

In the second “continuum” approach, the degree of community involvement is presented as a step-like progression through stages or levels, increasing from limited involvement to full collaboration. In particular, Sherry Arnstein’s influential “Ladder of

Citizen Participation” is noted as the inspiration for many models representing participation as a continuum (Cornwall 2008; De Paoli 1999:78). For example, a similar model was described in the context of resource negotiations between governments and indigenous groups in northern Canada (Berkes 1994), and later modifications of this model have been developed to represent degrees of resource co-management with First

Nations (De Paoli 1999:85).

In a British Columbian context, Mary De Paoli developed a “framework for

Indigenous participation” in resource management decision-making (including archaeological management) largely based on Berke’s approach, with various stages representing increasing community participation (De Paoli 1999:87). Important distinctions of this framework from that of Berke’s are the inclusion of a stage denoting full community control, and the deliberate horizontal orientation of the stages to avoid the top-down approach of other models (Figure 22). In this model, the degree of community participation is envisioned as falling along a continuum, with each stage grading into the next (De Paoli 1999:90). Importantly, the stages represent a unilineal progression from lesser to greater indigenous participation in management, and this continuum represents participation within an imposed system. In other words, the assumption is that authority ultimately rests with government, and each stage represents an increasing degree of delegation of this control to indigenous groups.

Another articulation of indigenous participation in heritage stewardship is the

“collaborative continuum” (Colwell-Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2008b:10). This continuum consists of resistance and collaboration at opposite ends and participation in the middle, with a number of characteristics defining each of these modes (see Figure

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4). Again, the authors recognize that each mode grades into the others. A significant distinction from De Paoli’s model is that the modes are not representative of a strictly unilineal progression from lesser to greater community participation, and each mode could be equally representative of local or governmental authority. For example, the resistance mode could equally describe a situation where an indigenous group is in control of heritage stewardship or research with little collaboration with government or academics, or a situation where government is in full control with little involvement with indigenous communities.

Community is informed about decisions already made; oneway communication between government agencies and community

Start of face-toface contact; community input heard but not necessarily heeded

(generally late in the planning process)

Community starts to have input into management; local knowledge is solicited, and community members are involved at low levels as assistants or guides

Less Participation

Start of two-way information exchange; local concerns begin to enter management plans, and joint management actions may take place without joint jurisdiction

Partnership in decisionmaking starts; joint action on common objectives, but communitie s have nonbinding advisory powers only

Participation in developing and implementing management plans, with local input exceeding an advisory role

Partnership of equals; institutional

-ized and formally recognized joint decisionmaking; control delegated to the community where feasible

Indigenous groups make decisions independent of government or with very limited governmental involvement

More Participation

Figure 22. De Paoli’s Framework for Indigenous Participation (adapted from De

Paoli 1999).

What the latter two models have in common, however, is that they conflate two related but distinct facets of community engagement–participation and authority.

Imagining a situation where a community enjoys a great deal of participation in archaeology and heritage stewardship, but has little direct control over the project or

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process, is easy. Likewise, we can envision cases where a community has a great deal of control over archaeology, but does not participate in it directly. Indeed, involvement is not the same as participation (McTaggart 1997:28), and being “involved in a process is not equivalent to having a voice” (Cornwall 2008:278). For Indigenous communities, both participation and authority are important in terms of the aspiration for greater Indigenous involvement in heritage stewardship (see Welch et al. 2006), but they are two different things.

Participation and Authority

Given the limitations of the “checklist” and “continuum” approaches outlined above, an alternative framework is required to gauge the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux relationship to archaeology and heritage stewardship. Indeed, the distinction between participation and authority has implications for how we evaluate the effectiveness of indigenous engagement in archaeology. The idea of a unilineal sequence of increasing community participation and collaboration does not reflect the highly variable reality of indigenous engagements with archaeology. Instead, this engagement is better conceptualized along two axes: participation (or collaboration) and authority (or control).

These axes also better reflect variations between different forms of archaeological practice–conventional, community-based, participatory action, and indigenous–each of which address participation and authority to different degrees (Figure 23).

In this conceptualiztion, a constellation of values or criteria lie along each of the axes, representing varying degrees of participation and authority. For example, values along the participation/collaboration axis might include: employment of fieldworkers or technicians, training, ceremonial sanction, Elder consultation, incorporation of ethnographic data and traditional knowledge, input into research objectives, active sharing results (e.g., reports, meetings), input into interpretation and results, and access to funding. On the other hand, values lying along the authority/control axis might include: notification, implicit consent, non-rejection, formal consent, control of funding and contracts, meaningful input, consensus or veto on management decisions, veto on interpretation and results, project veto, compliance with permits and protocols, information-sharing agreements, and control over information and intellectual property.

Each case of indigenous involvement in archaeology incorporates an array of these values falling along these axes. For simplicity, these values group into sequential

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categories that range, respectively, from no participation to full participation, and from no authority to full authority (Tables 17 and 18). Although simplifying and essentializing a complex set of inter-related values, this approach is useful for visualizing and measuring the relative degree of indigenous engagement in archaeology.

#

Indigenous

Archaeology

Lesser collaboration

"

Participatory /

Action Research

Greater collaboration

!

Conventional

Practice

!

Community

Archaeology

Figure 23. Forms of practice plotted on axes of participation and authority.

Situating St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux Practice

Utilizing the framework outlined above, the degree of Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc participation and authority in archaeological practice can be roughly plotted at various points over the past (Figures 24 and 25). For both nations, this analysis indicates a

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general increase in participation, as well as control, over time. For instance, during the

1870s and 1880s, the Nlaka’pamux had no control over the actions of archaeologists, while their participation in research was restricted to the provision of local knowledge on the whereabouts of sites or artifacts. By the 1890s, participation had increased to include the employment of community members as field assistants and the incorporation of traditional knowledge, and implicit consent for archaeological excavations was generally obtained, at least for work on reserves.

When archaeological research resumed in the 1960s–this time in both

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc territory– indigenous participation had diminished to a minimal use of local knowledge and assistants, with virtually no recognition of their authority. Nonetheless, St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux participation and authority in archaeological research increased substantially through the 1970s and 1980s.

Community members took part in fieldwork and training, Elders provided input on traditional practices and knowledge, and public education and site visits were encouraged. At the same time, nations gave explicit permission for research projects, granted access to their resources and cultural information, and had some formal input into research objectives and interpretations. In at least some cases, authority extended to stipulation of specific conditions governing the conduct and outcomes of the research.

On the other hand, the level of indigenous participation and authority did not keep pace during the same period within the growing CRM practice. Although indigenous communities were generally informed of CRM projects and occasionally assisted with fieldwork, this engagement did not extend to formal input, collaboration, or consent. Only when the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc challenged conventional CRM practice and countered it with their own studies and processes did the level of their participation and authority increase. For the Nlaka’pamux, the studies they produced during the 1980s in the context of the CN Rail and Stein Valley conflicts marked a dramatic shift in their archaeological and heritage engagement. A similar expansion happened for the St’át’imc beginning in the mid-1990s, first as a result of the Stl’átl’imx

Heritage and Resource Inventory and Stl’átl’imx Nation Hydro initiatives, and later as a consequence of the Seton Lake / CP 146 conflict and the formation of the LTC cultural heritage team.

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Table 17. Indigenous Participation in Heritage Stewardship.

Degree of Participation Examples of Participation Objectives

Collaboration Full participation of peers in all aspects of a project

Community priorities for research design and project

Community access to funding and disbursement

Partnership

Management and monitoring role for community

Equal participation in research and assessments

Economic benefits and joint business ventures

Long-term relationships and social interaction

Exchange

(information and resources)

Local curation of materials and data

Equal weight to community interpretation (multivocality)

Joint authorship and equal credit

Collaboration on research design and project planning

Open and ongoing dialogue

Continual reflection and review

Educational and youth programs and materials

Active sharing and review of results

Partnerships with local organizations

Contribution

Sanction

Capacity

(training / sharing)

Assistance

(employment)

Informing

No participation

Flexibility in project design and implementation

Sharing credit and acknowledging contributions

Sharing expertise and resources

Input into research design and project planning

Formal input from Elder and community members

Input into interpretation and results

Provision of ethnographic data and traditional knowledge

Informal communication of results

Access to results and data

Ceremonial authorization (blessing)

Mutual respect and recognition of issues

Respect community protocols and traditions

Formal training programs

Sharing information and assistance with data management

Public awareness programs and site visits

Informal input from Elder and community members

Community fieldworkers and technicians

Inventory and data management roles

Advisory and custodial roles

Informal training

One-way flow of information

Local knowledge

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Table 18. Indigenous Authority over Heritage Stewardship.

Degree of Authority

Control

Compliance

(partial control and consent)

Consensus

(joint decision-making)

Advisory

(formal input)

Influence

(information exchange)

Cooperation

(access to resources)

Discussion

(non-binding consultation)

Notification

No control

Examples of Authority Objectives

Fully independent community authority over stewardship

Community ownership of knowledge and products

Compliance with FN assessment permits and process

Control of funding/contracts

Control over archaeologist selection

Compliance with FN values

Veto/binding comment on permits and/or research objectives

Veto/binding comment on projects

Veto/binding comment on management recommendations

Consensus on project location

Site designation/conservation

Monitoring/auditing process

Consensus on overview/modelling criteria

Consensus on government permit conditions, research objectives, management recommendations, results and interpretations

Consensus on range of protected heritage

Improved community-based enforcement

Confidentiality / information-sharing / intellectual property agreements

Joint selection of archaeologists

Input into project location

Elder/community monitors process/project

Input into selection of archaeologists

Input into AOA/modelling criteria

Respect for indigenous values

Formalized comment on government permit conditions or research objectives

(non-binding)

Formalized comment on management recommendations, results and interpretations (non-binding)

Informal comment on permit conditions or research objectives

Informal comment on recommendations, results and interpretations

Explicit consent

Incorporation of traditional values / knowledge

Access to community resource people

Access to community information sources

Provincial permit tracking

Project review

Report review

Referral and permit notification

Implicit consent

Full government/institutional control

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Decreasing community participation

Research 1970s-1990s

!

LTC Applied 2000s

!

SHRI/SNH Applied 1990s

!

Increasing community participation

CRM 1970s-1990s

!

!

Research 1960s

Figure 24. St’át’imc participation and authority in archaeological practice.

Although their trajectories and circumstances have differed, by the mid-2000s the

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc had reached roughly the same place in terms of their involvement in heritage stewardship. They made great strides toward their goal of controlling and participating in heritage stewardship, and their involvement had a major influence on archaeological practice in their respective territories, and by extension to

British Columbia as a whole. Even so, these nations are not yet where they want to be in terms of heritage stewardship, wherein they exercise full authority over it. As such, the greatest impact from the efforts of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux may not be in what they have accomplished so far, but what influence they may yet have on the discipline.

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Decreasing community participation

NNTC Research 2000s

!

NNTC Applied 1980s

!

!

Research 1970s

Increasing community participation

!

CRM 1990s

!

CRM 1980s

!

Research

1890s-1910s

Research 1870s

!

!

Research 1960s

Figure 25. Nlaka’pamux participation and authority in archaeological practice.

The Evolution of Practice

While the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux have endeavoured to assert their authority over heritage stewardship, archaeological practice in the province has often lagged behind in recognizing indigenous perspectives. Despite substantial change over the last several decades, this practice still does not meet the expectations of First Nations. From the points raised in the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc case studies, four overarching themes emerge indicating where practice could be transformed to address indigenous

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concerns, particularly in the CRM and applied realms: acknowledging Indigenous peoples as the primary authority in the stewardship of their own heritage, understanding the nature of Aboriginal title and its impact on indigenous authority over archaeological practice, taking a much broader view of archaeology that incorporates relationships to intangible heritage, and adopting a landscape perspective for heritage stewardship. In this section, I briefly describe some of the “best practices” and standards that could be adopted to at least partly address the heritage stewardship concerns of the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc.

Ethics and Stewardship

The ethics of archaeological practice are directly relevant to Nlaka’pamux and

St’át’imc aspirations for greater participation in heritage stewardship. Many Indigenous peoples dispute the idea of archaeologists as self-appointed stewards of the archaeological record (see Joyce 2002; Smith 2004; Wylie 2009), and this is demonstrated by the positions articulated in the case studies. Indeed, they maintain that

CRM and legislation de facto favours the interests of archaeologists and the province over that of First Nations. In order to have a constructive debate on how archaeologists and Indigenous peoples can work together to improve heritage stewardship, First

Nations have demanded acknowledgement that they have a greater position in the heritage process and legislation than other interested parties.

International conventions support the position taken by the St’át’imc and

Nlaka’pamux. For example, Article 11 of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous

Peoples states that Indigenous Peoples have the right to “maintain, protect and develop the past, present and future manifestations of their cultures, such as archaeological and historical sites, artefacts, designs, ceremonies, technologies and visual and performing arts and literature, ” while Article 12 maintains that Indigenous peoples have “the right to maintain, protect, and have access in privacy to their religious and cultural sites” (United

Nations General Assembly 2007:5). Article 11 of the Declaration also states that redress and restitution is required where cultural, intellectual, religious and spiritual property has been taken without the free, prior and informed consent of Indigenous peoples.

In other words, Indigenous peoples are the primary authority on and stewards of their own archaeology and heritage.

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Likewise, the International Finance Corporation (IFC), a member of the World

Bank Group, has developed “performance standards” applicable to IFC-supported projects (primarily in developing countries) acknowledging the primary role of Indigenous peoples in heritage stewardship. For example, the free, prior, and informed consent

(FPIC) of Indigenous peoples is required in situations where a project may have significant impact on “critical cultural heritage,” including natural areas with cultural or spiritual values, and where the “knowledge, innovation, and practices” of Indigenous peoples are to be used commercially (International Finance Corporation 2012a:5). The requirement arose from the growing international recognition of the indigenous right to

FPIC in the context of resource development and other activities (MacKay 2004:43). The

IFC standard for cultural heritage states “the client will consult with Affected

Communities within the host country who use, or have used within living memory, the cultural heritage for long-standing cultural purposes. The client will consult with the

Affected Communities to identify cultural heritage of importance, and to incorporate into the client’s decision-making process the views of the Affected Communities on such cultural heritage” (International Finance Corporation 2012b:2).

In contrast, the provisions of British Columbia’s Heritage Conservation Act (HCA) do not require consultation or accommodation with First Nations, or provide First Nations with a decision-making or co-management role. Although the duty to consult is recognized by the province where Aboriginal rights may be infringed, the principles of

FPIC have not been enshrined in legislation or regulation. The “fiduciary minimalism” practiced by the province effectively off-loads the consultation burden onto those archaeological consultants willing to accept it (Hammond 2009:61).

The current CRM system in British Columbia is structured around legislation based primarily on the principles of conservation archaeology, which privileges universalism and scientific authority. In turn, archaeologists and archaeological managers use these principles to legitimize their claims to stewardship over indigenous heritage. The original articulation of conservation archaeology did not advocate preservation of heritage for the primary benefit of descendant communities, much less acknowledge a role for these communities in decision-making and drafting legislation and regulations (see Lipe 1974). Nor did it recognize that First Nations might have their own customary laws that govern their relationship to their heritage. A major concern expressed by the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux is that they are not legally entitled to a

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decision-making role under the rubric of conservation archaeology-based CRM regarding which sites are to be recorded, mitigated, managed, or destroyed.

Archaeologists and bureaucrats have reserved for themselves much of the power to make these decisions, and they generally privilege scientific values over indigenous ones (see Joyce 2002:103). Under the universalizing ethics of conservation archaeology, archaeological heritage is claimed as the concern of all people. The de facto result is that the competing and conflicting interests of different stakeholders and interested parties leads to scientific interests being placed ahead of other interests, and the privileged rights of descendant communities go unrecognized.

Although Kitkatla vs BC (Supreme Court of Canada 2002) found that the HCA is a law of “general application” (meaning that it applies equally to all people and does not single out Indigenous peoples), this is not equivalent to saying that First Nations should not have a say in the way their heritage is “managed.” Indeed, the decision recognizes that the law has a “disproportionate” effect on indigenous heritage because the vast majority of archaeological sites protected by the HCA are linked to First Nations.

Because of this effect, there is little ethical or legal ground to support the idea that First

Nations should not also have a disproportionate role in deciding the fate of their heritage.

To be fair, the HCA does not exclude the possibility of creating a special role for

First Nations in archaeological stewardship. Section 4 of the HCA explicitly recognizes a special role for First Nations, stating that the province may “enter into a formal agreement with a First Nation with respect to the conservation and protection of heritage sites and heritage objects that represent the cultural heritage of the aboriginal people who are represented by that First Nation.” This type of agreement would identify a “a schedule of heritage sites and heritage objects that are of particular spiritual, ceremonial or other cultural value to the aboriginal people for the purpose of protection” under the

Act, and would make provisions for conditions for issuing permits, delegating ministerial authority to First Nations, and listing actions that constitute a “desecration” of the listed heritage sites. However, when the First Nations Leadership Council attempted to negotiate a pilot Section 4 agreement (Sayers et al. 2011), the province ultimately failed to engage in this process (First Nations Leadership Council 2012).

The failure of the province to amend or implement existing legislation to address

First Nation concerns on heritage stewardship means it is incumbent on archaeologists

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to affect change within the discipline itself. As described in Chapter 3, some archaeologists responding to the indigenous critique increasingly question the idea that archaeologists or bureaucrats have a privileged role in stewardship, and instead emphasize collaboration, negotiation and co-management with indigenous and descendant communities. As early as the 1990s, the World Archaeological Congress and national archaeological associations in Australia, New Zealand and Canada adopted codes recognizing the fundamental role and relationship of descendant communities to archaeology. The codes of both the Canadian Archaeological Association (CAA) and the

British Columbia Association of Professional Archaeologists (BCAPA) specifically recognize the privileged role of indigenous communities in heritage stewardship. The

CAA Statement of Principles for Ethical Conduct Pertaining to Aboriginal Peoples guides the ethical behaviour of members in the areas of consultation, aboriginal involvement, and sacred sites and places. Yet, the terms used in the document–“respect,”

“acknowledge,” “recognize,” “encourage,” “support”–are neither prescriptive nor professionally obligatory. Likewise, the BCAPA code of conduct pertaining to cultural groups recognizes that First Nations have an interest in the protection, management, interpretation and presentation of their archaeological past. However, the specific clauses in the code use phrases that leave considerable room for manoeuvring, such as

“strive to respect,” “to the best of his or her ability,” and “make an effort to follow.”

Although the CAA and BCAPA principles are important steps towards recognition of the ethical role of Indigenous people in the practice of archaeology, they are not legally binding. Moreover, in practice they are often not fully operationalized, and as such they do not meet the level of participation aspired to and expected by First Nations.

In order to be meaningful for First Nations, mandatory principles of participation and collaboration must be built into these codes. Although compulsory implementation of the full range of participation outlined in Table 17 may be unattainable in the short term, a good start for archaeological associations would be a commitment to meaningful consultation; mandatory implementation of First Nation protocols, policies and permit systems; requirements for employment and training; and consequential incorporation of indigenous knowledge and values in interpretation and management decisions. Many of these actions are explicit goals of community-based archaeology in academic settings, yet they are neither codified nor consistently applied in CRM contexts.

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In the long-term, however, effective and comprehensive implementation of a full range of indigenous participation in heritage stewardship will likely require negotiated agreements and substantial changes to legislation, including the principles of FPIC in the context of heritage. First nations must have a central position in these developments, as neither legislation nor ethical standards give archaeologists a privileged role in heritage stewardship. As such, adopting a model of collaborative heritage stewardship requires not just recognition from government, but also a commitment from archaeologists to transform the principles and ethics of practice.

Authority and Ownership

For the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc, transforming the ethics of heritage stewardship to ensure greater participation and collaboration in archaeology is an important aspiration. However, both nations desire more than just a primary role in heritage stewardship; for them, the principles of community-based archaeology, which recognize the primary role of descendant communities, do not go far enough. Instead, they want jurisdiction over heritage stewardship, and ownership of heritage places and objects. These goals are more in line with the principles of indigenous archaeology, which demands recognition of indigenous control and authority over heritage and its interpretation.

Fully accepting indigenous authority and ownership is not necessarily possible for (or desired by) non-indigenous archaeologists, due to conflicting goals and conceptions of practice but more importantly because of the existence of legislation governing heritage places and archaeological practice. For example, archaeologists cannot simply ignore provincial permitting regulations or hand over artifacts to First

Nations without putting themselves into a legal quandary. Nonetheless, archaeologists can still undertake their work in ways that further the goals of First Nations in terms of control and authority, without contravening their legal responsibilities or the ethical principles of their professional associations. To understand this potential role for archaeologists, it’s useful to review international conventions and legal rulings relevant to the relationship of indigenous heritage to Aboriginal title and ownership.

Article 11 of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples states that Indigenous peoples have the right to “restitution … with respect to their cultural, intellectual, religious and spiritual property taken without their free, prior and

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informed consent or in violation of their laws, traditions and customs” (United Nations

General Assembly 2007:5). Likewise, Article 12 declares that Indigenous peoples have

“the right to use and control of their ceremonial objects; and the right to the repatriation of their human remains” (United Nations General Assembly 2007:5) .

Although neither article explicitly states that Indigenous peoples retain ownership of archaeological sites and artifacts, this is implicit in the use of terms such as restitution, control, and repatriation.

The Declaration also lends support to the principle of indigenous control and ownership of their own heritage as a function of the indigenous right to sovereignty.

Article 3 declares “ Indigenous peoples have the right to self-determination” (United

Nations General Assembly 2007:4). Article 26 refers to rights of Indigenous peoples “to own, use, develop and control the lands, territories and resources that they possess by reason of traditional ownership or other traditional occupation or use,” and that “States shall give legal recognition and protection to these lands, territories and resources”

(United Nations General Assembly 2007:8). Although First Nations in British Columbia have cited the Declaration as support for Aboriginal sovereignty (John 2010:55), it is not specific in how traditional ownership can be established. Indeed, many states opposed any references to indigenous sovereignty, territory, autonomy, and restitution during the drafting of the Declaration (Malezar 2010:30), with the result that Article 46 states in part that nothing in the document authorizes or encourages actions that would “ impair, totally or in part, the territorial integrity or political unity of sovereign and independent States”

(United Nations General Assembly 2007:11).

While Canadian courts have ruled that Aboriginal title exists, they have also decided that it must be proven in court or established through negotiations (such as treaties), with the burden of proof placed on First Nations (Knafla 2010:7). Even where

Aboriginal title is recognized, however, this does not necessarily translate into recognition of indigenous jurisdiction (Yarrow 2010:95). Modern-day treaties in British

Columbia do accept limited indigenous jurisdiction over lands and resources on settlement lands. In particular, they acknowledge ownership of artifacts and heritage objects (as well as those in federal collections), and also have provisions for “lawmaking” (or jurisdiction) in respect to the conservation, protection, and management of heritage sites. The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux, however, like other First Nations outside

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the treaty process, are seeking jurisdiction and ownership over heritage throughout their traditional territory.

In British Columbia, the issue of jurisdiction may ultimately be resolved as part of legal efforts leading to the recognition of Aboriginal title to traditional territories, but the prospect for a negotiated resolution to the question of title appears to be dim. For a brief period in 2008-2009, former Premier Gordon Campbell’s New Relationship initiative seemed to suggest that a negotiated outcome was possible. As part of this initiative, legislation was proposed that would recognize title for approximately 30 sovereign First

Nations, along with provisions for revenue-sharing and co-management of resources

(which likely would have included heritage). The First Nations Leadership Council initially supported the proposed legislation (Mandell 2008:14), but this endorsement quickly evaporated in the face of grassroots opposition (First Nations Leadership Council 2009).

In the end, the proposed legislation faced a number of insurmountable hurdles, including the uncertainty of its impact on indigenous title and rights, the complexity of negotiating overlapping territorial boundaries, and internal tension between and within nations and communities.

Given the limited chances for a negotiated resolution, the only other available option is seeking recognition of Aboriginal title through the courts. In this scenario, archaeologists have a major role to play, much as they have had in past litigation and land claims. In the United States, the establishment of the Indian Claims Commission in

1946 resulted in anthropologists and archaeologists becoming “expert witnesses” for both the federal defendants and indigenous plaintiffs, and contributed to “the development of the interdisciplinary approach to Native history known as ethnohistory”

(Ray 2010:37). Although use of ethnohistorical data in Canadian land claims and other litigation has lagged behind that of the United States, archaeological evidence played a significant role in the Meares Island (1985), Ure Creek (1991), and Siska Creek (1999) cases (see Ross 2005), as well as the Kitkatla (2002) (Bell 2001) and Delgamuukw cases (Leclair 2005:114; Ray 2010:46). Recent court cases have identified archaeological data as primary evidence, even ranking the evidentiary weight of such data ahead of oral narratives (Miller 2011:111). Indeed, when dealing with Aboriginal title the evidentiary requirements of the courts has placed “archaeologists, anthropologists and historians…in the middle of the battlefield” (Leclair 2005:110).

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To date, perhaps the clearest indication of how Aboriginal title could be established with the assistance of archaeology is the decision of Judge Vickers in

Tsilhqot'in Nation v. British Columbia, 2007 BCSC 1700. In this case, the Tsilhqot'in

Nation satisfied the legal test for Aboriginal title for nearly half of their claim area, while the court also recognized that they possess certain Aboriginal rights throughout their claimed territory (John 2010:49). Although the judge was unable to issue a declaration of title due to a legal technicality, this was a significant milestone in the quest for proving

Aboriginal title.

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To mark this occasion, and the adoption of the Declaration earlier the same year, more than 120 indigenous leaders in British Columbia signed a declaration of “Sovereign Indigenous Nations” affirming Aboriginal title to their respective territories

(John 2010:55).

The Tsilhqot'in case is precedent setting in terms of how it established the specific evidentiary requirements for proving Aboriginal title.

Little note, however, has been made within the professional archaeological community of the critical role archaeological evidence played in this decision, or of the implications this decision has for the application of archaeological research to questions of Aboriginal title.

Archaeological evidence is cited no less than 74 times in the Tsilhqot'in judgement, and was used to corroborate all other forms of evidence the trial judge used to identify

Aboriginal title.

Of the three elements (occupation, exclusivity, continuity) in the test for

Aboriginal title identified in Delgamuukw, Justice Vickers in Tsilhqot'in placed the greatest emphasis on evidence of occupation. In this context, archaeological sites were an important form of corroborating evidence for determining the existence of Aboriginal occupation at the time of the presumed assertion of Crown sovereignty in 1846.

Specifically, archaeological evidence in the Tsilhqot’in Claim Area was used to corroborate oral testimony, historical documents, and other forms of evidence

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In William v. British Columbia, 2012 BCCA 285, the B.C. Court of Appeal overturned Judge

Vickers’s decision recognizing Tsilhqot’in title to half the claim area, while upholding their

Aboriginal rights. In this decision, the idea that “title can be proven based on a limited presence in a broad territory” was rejected, and instead it “must be proven on a site-specific basis … defined by a particular occupancy of the land (e.g., village sites, enclosed or cultivated fields) or on the basis that definite tracts of land were the subject of intensive use

(specific hunting, fishing, gathering, or spiritual sites).” Despite this setback, the role of archaeology in proving title is not diminished. In January 2013, the Supreme Court of Canada agreed to hear an appeal of William v. British Columbia.

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demonstrating occupation, exclusivity, and continuity. The judge also considered archaeological data useful for determining Aboriginal occupation of “definite tracts of land,” in addition to the more narrow site-specific occupation. A significant emphasis was placed on the importance of trails, trail networks, and travel corridors in relation to archaeological sites and “managed resource locations.” As noted by Judge Vickers,

“sites and their interconnecting links set out definite tracts of land in regular use by

Tsilhqot’in people at the time of sovereignty assertion to an extent sufficient to warrant a finding of Aboriginal title” [paragraph 959]. Indeed, a stronger case for proving Tsilhqot’in title in a larger portion of the claim area may have been possible had additional archaeological evidence been available.

The Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc case studies in this dissertation repeatedly identified indigenous title and “strength of claim” as two areas where archaeological evidence has great utility, and the decision of Judge Vickers in the Tsilhqot’in case demonstrates that archaeological evidence can play an important role in determining title. The implication for archaeologists is that they must recognize how their work is a critical component of indigenous political and legal objectives. Even where archaeologists are not directly engaged in gathering evidence for proving title, they must understand that their data may be used for and, for that matter, against that purpose.

The role of anthropologists in land claims has long been important, but archaeologists and archaeological evidence are growing in importance. As such, archaeologists have an ethical responsibility to gather and interpret evidence in a way that does not hamper these objectives. This means linking archaeological evidence to the other forms of evidence cited by Judge Vickers as applicable to proving title, such as place names, oral traditions, seasonally occupied villages, managed resource areas, hunting grounds, fishing sites, and trail networks.

As a significant source of corroborating evidence for proving Aboriginal title, archaeological evidence can support oral testimony obtained in the form of legends and traditions, place names, and oral histories. In this context, many a rchaeologists, particularly in North America, have become “applied anthropologists who are actively working for and with native groups–mostly in the areas of land claims and renewable resources ” in order to “give voice to native perspectives [and] present emic views”

(Kelley 2008:187). To support indigenous objectives, research should focus on correlating archaeological sites to place names and locations described in oral testimony

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(villages in particular), identifying sites that dated to the period before and after AD 1846

(when the Crown asserts sovereignty), evidence of activities linked to the practice of

Aboriginal rights (e.g., resource gathering), and linking archaeological sites directly to living descendants through oral history or historical documents. This form of research is more in the spirit of ethnohistory, which offers a “bridging discipline” between oral narratives and scientific method (Miller 2011:57). To be most effective, then, archaeological research needs to incorporate a broader range of evidence than that regulated under the HCA, wherein archaeologists uncover and illuminate the links between the material heritage of the past and the intangible heritage of the present.

Intangible Heritage

Among the more emphatic points raised by the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc in the case studies is that archaeological evidence is a small part of a much broader range of heritage. In the same vein, they pointed out that archaeological evidence cannot be considered in isolation from its cultural context, and many objects and places have no meaning without reference to cultural values attached to them. Archaeologists tend to focus on the material and tangible aspects of heritage. On the other hand, Indigenous peoples emphasize the relationship of archaeology to the non-material aspects of their heritage, what is now commonly referred to as intangible cultural heritage. Despite the vagueness of this term, which conceivably could refer to all “immaterial elements that influence and surround all human activity” (Stefano et al. 2012:1), at its core intangible heritage refers to those forms lacking physical manifestation, including knowledge and practices.

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Although the “Eurocentric” categories of tangible and intangible heritage “are increasingly understood as arbitrary and interconnected” (Hennessey 2012:43; see also

Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 2004:60; Nicholas et al. 2011:12; Nicholas and Wylie 2012:199),

Western governments have traditionally focussed on identifying, legislating, protecting, and designating the material and monumental aspects of the past (Bouchenaki 2004:7;

Munjeri 2004:13). Likewise, traditional knowledge and cultural expressions have largely remained outside the scope of intellectual property laws (Coombe 2009:247). This emphasis on tangible heritage and property has led to an international movement to

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This conception of intangible cultural heritage also encompasses what is referred to in legal terms as intellectual property.

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provide similar safeguards to intangible aspects of heritage, through promoting, protecting, and revitalizing cultural expressions and practices (Stefano et al. 2012:1).

Again, international standards and conventions are at the forefront of contemporary approaches to intangible cultural heritage. UNESCO’s 2003 Convention

for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage defines it as “the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills–as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith–that communities, groups and, in some cases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage” (UNESCO 2003:2).

More specifically, UNESCO defines intangible heritage to include “traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants, such as oral traditions, performing arts, social practices, rituals, festive events, knowledge and practices concerning nature and the universe or the knowledge and skills to produce traditional crafts” (UNESCO 2009:3). The Convention calls for signatory states to identify and define intangible heritage with the participation of communities, groups and organizations, and to take steps to safeguard this heritage.

In addition to the arbitrary categorization of tangible and intangible heritage, critics have pointed out that the Convention has other weaknesses (Stefano et al. 2012).

These include its prescriptive approach, the paradox of making permanent what is innately impermanent, the inherent tension in universalizing the significance of local cultural expressions, and the issues of ownership. Like other UNESCO conventions, recognition of intangible cultural heritage on international lists is also largely symbolic and without legal force. Nonetheless, the Convention has highlighted the importance of intangible heritage to cultural communities and its lack of formal recognition, particularly by Western governments. For example, Articles 11 and 12 of the UN Declaration on the

Rights of Indigenous Peoples do not separate tangible and intangible aspects of heritage

(United Nations General Assembly 2007:5).

The Convention has also influenced international “best practices” intended to protect intangible cultural heritage, such as the Cultural Heritage performance standard of the International Finance Corporation (IFC). The objective of the standard is to protect heritage (including natural features with cultural significance and intangible heritage) from adverse impacts from IFC-funded project activities, and to ensure that benefits from the use of heritage are equitably shared (International Finance Corporation 2012b). This

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standard requires that when “ intangible forms of culture that are proposed to be used for commercial purposes, such as cultural knowledge, innovations, and practices of communities embodying traditional lifestyles,” funded proponents must consult with the affected communities and ensure fair and equitable benefits from the commercialization of this heritage (International Finance Corporation 2012b:1).

Although Canada is not a signatory to the Convention, provisions of the federal

Historic Sites and Monuments Act capture a number of its elements. For example, a defining action, episode, movement, or experience in Canadian history can represent an

“event” of national historic significance (Historic Sites and Monuments Board of Canada

2008) . The National Historic designation in 2011 of cedar basket-making as a tradition central to Nlaka'pamux cultural identity that embodies the role of women as culture bearers, serves as an example. The recent efforts of Parks Canada to identify associative values and the “spirit of place” at National Historic Sites, especially those with little material evidence (Oliver 2008), can also be seen as an exercise in identifying intangible heritage. Identification of Aboriginal cultural landscapes as National Historic places also encapsulates many aspects of intangible heritage articulated in the

Convention (see Buggey 1999). However, these federal designations offer no legal protection to intangible heritage.

In a British Columbian context, legislation for the commemoration and protection of intangible heritage is absent or undefined. Although the HCA has provisions, such as

Section 4, that can be interpreted to lend some recognition of intangible heritage in the management of places, these provisions have yet to be tested. On the other hand, the legal recognition of Aboriginal rights in the land has forced the province to consult First

Nations in situations where those rights may be infringed by resource activities, and the establishment of those rights is often contingent on the identification of associated intangible heritage. The province’s short-lived traditional use study program (circa 1994-

2003) was a response to this scenario, as was the inclusion of cultural values in the identification of cultural management areas in land use planning agreements with First

Nations (see Chapter 3). In reality, however, intangible heritage rarely comes into play in cultural resource management within resource development contexts.

In conventional CRM practice in British Columbia, an archaeological impact assessment (AIA) focuses almost exclusively on direct impacts to physical

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“archaeological sites,” with a strong emphasis on “regulated” sites pre-dating AD 1846.

Most AIA reports state that these studies were not specifically designed to address issues of traditional indigenous use of project areas, and they attempt to assess the significance of archaeological sites and provide recommendations for their

“management” in a near total absence of reference to intangible heritage. As such, most

AIA reports incorporate only a limited amount of indigenous knowledge, do not assess impacts to “non-regulated” archaeological sites or significant places lacking material evidence, and most importantly do not address impacts to intangible heritage. However, the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux, like other First Nations, stress that heritage significance of tangible places and objects cannot be determined in isolation from other intangible attributes. Archaeological sites are just one aspect of a much broader range of heritage attributes, including named places, sacred sites, traditional resources, traditional land use practices, knowledge and traditions, and language. Reference to this information provides a more complete understanding of the archaeological site, and this knowledge must be considered in determining the appropriate “management” of the site.

One approach for addressing impacts to intangible heritage in CRM would be to consider “contextual impacts.” These refer to changes to the setting, environment, and experience of the site, including altered landforms, vegetation changes, and visual and auditory impacts. These types of indirect impacts can occur well outside the defined boundary of an archaeological or traditional use site, and yet still have a major impact on the context and value of the site. Contextual impacts may affect the traditional and spiritual values of a place, as well as its traditional or spiritual uses. An example of a well-developed set of practices in relation to intangible heritage and context (or setting) are the Guidelines for Evaluating and Documenting Traditional Cultural Properties

(Parker and King 1998) and Defining Boundaries for National Register Properties

(Seifert 1997), both developed for the U.S. National Register of Historic Places. Since

1992, traditional cultural and religious properties of value to Native Americans may be considered under the U.S. National Historic Preservation Act. In general, research concerning traditional cultural properties requires direct involvement of Indigenous peoples.

In terms of intangible heritage, a wide gulf separates the aims of CRM and the aspirations of First Nations. The firmly held position of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux is that heritage stewardship needs to consider both tangible and intangible elements, and

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archaeologists have a responsibility to incorporate this evidence in their research, interpretations, and recommendations. This form of research forces archaeologists into the realms of ethnohistory and ethnography, even though their training and methods are not equivalent to field-based ethnography (Miller 2011:120). As archaeology broadens its mandate to incorporate traditional knowledge, and as anthropologists continue to shy away from working with indigenous communities, archaeologists have by default incorporated ethnography within their practice (Kelley 2008:186; Stapp 2000).

Nonetheless, consideration of intangible heritage in archaeological stewardship is necessary to reflect Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc conceptions of place and heritage. This requirement also has a bearing on the conception of cultural landscape.

The Indigenous Landscape

The St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux case studies show indigenous heritage to be a diverse and holistic range of tangible and intangible elements, all bound together by a web of temporal, spatial and cognitive relationships. At the same time, the case studies demonstrate that this heritage is grounded in physical space and meaningful places.

Underlying all aspects of indigenous heritage is a connection to the land and its traditional resources; appreciating and understanding heritage requires experiencing the places where it originated. The implication is that indigenous heritage loses much of its value and meaning when access to the land is lost or diminished. Moreover, when the landscape is altered, particularly through industrial development, places lose their deep meaning, and collective memories are truncated.

Seen in this way, the concept of heritage expressed by the Nlaka’pamux and the

St’át’imc corresponds to ideas of cultural landscapes proposed by anthropologists and heritage managers. Over the last two decades, the idea of cultural landscape has become common in archaeological discourse and widespread in heritage designations, within both national and international contexts. Although Carl Sauer introduced the modern idea of cultural landscape to the discipline of geography in the 1920s (Sauer

1925), the concept did not gain traction within archaeology and heritage stewardship for another 60 years (David and Thomas 2010b:38). A significant development in the stewardship sphere was the identification in 1981 of cultural landscapes–including

“sociocultural” landscapes–as a resource type in the U.S. National Park Service’s document NPS-28: Cultural Resource Management Guideline (Page et al. 2005). By

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1984, Australia also had legislation recognizing “Significant Aboriginal Areas” where land or water held particular importance in Aboriginal tradition. That same year, the World

Heritage Committee began debating how to identify “mixed” natural and cultural properties that met the criteria of the 1972 UNESCO World Heritage Convention (Fowler

2003a, 2003b).

After nearly a decade of discussion, cultural landscapes were included in the

1992 Operational Guidelines for Implementation of the World Heritage Convention

(Buggey 1999; Rössler 2003; UNESCO 2008). Accordingly, they became a category of cultural properties representing the “combined works of man and nature” ( Article 1 of the

Convention)

that are “illustrative of the evolution of human society and settlement over time, under the influence of the physical constraints and/or opportunities presented by their natural environment” (UNESCO 2008:85). The Operational Guidelines define three categories of cultural landscape–intentionally designed and created, organically evolved, and associative–with the latter category generally most applicable to Indigenous landscapes. Associative landscapes are characterized by “powerful religious, artistic or cultural associations of the natural element rather than material cultural evidence, which may be insignificant or even absent” (UNESCO 2008:85).

Following UNESCO recognition of cultural landscapes, other jurisdictions adopted similar definitions. For example, the revised NPS-28: Cultural Resource

Management Guideline of the U.S. National Park Service included an entire chapter on cultural landscapes (Page et al. 2005). It defined them as “a geographic area, including both natural and cultural resources, associated with a historic event, activity, or person” and recognized ethnographic landscapes to be those “associated with contemporary groups and typically … used or valued in traditional ways” (National Park Service 1998).

Likewise, the guidelines developed for the U.S. National Register of Historic Places address the identification and management of heritage places and “traditional cultural properties” in a landscape context (Parker and King 1998; Seifert 1997).

Parks Canada also recognized cultural landscapes within their mandate in the early 1990s. A Parks Canada position paper from this period builds on the ideas of

“associative” and “ethnographic” cultural landscapes. It stated:

An Aboriginal cultural landscape is a place valued by an Aboriginal group

(or groups) because of their long and complex relationship with that land.

It expresses their unity with the natural and spiritual environment. It

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embodies their traditional knowledge of spirits, places, land uses, and ecology. Material remains of the association may be prominent, but will often be minimal or absent. [Buggey 1999:27]

This definition was a significant addition to, and refinement of, the international recognition of indigenous heritage, with this “particular sort of cultural landscape [being] extremely relevant to World Heritage” (Fowler 2003b:17). The Historic Sites and

Monuments Board of Canada (HSMBC) subsequently adopted this definition for the purposes of identifying and designating indigenous cultural landscapes significant to

Canada’s history. Prior to this, they were recognized and defined by the HSMBC solely on the basis of their archaeological features, and evaluated only in scientific terms

(Buggey 1999:17-18).

By the new millennium, cultural landscapes were widely accepted by heritage protection agencies internationally. While their definitions remain fluid, the prevalent focus is on the “inter-relatedness between human society and the natural environment” and the “intangible values that indigenous peoples attach to landscape,” including

“spiritual associations in the absence of material remains” (Buggey 1999:17). They exist in the present, and are products of contemporary perceptions of tangible and intangible values that have both a temporal and a spatial dimension. Although they can include archaeological sites, a cultural landscape differs from an “archaeological landscape,” because the latter refers specifically to the contemporary manifestation of archaeological evidence within a geographical context.

In the discipline of archaeology, the consideration of landscape has generally fallen within the purview of what is known as landscape archaeology (David and Thomas

2010b:36). Beginning in the 1980s archaeologists viewed landscape primarily in terms of a geographical and environmental setting. By the late 1990s, however, the concept of a social or cultural landscape was increasingly influential in anthropological and archaeological discourse (Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Robertson and Richards 2003;

Ucko and Layton 1999). This reconfiguration stresses symbolic, structural and phenomenological angles (McGlade 1999), where landscape is a socially constructed entity “that exists by virtue of it being perceived, explained, and contextualized by people” (Knapp and Ashmore 1999:1). While “constructed” landscapes consist of gardens, houses, villages and monuments built in meaningful association with physiographic features, “conceptualized” landscapes involve cultural meanings invested

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in natural features (Knapp and Ashmore 1999). For example, local physiographic features are linked to symbols and ancestral beings, and cultural meanings and experiences mediate the selection, use, modification, and avoidance of places. These perspectives, however, extend beyond the material world, and include “ideational” landscapes that are imagined or emotional conceptions (Knapp and Ashmore 1999). In other words, a landscape may not physically exist per se, but is instead a socially constituted perspective of the world held in common by a people (Darvill 1999).

Definitions and approaches to cultural landscapes have since proliferated, making a unified concept elusive and consensus on how to accommodate landscape in archaeological studies does not exist (Anschuetz et al. 2001; see, for example, chapters in David and Thomas 2010a). Although these new conceptions have broadened the definition of landscape, they have not entirely replaced traditional views. Nonetheless, the use of landscape in archaeological discourse has largely shifted from an emphasis on its economic, environmental, and ecological dimensions to that of a “socially and experientially engaged place” (David and Thomas 2010b:39).

Within British Columbia, little of this transformation has filtered down to the practice of CRM or heritage protection. Outside of a few commemorative National

Historic Site of Canada designations, the explicit incorporation of cultural landscape perspectives remains unrealized in heritage stewardship. They are not specifically recognized within provincial heritage conservation legislation (despite the potential for heritage designation of land under Section 9(1)(b) of the HCA), and there is no consistent provincial process for identifying, managing, or protecting them. While the

“traditional use study” program of the 1990s offered some promise for managing cultural landscapes, this program was abandoned long before it was fully implemented. Other approaches, such as land-use planning, have gone some way towards this objective, but these also have their limitations and drawbacks (see Chapter 3).

Despite growing acceptance of cultural landscapes within the discipline of archaeology, indigenous conceptions of landscape have not been fully problematized in terms of implications for archaeological theory and practice. In a North American context at least, indigenous concepts of heritage and landscape challenge some tenets of research and CRM archaeology, because they differ in key areas such as materiality, space, and time. Ontological and epistemological distinctions raise the question of how archaeologists, and archaeology, can integrate an indigenous conception of landscape.

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A solution integrating these divergent approaches remains elusive. Even so, for applied archaeologists the answer may require shifting from the emphasis on collecting empirical data on material culture and sites to including a wider range of intangible data. For example, bounded “sites” and their diachronic provenience may have to yield to the idea of places in a landscape with an emphasis on synchronic spatial relationships.

Indeed, the concept of cultural landscape provides a unifying frame of reference linking the preceding themes explored in this section. It coincides with the principles of community participation through the potential application of eco-system and landscapebased management. The importance of connections to the land gives shape and substance to community authority and indigenous claims of title and ownership. Perhaps most importantly, indigenous cultural landscapes envelope all of the tangible and intangible aspects of heritage that are important to the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc. In other words, the concept of cultural landscape offers archaeologists a theoretical and methodological bridge between the conventional archaeological paradigm and indigenous perceptions of heritage stewardship.

Chapter Summary:

In the first section of this chapter, I evaluated the historic and contemporary engagement and aspirations of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux in heritage stewardship, from the perspectives of their participation and authority in archaeology. From this review, four important observations can be made. First, both nations have a strong interest in indigenous heritage stewardship. Second, from the perspective of the

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc, there has been significant progress in improving heritage stewardship. Third, there still is a place for archaeologists in this process of implementing indigenous heritage stewardship. And last, indigenous perceptions of heritage stewardship have implications for transforming archaeological practice in British

Columbia, as well as elsewhere.

In the second section, I outlined four areas where archaeologists can revise their practice to better serve indigenous interests, particularly in the CRM and applied realms.

These are: 1) acknowledging Indigenous peoples as the primary authority in the stewardship of their own heritage, 2) recognizing the impact of Aboriginal title on archaeological practice, 3) taking a much broader view of archaeology that incorporates

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relationships to intangible heritage, and 4) adopting a landscape perspective for heritage stewardship. None of these changes alter archaeologists’ ability to do their work, and in fact they have the potential to not only strengthen interpretations but also improve the stewardship of archaeological heritage. However, accepting the changes implicit in these four themes would require considerable relinquishment of control by non-indigenous practitioners as well as governments. Fully embracing them would also necessitate a substantial revision of existing provincial heritage legislation and regulations. There likely would be significant resistance among those groups where their power and authority were diminished, but these changes may be inevitable and indeed many are already underway. As the courts rule on legal challenges that define Aboriginal title, comanagement and control over natural resources will continue to devolve to First Nations, with a concomitant impact on the ways archaeology and heritage are controlled and managed.

At the same time, indigenous groups are pushing for changes to legislation that will increase indigenous authority over heritage and stewardship. Moreover, the broader discipline is slowly moving toward accepting the ethical and political positions of indigenous groups, and in many cases international practices go well beyond the narrow scope of current provincial heritage regulations and guidelines. As indigenous authority over their heritage increases, archaeologists in British Columbia must be prepared to adapt to this transforming political environment if they wish to remain relevant to heritage stewardship. Although archaeologists could simply wait for changes to be forced upon them through legislation or political action, a better alternative would be to proactively adopt them as ethical and professional standards of practice. There is no need to wait for legislation to catch up, as archaeologists can choose to transform their own practice.

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Chapter 9.

Conclusion:

From Practice to Praxis

In this dissertation I set out to answer some fundamental questions about the tensions and relationships between indigenous perspectives on heritage stewardship and archaeological practice in British Columbia, using the experiences of the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc nations as case studies. Is archaeology relevant or important to these nations? Does archaeology fit within their indigenous conceptions of heritage stewardship? What level of participation and authority do the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux have in heritage stewardship, both in the past and the present? Another objective of my dissertation was to evaluate how the standpoints and strategies of the Nlaka’pamux and

St’át’imc may provide insights into how applied archaeological practice can be transformed to better serve indigenous perspectives on heritage stewardship. In other words, how can archaeology support indigenous efforts at stewardship? And, perhaps most importantly for me, how can archaeologists transform practice to better accommodate indigenous perspectives?

In this concluding chapter, I briefly review the outcomes of the case studies in the context of answering these questions. In the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux case studies, I documented their perspectives on archaeology, their historical involvement with the discipline, and their recent efforts at improving heritage stewardship. This research shows that heritage stewardship is indeed relevant to these nations, and that there is a place for archaeology in their conceptions of stewardship. This dissertation also shows that the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc have greatly increased their degree of authority and participation in heritage stewardship since their earliest engagement with archaeology, although they may not yet have reached the level that they desire and demand. The perspectives of these two nations also show how archaeology has the potential to support their heritage stewardship aspirations, particularly in the realm of Aboriginal title

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and indigenous identity. In order to remain relevant to First Nations, archaeologists must be prepared to adopt new approaches to ethics, indigenous sovereignty, intangible heritage, and indigenous landscapes. For archaeologists, though, the dilemma is how to reconcile their practice with the aspirations of First Nations, as supporting indigenous perspectives requires a degree of relinquishment of control over practice. The solution to this quandary is to transform archaeological practice through collaboration and action. I end this chapter with a discussion of archaeological praxis and participatory action research as approaches for bridging the gap between indigenous perspectives and the status quo–approaches that offer a way for archaeology to remain relevant in a shifting political and social environment.

Practice: The Aspirations of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux

For the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc, archaeology and heritage stewardship deeply matter. The case studies presented in this dissertation demonstrate that both nations have a strong interest in the preservation of their heritage. Not only is this critical for maintaining their identities and revitalizing their traditions, it is also a fundamental component in their struggle to assert greater sovereignty over the land and its resources.

Moreover, the case studies show that the identification, interpretation, protection, and management of archaeological sites are important elements of their heritage stewardship objectives. As such, these nations recognize that archaeology can benefit them in many ways, and it plays a central role in the political and social aspirations of these nations. The participants in the case studies demonstrated considerable familiarity with archaeology, both as a discipline and as a political tool, and they recognized that it has various political, economic and social benefits. At the same time, they identified a number of specific limitations and drawbacks in archaeological practice, as currently carried out and regulated in their territory. Nonetheless, archaeology continues to be relevant to the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux, and they continue to pursue collaboration with archaeologists, but on their own terms. In particular, the nations continue to aspire to greater participation and authority in archaeology and heritage stewardship.

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc engagements with archaeology followed different trajectories. The St’át’imc have been exposed to academic archaeology since the 1970s, which has been a generally positive experience for them. Through this encounter they recognized the utility of the discipline, but also became aware of shortcomings in the

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cultural resource management (CRM) process. This encouraged their participation in archaeology and heritage stewardship during the 1980s, and helped build relationships with archaeologists. This ultimately influenced their efforts at exercising control and influence over practice, and led to their direct involvement in the business of archaeology by the mid-1990s. In recent years, however, the emphasis has shifted from a reactionary response to individual developments to a proactive landscape-based approach to stewardship. The Nlaka’pamux, on the other hand, had an earlier, and generally more negative, encounter with archaeology during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. When archaeological research commenced in the 1960s, they had virtually no participation or authority in its practice. As such, they had limited direct involvement in archaeology until the 1980s, when they were exposed to the CRM process and reacted strongly against it. They successfully countered this process with their own research, with a focus on traditional knowledge and indigenous landscape central to their approach, and they continued to produce independent studies into the

1990s. However, this oppositional strategy led to an ambivalent relationship with CRM that limited their opportunities for direct engagement or collaborative practice during the late 1990s and early 2000s. Only in recent years have they moved closer to a model of direct involvement in the business of archaeology and heritage stewardship.

The different approaches taken by these two nations over the past three decades have their strengths and shortcomings, but their strategies are now converging. This shows that despite their unique historical and cultural contexts, there are strong underlying commonalities in their vision of heritage and the role of archaeology.

Moreover, the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc interest and involvement in archaeology belies the commonly held belief that indigenous values are anti-science or anti-archaeology.

The indigenous perspectives articulated in the case studies do not preclude the continued archaeological investigation of sites and materials; rather, the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc are open to archaeological methods and scientific research and many individuals are personally interested in the outcomes. The participants in this study have demonstrated strong interests in the methods and interpretation of archaeology, but these interests often come with different agendas and objectives. Although interested in many of the same questions posed by academics, the motivations for archaeological practice of the two nations often differ from their academic counterparts. In many ways, the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux perspectives align more closely with the objectives of

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CRM and applied archaeology. For example, the CRM emphasis on the inventory and management of archaeological sites has aided in the preservation of their tangible heritage, and also directly provides proof of occupancy in the context of Aboriginal title and rights. Even so, the greater focus on spatial relationships of artifacts and sites across the landscape, and the linkages of tangible heritage to narratives, traditional practices, and land use go beyond the typical concerns of CRM. Nonetheless, the goals of archaeological research and CRM do not necessarily conflict with their perspectives, as archaeological methods can be useful within an indigenous ontology (Yellowhorn

2006).

At the same time, the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux expect archaeology to more directly serve their purposes, and demand greater participation in archaeological practice and insist on asserting their authority. The heritage stewardship aspirations of these nations are closely linked to deep values expressed by the participants in these case studies, including maintaining their identity, strengthening their culture, improving their quality of life, and ultimately asserting their independent sovereignty. Moreover, the

Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc engagement with archaeology since the 1980s has challenged practitioners to make greater efforts to acknowledge and accommodate indigenous perspectives and to recognize their authority. Indeed, the case studies show that when these nations have had a greater role in CRM, archaeological practice has benefited and heritage stewardship objectives have been better served. What the heritage stewardship projects described in the case studies have in common is that in all cases the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc were in control of the agenda, and the importance placed on archaeological research by these nations cannot be over-emphasized. They identified the need for research, determined the appropriate processes, and controlled the outcomes. They used archaeology to affect both concrete results and abstract transformations. Tangible outcomes include employment and economic benefits, protecting places that matter, preserving the integrity of landscapes, and strengthening their claims to the land and resources. Less tangible outcomes have been its role in maintaining cultural identity, preserving cultural traditions and knowledge, and empowering individuals, particularly the awareness that their knowledge matters and their heritage has value. In other words, the case studies demonstrate how the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux see archaeology and heritage stewardship as agents for social and political change.

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Praxis: The Responsibilities of Archaeologists

From the perspective of ethics, three observations are apparent from this review of the Nlaka’pamux and St’át’imc engagement with CRM and archaeological practice in

British Columbia. One is the failure of the current legislative framework to accommodate indigenous perspectives of heritage stewardship. The second is that, in the current system, archaeologists and bureaucrats remain the self-appointed stewards of the archaeological “resource.” Third, First Nations in British Columbia are determined to assert more authority over heritage stewardship. In this context, both community-based and indigenous archaeologies offer ways for First Nations to engage with archaeology.

However, as discussed in Chapter 2, community-based archaeology is often more suited to serving the interests of academic research; although these projects provide benefits to the community, outside researchers largely retain control of the process and research agenda. Indigenous archaeologies, on the other hand, are often political and partisan and generally serve the interests of indigenous practitioners and polities, often providing a largely passive role for non-indigenous archaeologists.

My own research and collaboration with the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux has informed how I practice archaeology, engage in heritage stewardship, and conceptualize the indigenous landscape. Working collaboratively with indigenous communities requires the setting aside of personal research objectives in favour of incorporating their perspectives and concerns, leading to practical results that better serve their interests.

As a non-indigenous archaeologist, serving as an advisor to First Nations and acting as an advocate for indigenous heritage stewardship, the challenge for me has been finding a process that bridges the disciplinary standpoint with indigenous perspectives. I contend that the opportunity for a more active role for non-indigenous archaeologists comes in the form of collaborative practices that intersect with the principles of participatory action research (PAR). Through this approach, disciplinary objectives for understanding the past can be tethered to the political and social benefits central to indigenous perspectives and practice.

A variety of models are available that “promote ethical and equitable forms of practice” when working with descendant communities and their heritage (Nicholas and

Wylie 2009:36), but PAR is explicitly an “emancipatory” mode of collaborative research, with its genesis in activist-oriented research programs “designed to address problems

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that concern the most disadvantaged and marginal communities, and that make social justice their explicit goal” (Wylie 2009:6).

In the sense of PAR, collaboration in heritage stewardship involves a shift from archaeological practice to archaeological praxis, or what McGuire calls “theoretically informed action” (2008:3). Praxis involves “ gaining knowledge of the world, critiquing the world, and taking action to change the world”

(McGuire 2008:3). Most archaeologists endeavour to gain knowledge of the world, while

“alternative” archaeologies, including feminist, indigenous, and Marxist approaches, have critiqued the production of knowledge and the role of archaeology, but fewer archaeologists have explored how the discipline can be used as a “means of political action to challenge society” (McGuire 2008:3). An emancipatory praxis, then, is a way for archaeologists to engage in social change and political action, and serves as justification for the practice of critical archaeologies, including those that advocate dialogical participation. This form of research recognizes that there are multiple ways of understanding the past and present, that different publics may have different insights, and that the hermeneutical play between these understandings results in better interpretations. More important, these understandings are the basis for actions that lead to social and political change.

Although PAR can manifest in various grades of collaboration (Atalay 2012:47-

50), Alison Wylie (2009:7) contends that the strongest form currently employed in archaeology is the model of “mutual engagement” (see Petras and Porpora 1993:114), whereby “PAR researchers take up questions identified by community members and pursue them through a process of joint decision making and problem solving,” with community empowerment the explicit goal of the inquiry. An even higher level of collaboration would involve institutional transformation, where technical and theoretical knowledge is transferred to the community so that they can “speak authoritatively in their own behalf” (Petras and Porpora 1993:118), but this still remains “a more ambitious vision of collaborative practice than is typically advocated in archaeology” (Wylie

2009:7). Nonetheless, successful archaeological praxis in the context of working with

Indigenous peoples is characterized by four main points (McGuire 2008:80): it serves the interests of indigenous communities, it relies on collaboration, it requires multi-vocality, and it has to be of material benefit to indigenous communities. Likewise, successful collaboration in this context requires making the “terms of engagement” explicit at the outset of the research, and a commitment to long-term involvement with a community

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(Wylie 2009:5). In this way, PAR and emancipatory praxis emphasize a greater sharing of control and an enhanced dialogical relationship. Although critics of PAR and praxis claim that it compromises the integrity of archaeological research, these risks are outweighed by the epistemic benefits of collaboration with communities, primarily in the value of the expertise and critical perspectives arising from “situational knowledge” lying outside of the discipline (Atalay 2012; Wylie 2009:7).

For some Indigenous peoples, collaboration in archaeological practice may not be the ultimate goal. In the case of the St’át’imc and Nlaka’pamux, however, archaeology continues to be relevant, and these nations continue to pursue collaboration with archaeologists, but under their own terms. As articulated in the case studies, archaeological practice needs to accommodate indigenous values for heritage stewardship by incorporating a number of key themes: participation, consultation, and consent; ownership, control, and authority; intangible heritage and traditional knowledge; and meaningful places and indigenous landscape. By addressing these themes, and guided by the principles of praxis and PAR, archaeologists with a commitment to political and social change have an opportunity to further the objectives of indigenous heritage stewardship. The transformation of archaeological practice into emancipatory praxis, through the application of the principles of PAR, may offer a way to bridge the gap between the archaeological discipline and indigenous aspirations for heritage stewardship.

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350

351

Appendices

Appendix A.

St’át’imc Consultants, Topics, and Research Agreement

St’át’imc Consultants

Name

Art Adolph

Terry Adolph

Date

Sept. 5, 2007

Community

Xaxl’ip

Sept. 20, 2007 Lil'wat

Marie Barney Sept. 6, 2007 T'it'kit

Current and/or Former Role(s)

Chief; LTC Chair, Advisor (policy); Councillor

Fisheries technician; Fieldworker (heritage); Archaeological training

Community representative; Consultant / Manager / Fieldworker (LTC heritage); Archaeological training

Dean Billy

Larry Casper

Oct. 10, 2007

Sept. 5, 2007

T'it'kit

Tsalalh

Councillor; Manager (admin); Fieldworker (heritage); B.A. (archaeology)

SGS Stewardship Coordinator; Manager (LTC resource / heritage);

LTC Chair; Chief; Councillor

Sam Copeland Oct. 9, 2007 T’it’kit

Michelle

Edwards

Sept. 7, 2007

Fieldworker (heritage); Forestry technician; Archaeological training

Sekw'elw'as Chief, Consultant / Manager / Fieldworker (heritage); Community rep;

Archaeological training

Randy James Sept. 6, 2007 Tsalalh

Susan James

Darwyn John

Sept. 5, 2007

Oct. 3, 2008

Xwisten

Tsalalh

Councillor; GIS technician; Fieldworker (heritage); Archaeological training

LTC Administrator (tribal); Councillor

Forestry liaison (MFLNRO); Fieldworker (heritage); Support worker;

Archaeological training

Albert Joseph Sept. 19, 2007 Xwisten Elder; Community representative; Fieldworker (heritage);

Archaeological training; Logger

Rodney Louie Nov. 16, 2007 Tsalalh

Brenda

McDonald

SGS Director; Manager (resource sector); Chief; Councillor

Oct. 4, 2008 Ts'kwaly'ax Researcher / Councillor; Fieldworker (cultural heritage)

Gerald Michel Sept. 18, 2007 Xwisten Manager (resource sector); Community representative; Archaeological training

Cathy Narcisse Oct. 4, 2008 Sekw'elw'as Advisor (policy); Ph.D. student; Manager (resource sector); Support worker

Ida Peter Oct. 3, 2008 Tsalalh Councillor; Manager (resource / heritage); Fieldworker (heritage);

Archaeological training; Instructor (language)

Desmond Peters

Sr.

Sept. 19, 2007 Ts'kwaly'ax Grand Chief, Elder; Community representative; Instructor (language)

Perry Redan Oct. 10, 2007 Sekw'elw'as Councillor; Chief; LTC chair

John Terry Sept. 19 & 20,

2007

Xwisten

Saul Terry Nov. 16, 2007 Xwisten

Kenny Thomas Oct. 11, 2007 Xwisten

Fisheries technician; Fieldworker (heritage); forestry technician;

Archaeological training

Chief; Manager (resource sector); Councillor; UBCIC chief; SCC chair

Elder; Fieldworker (heritage); Archaeological training; Logger

352

Generalized St’át’imc Conversation Topics

Introduction (research objectives, informed consent)

St’át’imc Perspectives on Archaeology

• Encounters with Archaeology

• Defining archaeology

• Archaeology and cultural heritage

• Heritage and landscape

• Benefits and drawbacks of archaeology

Legislative and Regulatory Issues

The Rise of St’át’imc Archaeology

The LTC Heritage Assessment Process

• How does LTC process differ?

• Advantages?

• Disadvantages?

• Management Decisions

• CHO process/strengths/weaknesses/issues

• HFR process/strengths/weaknesses/issues

• AIA process/strengths/weaknesses/issues

• Reporting process/strengths/weaknesses/issues

• Management process/strengths/weaknesses/issues

• Why ended?

• Community vs. nation based

The Future of St’át’imc Archaeology

• Nation Level Planning

• On/off reserve / academic research

• Direction/Issues

• Progress

• Role of archaeologists

• Ideal process

353

LTC Research and Information-Sharing Agreement

354

355

LTC Letter of Approval

356

Appendix B.

Nlaka’pamux Participants and Research Agreement

Participants in Nlaka’pamux Heritage Meetings and Community Workshops

Name Community

Anonymous written (x7) Lytton

Bernice Abbott

Debbie Abbott

Lytton

Lytton

Buster Adams

Ken Adams

Sandra Andrew

Lytton

Lytton

Boothroyd

Thomas (Hank) Andrew Boothroyd

Chief Melvin Bobb Spuzzum

Nita Bobb

Shelly Bobb

Spuzzum

Spuzzum

Charles Brown

Lorraine Campbell

Rick Campbell

Amy Charlie

Lytton

Boston Bar

Boothroyd

Lytton

Jeanie Charlie

Lester Charlie

Pauline Douglas

Jeanette Duncan

Kevin Duncan

Tawnya Durant

Ruby Dunstan

Les Edmonds

Gordon Edwards

Edith Florence

Jean Florence

Chief James Frank

Sherry Grosart

Donna Hance

JR Hance

John Haugen

Larisa Hunsbedt

Lee-ann Hunsbedt

N’kixw’stn James

Lytton

Lytton

Non

[Xaxli’p]

Lytton

Non

Lytton

Ashcroft

Spuzzum

Boston Bar

Skuppah

Kanaka Bar

Lytton

Kanaka Bar

Kanaka Bar

Lytton

Skuppah

Skuppah

Lytton

Role

Unknown

NNTC computer tech

NNTC executive director

Elder, language speaker

Elder, language speaker

Administrator

Elder, councillor

Chief, ex-BC Hydro worker

Councilor, craftworker

Community health worker

Artist, TUS worker

Elder

Elder, artist

Elder, language teacher

NNTC researcher

Elder

Researcher

NNTC executive assistant

NNTC conservation officer

NNTC natural resources tech

Elder, ex-chief

Elder, ex-chief

Elder, ex-councillor, fisheries worker

Cook, administrator

Elder, language speaker

Chief, language speaker

NNTC community health worker

Artist/craftworker

Councilor, NNTC natural resource worker

1

NNTC researcher, councilor, language

Student

Community health worker

Elder, retired teacher

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

R1 R2 T

1 1

1

1

1 L

SP

C

1

1 1

BR

SP

SP

SP

L

BR

BR

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

SP

SP

S

KB

L

KB

KB

S

L

L

S

L

L

L

357

Name

Jennifer Jmayoff

Jackie Johnson

Community

Kanaka Bar

Spuzzum

Jane Jones

Michael Klassen

Madeline Lanaro

Freda Loring

Deb McIntyre

Chief Doug McIntyre

Sherry McIntyre

Theresa McIntyre

Eleanor McKay (part)

Georgina McKay

Theodore McKay

Boothroyd

Non

Lower Nicola

Lytton

Skuppah

Skuppah

Skuppah

Kanaka Bar

Boothroyd

Boothroyd

Boothroyd

Patrick Michell

Emily Milliken

Kanaka Bar

Non

Chief Dolores O’Donaghey Boston Bar

Chief Robert Pasco Oregon Jack

Gloria Dorothy Phillips Boothroyd

Raymond Phillips Lytton

Shirley Raphael

Teresa Raphael

Lytton

Lytton

Role

Child and family services worker, museum and heritage FCIA

Administrator, ex-chief, craftworker, language speaker

Cook

Consultant

Elder

Craftworker, support worker

NNTC bookkeeper, ex-heritage worker

Chief, maintenance worker

Councillor

Community health worker

Craftworker, plant knowledge

Natural resource worker

R1

1

Ex-lawyer, community liaison (Kwoiek DC)

Researcher 1

Chief, Elder

Chief, Tribal Chair 1

Elder, language teacher

Lawyer

NNTC financial manager

NNTC archivist

1

1

1

1

R2

1

1

1

1

1

1

T

BR

KB

L

1 S

S

S

KB

BR

BR

BR

1

1

C

L

SP

KB

BB

BR

L

Vanessa Raphael

Donnie Sam

Crystal Samson

Ivy Shackelly

[Chawathil]

Lytton

Kanaka Bar

Nooaitch

NNTC secretary

NNTC fisheries tech

Councillor

NNTC community health

1

1

1

KB

1

Byron Spinks

Cyril Spinks

Jordon Spinks

Verna Spinks

Chief Janet Webster

Lorraine Williams

Mary Williams

Wesley Williams

Lytton

Lytton

Kanaka Bar

Lytton

Lytton

Lytton

Lytton

Lytton

NNTC restorative justice, ex-chief, ex- fisheries tech

Maintenance worker, collector

Councillor

Daycare worker

Chief

Elder, language speaker

Elder, language speaker

Elder, ex-chief

1

1

1

1

1

1

1

L

KB

L

L

TOTALS 18 20 16 43

R1 = Roundtable Meeting 1 (Oct. 26, 2009); R2 = Roundtable Meeting 2 (Nov. 9, 2009); T = Pilot workshop with NNTC technical staff (Jan. 22, 2010); C = Community Workshops (BR = Boothroyd, Mar. 23, 2010; BB = Boston Bar, Mar. 15,

2010; KB = Kanaka Bar, March 1, 2010; L = Lytton, Mar. 25, 2010; S = Skuppah, Mar. 18, 2010; SP = Spuzzum, Mar.

19, 2010).

358

NNTC Research and Information-Sharing Agreement

359

360

NNTC Letter of Approval

361

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