What’s in a name?
You will find here, part of an ongoing project with a working title of “Remnants of Sumas Mountain: Reveries of a Mountain Dweller”
This essay was written on the unceded territory of the Sto:lo people, the Sema:th and the Mathexwi First Nation.
The long held inhale of anticipation hung in the air that summer. When British Columbia experienced her first recorded heat dome, so called for the lid or cap-like behaviour of hot ocean air trapped in a localised atmosphere, forests combusted, creeks dried, fish boiled, and towns went up in flames in a matter of minutes. Grandparents and street dwellers and toddlers died in their sleep for lack of cool air and water. We held our breath, waiting for a break in the onslaught that seemed never to arrive.
It was a time gripped by the germ of a global pathogen. A world where social progress and environmental destruction and mental health and reproductive rights and freedom of speech and racial injustice and personal and community identity were at the forefront of our collective conversations. I began to see, more than ever before, that the vocabulary we use to name and identify these issues, people, places, things, and ideas, matters. It matters because what we call something acknowledges its existence outside of ourselves and declares what and who we value.
In the midst of this social and environmental dismantling, when the dust settled but was not swept away, there was nothing to do but sit with the reality before me, a reality created partly as a natural progression through time, partly from single minded human tendencies where growth and development were branded as instruments of social progress rather than an annihilation of natural spaces, cultures, and identities. It was then, that summer in 2021, as the heat slightly subsided and a need for quiet settled within me, when I ventured away from Sumas Mountain, away from the fallacy pedalling progress as virtue, away from the onslaught of growth, and away from the passive talk around doing it all better. I left, not knowing what to look for or what I hoped to find. I felt only the need to go — to walk among the trees and creeks and birds and leaves of a different place. A place which had seen similar pains as Sumas, a place whose identity has many faces, many stories, and many names, depending on who is asked.
For some, the Sunshine Coast is a playground for weekend adventurists, kayakers, mountain bikers, and hikers. It is a summer vacation where families gather year after year in Grandma’s old bungalow, young cousins spilling out into the living room in sleeping bags, and uncles gridlocked with their Teardrop trailers and Airstream RVs. Grown up sisters cook and gossip in the small kitchen while their partners and brothers barbeque on the beach, each of them falling into old remembered roles in their million dollar beach shack while the anxieties of their lives and this world are put on a shelf. It is a place where colonisation meets Indigenous land rights, where governments and policy makers are still discussing the best way toward Reconciliation and recognition of profit made from stolen lands, renamed and rebranded to passively tell who belongs and who does not.
Sunday, the eighth of August, 2021. The morning sun anchored itself low in the sky, filtering through maples and birch and cedars and fir, casting dusty gold and yellow hues across the land of our Sumas Mountain property. As I passed by the young Pin Oak, planted at the end of our driveway, I caught a slight translucent glimmer through the small green and pointy ended leaves that burst from every branch. The rubbery wet looking surface of fresh leaves gave the promise of more moisture in days to come, a desperately hopeful end to our drought, and the welcoming of the rains acutely needed on the West Coast. Those rains would come later in the year, after apocalyptic wildfires blazed across British Columbia, in ways I had never seen before. The rains brought with them, catastrophic fall out from treeless forests, failed human maintained infrastructure, and the reality of climate change.
Ignorant of what would come to pass in the following months, and pining for that cooler, quieter, place to contemplate this life, packed with a hammock, water, food, boots, extra socks, and eco-conscious bug spray, I left for Lund. Lund. The most northern town along British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast. Mile zero at the end of highway 101. A seaside village 120 kilometres north of the city of Vancouver. It is known by some as the shellfish capital, by others, the gateway to Desolation Sound. Explored by Captain George Vancouver, whose drunken escapades were followed by emotional depression as a result of long voyages may have influenced the naming of what he claimed to have discovered, Lund has a rich history. The Coast Salish people have lived in and fished and loved this part of coastal British Columbia, sharing forests and ocean shores, abundant with thriving ocean species and berries and deer, with the neighbouring territories of the Klahoose and Homalco people. When Lund was settled, first by Charles Thulin, the Coast Salish were nearly decimated by the smallpox epidemic that swept like a lingering dark cloud through communities across Canada at the time of Western colonisation. This holocaust, one of many, in part gave way for the ease of Western European settlement and a complete permeation of colonized ideals and ways of being. Captain Vancouver criticised Lund and Desolation Sound for its “awful silence” and “gloomy forests”, a hard sell to anyone who visits the area today.
It is this silence I am drawn to. The vast and veiled forested tapestry is what I aim to be lost in. Disconnecting from the noise of modern life and the madness of a world teetering on an edge, the centre crumbling, is why I go to the woods. I chase a connection, all but lost by so many for so long. A connection I may never fully achieve. Though the coast and the mountains, the trees and waterways, birds and rains and wind, are in my heart and in my blood, in every choice I make, I am yet a product of distant colonisers, whose connection with the land is tainted by the haunted past of land usurpers. So I go to the woods, on Sumas Mountain or Lund or elsewhere, to learn, to see, and to connect in the best way I can.
I start my route to land’s end at Lund from Sumas Mountain via a horde of assorted roads broken up by two ferry crossings. The blackened asphalt starts at my driveway with the Pin Oak and her leaves, and the heat from the previous week, and the knowledge of deaths born out of climate disasters, fading from view in the rear mirror. I follow Sumas Mountain Road, passing new community mailboxes brought in to accommodate residents in freshly built detached housing developments, replacing the forest and diverting the waterways and displacing beaver homes. Further down, tremendous white oil storage towers glint above the tree canopy enclosing their compound, and gravel trucks line up at one of the largest mines in the Fraser Valley. I drive by those trucks, waiting for their next load, and miss the top of that part of the mountain and the trees recently severed from their root source to make way for more extraction. I mourne the silence these mountains used to have. The oil storage and rock extraction are only some of what Sumas Mountain has seen since the arrival of settlers who came with a long history of spoiling the earth.
At the bottom of Sumas Mountain, I head toward what was once Sumas Lake. The prairie area now consists of Highway 1, the main artery linking cities east and west of Abbotsford, a network of side roads and farm roads with houses and barns, and land occupied by cattle and chickens, blueberries and raspberries, and one field of u-pick tulips in the Spring. City planners called it land reclamation, land which had been found beneath the natural body of water of Sumas Lake was claimed and given to white settler farmers, many of whose farms are still in the hands of their descendants one hundred years later.
The Big Drain began in 1920. With the build of the Barrowtown Pumpstation, it took nearly four years to complete the water evacuation. Farmers were pulling sturgeon, fish descendant from the early Jurassic epoch, out of the new soggy farmland for years after the lake was drained. As I attempt to imagine what would have been here over a century ago, and turn from Sumas Mountain Road onto what would have been the western edge of Sumas Lake, I see the ghosts of geese and ducks and trumpeter swans, falcons and swallows and heron, whose descendants had been returning to the lake each spring since the landing of the first bird. Sometimes you can still see patches of swans and Canadian geese, in the right season, though their populations are continuously growing smaller.
From Abbotsford, the plodding highway system running toward Langley, Surrey, Coquitlam, and Vancouver, is a bottleneck of exhaust and individualism. Everyone needs their own car. Everyone has somewhere to go. Including me. As more come to call the Fraser Valley their home, policy makers and city planners dictate that building more highways is the best way to move traffic and people and products from place to place. It is a circus of asphalt and petroleum, egocentricity and waste.
Along the fluctuating parking lot of bumper to bumper traffic I go. Dump trucks groan with gravel and heavy loaded semis violently shudder beside me as they gear down, their colossal engine cylinders gulping, gulping, gulping for breath before the next gear shift. Silent sleek Teslas tailgate, a yellow GMC Hummer bullies its way forward to close the gap between Volkswagen before him, a red tail glowing as he engages the brakes at the last possible second. Stress does not touch me in this tight, white knuckle stretch of roadway, knowing I left the mountain with extra hours to spare before the 10:00 sailing from the Horseshoe Bay Ferry Terminal to Langdale. I simply drive with the flow, slowing with the herd and resuming speed when possible.
I slouch over the Port Mann bridge, past the Ikea warehouse and Burnaby Lake, not visible from the road, alongside casinos and hotels and billboards reminding parents to talk to their kids about heroin. One billboard informs me that McDonald’s burgers are “crafted for your craving.” Crossing the Ironworkers Memorial Bridge, traffic begins to thin slightly. Highway 1 turns into the Sea to Sky, Highway 99 North.
Climbing, climbing, climbing. The road turns narrow and mountainous, lined with coniferous tree varieties of Douglas fir, Western red cedar, Western hemlock, Grand fir, Sitka spruce, and Western yew, each donning a unique shade of green woven into the forest array. The highway overlooks the Burrard Inlet, the city vanishing, and Vancouver Island misty in the distance, an equally breathtaking view, that continues farther north toward settler stolen land made into mining and logging towns, turned trendy neighbourhoods and resorts, of Britannia Beach, Squamish, Garibaldi, and Whistler. My route, however, culminates at the Horseshoe Bay Terminal, ending in a long lineup of cars, campers, vans, motorcyclists, and bicyclists, packed tight with family, gear, toys, snacks, and pets, for whatever journey awaits on the other side of the water.
With the better part of an hour until sailing, I let the window of my car roll down and listened to the sounds of the mountain. I watched Wind and Sun skirt among the crowd of cars, whispering at this obtuse expression of modernity before returning to the backdrop of land and water wondering why nobody listens. I watched Wind go, into the trees, over the mountain and out to sea, as a strange and eerie breeze-free warmth settled in around us.
Many vehicle engines remained on as we waited and the ferry lines grew. The different sounds of their motors, fit with each type of transportation. The Toyota 4 Runner with its steady whirring moan. The loping purr of a green Subaru Outback. The Dodge Ram exercising it’s power with a heavy brutish bull snort. And the gentle near inaudible thermin like whirring of the Chevrolet Bolt EV. We remained there, locked in our parking space until the ferry arrived and an announcement came on the loud speaker asking everyone to prepare to load. The individual vehicle voices drowned as the cascade of engines erupted, impatient to take their place on the ferry.
Once loaded, lane by lane, car by car, packing as many as possible into the multi-leveled ferry boat, followed by foot passengers arriving via the gangway linking land and vessel, the ship roared to life. Drivers and passengers, children, and grandparents, left their vehicles and made their way up to the main deck. A few remained in their cars, reading books, taking naps, snacking on sandwiches and banana bread brought from home. Some pets were left behind, napping with a window cracked. I followed the crowd, making my way up steel steps, passing gift shops and coffee shops and White Spot restaurants, and passengers who had found seats next to windows to cosy into throughout the sailing. I pulled on a heavy steel door that would take me out to the deck.
The Queen of Coquitlam blasted her horn as she left port. She chugged and skirted around Bowen and Keats Islands to the south, Gabriola and Vancouver Island farther south in the distance, catching glimpses of Gambier Island, and Anvil Island and Howe Sound to the north, the cacophonous rush of moving water and ocean air filling the ears of any on the decks. On that clear day, in the summer, the crossing was beautiful; not just for the sights of the islands and the chance at seeing some ocean wildlife on the forty minute sailing, but every passenger, once loaded and settled, seemed to exhale the weight of the world. On deck, they wandered about to look out at the water, long hair whipping in the wind. They watched the ship leave port and cut through the ocean surface, creating its own current and wake. They chatted, read books, and sat and listened to the sounds of the ocean, the sounds of the ferry itself. They dozed, leaning against the white steel beast carrying them across the water.
From my vantage point on the Port side of the ship, tucked into a corner against the outer walls to hide from the fast moving air and increasingly brighter sun, I noticed a couple sitting in the sun against the outer railing. Their golden lab retriever lounged at their feet, ears perking up each time one of them took a bite of their shared burrito. Once or twice both of them conceded to the pleas of their pet, offering the desperately alert retriever a piece of gooey wonder. Next to them, attached to the rail of the ship, was the name given to this particular vessel: The Queen of Coquitlam. I wondered about the name for the terminal we departed from, Horseshoe Bay. Then I considered the names for other places, and those given to other ferries crossing the water from point to point. I had read some time ago, of the discussions regarding the naming of these ferries and the ethical obligation to separate from Colonial history and showcase the people who had lived on the West Coast for tens of thousands of years or more. What responsibility do public and private corporations and services have in respecting what once was and ensuring colonialism no longer rewrites or ignores the true belonging of Indigenous peoples in Canada? What power does a name have in the way residents and visitors view and understand what this place is and has been and could be?
Queen of Coquitlam, Bowen Queen, Coastal Renaissance, Island Discovery, Queen of Alberni, Queen of Cumberland, Queen of New West Minister, Queen of Capilano, Northern Expedition. Horseshoe Bay, Langdale, Earls Cove. What representations do the the naming of these ferry fleets and terminals hold? What message are they sending? What realities are they forgetting with each fresh generational amnesia, further separated through time? What connections are lost? I wondered about the power of a name, as we sailed on.
Once landing in Langdale, sun baked and desperate for nature, I caught the highway directly out of the terminal and made my way to the next sailing at Earls Cove. This two lane artery is an island road through and through. Passing through Lang Bay and Myrtle Cove, the road is largely bordered on either side by evergreens, side roads jutting off here and there, and every now and then, a glimpse of the ocean coming in to kiss the land; a long time friendship renewed each day with single waves forever bringing the water up to the shores. Eternal.
The ferry at Earls Cove is much smaller than the ship from Horseshoe Bay. The operations are modest and less hectic and most vehicles turn their engines off as they wait, allowing for the sounds of the forest to take over. Although the boat arrives and departs on time, everything runs in true coastal form. Everyone wearing B.C. Ferries jackets and those who come to ride the sailing are calm, relaxed, and are dozing here and there, settling into a slower way of life. To me, on that day making my way to my destination, it seemed that people were perpetually smiling.
The traffic director, a neon orange vest worn over his marine blue B.C. Ferries jacket, olive black steel toe boots marching him hither and thither, waved me forward as I pulled up to the lane. He asked me, eyeing the smallness of my electric car and calculating where to put me in the lineup of vehicles anticipating their short sea voyage, if I could squeeze into a tight spot. I told him I could. With a twinkle of uncertainty in his eye, he pointed to a shaded area to our right, on the other side of a white Toyota Tacoma, last in this lineup of cars. The pavement waiting for my car narrowed on an angle allowing a corner of the forest to take over. I would need to manoeuvre wide to make it around the Tacoma’s back end, cut the wheel sharp to nose into the space, and inch right up to the Honda Civic in front. My spot really wasn’t a spot at all. The traffic maestro watched me go. Eyes peeled, he closely observed my skill and the precision of turns and whether or not I knew the dimensions of my vehicle well enough. When I make it to the spot he assigned me, he smiles, satisfied, then turns his attention to oncoming cars, directing them to their own space to park and wait.
Some of you may have alternative realities concerning ferries, and its true that ferry traffic for those who bobb back and forth frequently can be as dull with exhaustion. My experience has always been about lessons in letting go, in patience, and in taking the moment as it comes, in all the best ways one can. Ferries are like Zen Buddhist teachers. They encourage us to slow down, contemplate, and release the tension humanity so loves to create in themselves and their world. Ferries offer space to exist, to consider, to learn, and to operate with an alternative set of values and perspectives. However naive this may seem to you, it is for these reasons that I love the ferry. It is partly why I chose to disappear into the woods here, rather than some other place. Becoming engulfed by trees along the roads and sandwiched by islands and water along the crossing is just the warm up for an immersive experience into the woods along British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.
Parked and comfortable, I watch the cars come. One after another they line up with their blue and green kayaks strapped to the roofs of black Jeeps. Raspberry red coolers with popcorn white lids are packed alongside lemon yellow duffel bags and brown reusable grocery bags and dogs, and kids devouring Subway sandwiches and bags of Lays potato chips. Some I recognize from my first ferry crossing earlier that day. They too are venturing further up the coast. They too are being directed by the cheery, cheeky, and plump traffic director in the orange visivest and olive black steel toe boots. They too are silenced by the quiet of this place with only the echoes of the invisible wind in the trees and the distant ferry horn blasting as it makes its way closer to docking. They too, I’m sure, are eager to dive into the green woods, to connect, to see, to experience and seek an understanding of what it means to be human in a natural space. I wonder if they had ever thought about the names of the ferries, or the towns, or the roads, or the cities they pass through, and what histories those names ignored. I wonder if they too are concerned about the generational amnesia afflicting their home neighbourhood, as I am concerned about Sumas Mountain. I wonder if they only see in this place what they want to see. I wonder, if I asked them if names should reflect more than a colonial identity, what would they say? Would they care?
I waited there and dreamed and wondered at all the places I had ever visited. I wondered about their names, and their histories, and what unsung connotations and memories were being promoted, and what had been dismissed or forgotten. I’d been foolish and not considered all the memories of these places, the hurts in the land, and what their names represent, for better or worse. I ruminated for some time, as the cars came and settled into their lanes, waiting to be loaded, as the ferry became visible off in the distance, it’s blowing horn announcing its arrival to port, and as the announcement came over the loud outdoor speakers asking passengers to return to their vehicles. I thought about what it would mean to erase the colonial names and replace them by their true Indigenous titles. Renaming could become a promise of positive progress, an acknowledgement of belonging and true identity for all who have called the Sunshine Coast, or any other place for that matter, home.
After landing at the ferry terminal in Saltery Bay, from Earls Cove, I drove along the Sunshine Coast Highway; another gorgeous stretch, weaving in and around the most beautiful West Coast paradise that a road can reach. I am headed to Powell River. From there, I picked up a meal from Royal Zayka. I am delighted to find it is the most sensational Indian food on the Sunshine Coast, one small addition to the multiverse of cuisine that British Columbia does so well. Meal in hand, I drive further down the road and before I reach the old pulp mill at Shingle Mill Pub, I turn into a small off the road nook at the trailhead of one of the Sunshine Coast Trails. I will have a short time to gather my gear and await L.'s arrival.
L. is part of a community forum posted to an internet page whose sole purpose is to help hikers get to and from trailheads as they hike in the woods. She comes to their rescue if something goes wrong, and offers advice for being in and around the Sunshine Coast. That night, I would be sleeping in my backcountry hammock in L.'s backyard before walking the six kilometres to Lund, then take a boat to Sarah Point at the mouth of Desolation Sound, where my forest walk would begin. I questioned what her version of the Sunshine Coast might be, as opposed to mine, or the weekend adventurers’, or the Indigenous communities’.
While I waited, I breathed the coastal atmosphere of Powell River. Not technically an island, by definition, though only accessible by ferry from other parts of the mainland, Powell River feels like a small island town. Isolated from the world by ocean, inlets, and mountains, it is this very separateness from larger and more populated locations on British Columbia’s West Coast that makes it attractive.
Lulled by the enormity of the trees, the savoury ocean scent wafting from the inlet nearby, as vehicles periodically whir past and walkers come and go from the trailhead, their boots crunching the gravel and sticks and fallen debris, all venturing into the woods for a jaunt, smiling assuredly with their dogs or their kids, or just on their own. They all don soft eyes and soft faced smiles, as if they know some secret to life. Nobody says anything to me as they prepare to enter the chapel of trees, but their nonverbal greetings are warm, welcoming, and intoxicating, like the arms of the trees themselves, beckoning me to move among them. It is easy to drink up the aura of this area, to fold into the background of Place. It is easy to transcend the present and shift into wondering what was erased and rewritten, and how what we call a Place can hold such power over it’s identity.
Powell River, named for Israel Wood Powell, doctor, politician, Superintendent of Indian Affairs, and businessman, was officially established in 1910 by a newsprint operation, the Powell River Company, though the story of settlement goes back much farther. The original paper mill was located on on the Tla'amin Nation on the village site known as Tiskat. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Tla'amin Nation occupied the region for close to 8000 years, although some claim that the date should be pushed substantially farther into the past. The use of fishing structures, clam gardens, and canoe runs provide verification of the types of resources used by pre-settler Indigenous communities that were much larger than the community that exists in Powell River today.
Traditionally, the Tla'amin nation was borderless. People moved freely to and from adjacent groups like the Klahoose, Homalco, and K'omoks. Oral histories discuss the living memory of the area as told by the residents who currently live there, and whose histories and stories have been passed down through generations. In my explorations of this area before my arrival on the well groomed trail systems, I researched some of the traditional names for the territories and places that I would be passing through. The most beautiful aspect of these names is their meaning, many of which are direction oriented, to help situate those who ventured there, as in Lund’s traditional name, Klah ah men, meaning a place to head towards or a place of refuge. Other place names are descriptive of what may have happened there. Mary Point, for example, named during exploration and exploitation of the West Coast, was so called for Captain Vancouver’s sister. The traditional name is known as Xah Xah jemin, meaning to quarrel. The ones I found most interesting though, were those that provided a description of the flora and fauna nearby. One spot on the west side of Savary Island, for instance, named Teetee can be translated to many wild cherry trees. Savary Island itself is Qaye qwun, or fresh water spring. The same place is also known as Ay hos, or double headed sea serpent, supposedly describing the odd shape of the sandy shores.
Unlike settlers who, many times, named places after people like explorers, family members, wives, kings, or other leaders, those Indigenous to the area gave place names according to the natural attributes or major events that may have occurred. They also gave names which described what the place looked or felt like. Those who are the original caretakers may have a relationship to this place that modern Canadians can learn from. The language used to describe those places is telling of what is valued and respected. Powell River, for instance, immortalises in its name the many colonising policies that continue to harm Indigenous peoples in Canada.
On Sumas Mountain, when a street or neighbourhood is named after a person, as most are, like Diane Brooke, Dawson Road, Charlie Spruce, Farina Road, Batt Road, the value, whatever the intentions, lies not with the place in itself, its wild inhabitants or natural foliage, but rather in people, and by extension their actions and behaviours, for better or worse. The naming of a place, like the naming of a child, helps it to assume identity. When locations are named for people, they cease to have identities on their own and instead take on those values and attributes associated with the person it is so named for. When the namesake falls to memory, back, and back, and back, or if personal actions are less than desirable, the name becomes either void of any value or it represents philosophies that no longer serve the community. This further works to separate people from place, and alienate belonging to some groups rather than all, as there is no collective identification of that location to the natural areas surrounding it, which is so pertinent to Sumas Mountain, the Sunshine Coast, and many other places in British Columbia, Canada, and the globe. In severing this connection to the physicality of place via the names we use, ease of exploitation may swoop in as there is no place-based identity connected the natural or original
In the Fraser Valley, the Sto:lo people and the Sema:th First Nation, who inhabited the area surrounding Sumas Lake at the base of the mountain, are closely tied to Place. The literal translation for Sto:lo is River. This is exemplary of how the people connect with the river itself. The areas are not named for people, who will pass and move to memory, or whose actions and connections may no longer be relevant, but are instead named for the reality of the environment and its naturally occurring elements so telling to the place they exist in. Cultus Lake, as another example, not far from Chilliwack and about thirty seven kilometres east of Sumas Mountain, translates to warn or swirling water. This original name is connected to Sweltzer Creek, where the outflow is slightly tumultuous and attractively dangerous. Some believe the name is also tied to the lake’s origin story and the inherent power of water. A name like this, linked to cultural history and the way the water moves, helps to connect to the body of water, donning respect greater than any single human. But how do we ratify this naming? Do we dismantle what is there now, rename, and rewrite? How much do we change? How much will each rewrite erase the past? What dangers are there in eliminating memory? What impact does taking down a statue or changing the name of a road, building, neighbourhood, or town have?
There was a statue in Gastown, Vancouver. It was a bronze sculpture of the man so called Gassy Jack, whose true name was John Deighton, and for whom, a voracious storyteller and saloon owner, the neighbourhood is named for. During a march for missing and murdered Indigenous women, the statue of Gassy Jack standing atop a bronze barrel propped up on a rise of brick work seemingly flowing from the cobblestone street itself, was toppled, decapitated, defamed with red paint, and replaced temporarily with wood cut outs of red dresses to symbolize those who had disappeared. The red paint, like the blood of these missing and murdered women, stained the cobbled stone street and the corpse of the statue. Colonial minded progress and growth, like that of Gassy Jack, has destroyed lives, communities, and collective identities. He, the statue, was later carried away on a stretcher of sorts, tarp covered and shamed.
As it turns out, Gassy Jack, or John Deighton, had married two Squamish Indigenous women. After the first passed away, Deighton married her niece, Quahail-ya, also known as Madeline. Not a lot is known about the nature of this relationship, whether it was amicable or abusive, filled with love or was a mere contract, except that a son was born, the couple lived in a little cabin outside of town, Quahail-ya ran away at least once, and that she was twelve at the time of her marriage. For this, and the thousands of documented missing and murdered Indigenous women, girls, and two spirited people, Gassy Jack no longer stands in Gastown. But what happens next? Is Gastown to be renamed? Or the fleet of British Columbia Ferries? Or waterways on Sumas Mountain? Streets? Neighbourhoods? Cities? What will we remember or forget if we rename them? What will we remember or forget if we don’t?
L. arrives, meeting me where I have been parked in Powell River, as a wrinkle of deep contemplation carves its way along my forehead, surely setting a path for a deepening crease off centre and trailing downward between my brow. These questions of place and name and identity and belonging are not easy to find the answers to.
Platinum blonde with a fudgesicle orange t-shirt, L. greets me and loads my gear into the back of her Dodge. She is a talker. She wants me to know how many times she has walked the trail I am about to embark on. Six. She wants me to know that there is very little water out there in the creeks and streams, on account of the heat dome. She wants me to know that smoke from the wildfires on the eastern edge of British Columbia may impact the air as I start my walk. She tells me that starting the trip from a water taxi at Sarah Point, via Lund, is the best way to begin. She warns about bears and the need to hang my food in a tree each night, far enough away from camp. L. makes me promise that I will call her if I get stuck someplace, roll an ankle, or just can’t go any farther. She wants me to know that this trail, this place, is heaven on earth. I listen, drinking every word in, excitement building in me as we drive down the highway, my car safely parked where I will finish the walk. We continue farther and farther from Powell River and closer to her home where I will camp in her backyard and walk the forty minutes to Lund the next morning to start my walk.
L.’s property is heavily treed with firs. They line the long dirt driveway leading from the road, winding through her five acre piece of land, and arriving at the back. There, in a small clearing, having left the remainder of the land completely treed and untouched is a newly built modest home with a modern design. A sparkling jewel attracting the light often hidden beneath the forest canopy. Aiming for a smaller footprint, the house is a standing rectangle shape with three stories and a flat angled roof at the top. Each floor has large black framed windows, strong focal points that contrast well with the burnt orange standing seam metal siding, grey concrete patio, and dark wood beamed cover. Immediately surrounding the house are stones of various sizes, levelled and layered with native plants. There is not a blade of grass or non-native species to be found. Any greenery covering the earth comes from ferns, moss, or other local plant types. L. has named this place, tagəkʷayɩn, the Sliammon word for Fern. Staying here is the perfect end to a road of contemplation, setting the tone to start my walk.
The evening passes slowly. Peacefully. As the sun begins to dip, squirrels race amok from tree to tree, hoarding their spoils and swearing at one another. I lay in my hammock, rain cover off, mosquito net zipped tight, and watch the stars and moon peer out of the deepening blue of the night sky. I hear mosquitos hum and owls hoot. Something howls somewhere in the distance. This night parade of sonorous sounds, plump with wildlife and expansive air reminds me of Sumas and what it was and will never be again. Too much has happened. Too much has changed with the endless parade of prosperous hopefuls, not wanting to connect or see or listen to or understand the nature they have moved into and moved over. Forever decimated in places, Sumas was once as sonorous as this night on my route to Lund.
At times, sitting still on Sumas, echoes of that silent wilderness of the past comes through. It floats in the air on a crisp night when the world is quiet and unmoving, the gentle wind from the trees lining our property speak of times gone by and I am suspended there where no concerns over growth or progress or ecologies or social dimensions can intervene with the secrets of the forest at night. I drift off to sleep and dream of Sumas Mountain. But when I dream, I call it Sem:ath, for that is her name, the embodiment of the features of the mountain. I don’t call the streets by their names, but instead by the squirrel who lives in the tree, or the frog who croaks in the creek, or the hummingbird and the owl and the raven, who chirp and call and chatter nearby. Sema:th belongs to them and the mountain they call home. They are it’s true inhabitants and will forever be remembered and identified, at least by me, in this way.