Module Four

The massive area of land now called Alaska has been the location of many sorts of cataclysmic events, some within recent history that allow us to learn about the events from the stories of people who witnessed the events, some within generational history that allow us to learn about the events from the stories of people who have kept that history, whether in writing or by oral tradition, and some within a history so distant that it is the earth alone who tells the stories. These stories of cataclysmic events help students learn about geosciences and cultures by viewing those natural events from a human perspective.

For the most part, volcanoes are classified as active, dormant, and extinct, and that they occur mainly at the edge of geologic characteristics known as plates, which was the subject of earlier study. Here’s a regional map of Alaska volcanoes that shows that volcanoes appear in every part of Alaska. According to the Alaska Volcano Observatory, more than three-quarters of the volcano eruptions in the United States in the last 200 years have occurred in what is now the state of Alaska on an average of about one eruption per year. Stories of volcanic events are less common in Southeast Alaska, but there’s no surprise that in areas such as Hawaii and the Aleutian Islands, these stories figure more prominently in a culture’s history. 

The new learning that I’m taking away from this week’s module have to do with more specific information about underwater hotspots, and, of course, even more Google Earth. Another new bit of information I’m taking is the measurement tool known as smoots. I’m happy that I now know not only the history of the measurement, but also its practical application to bridges. It would be fun to use this information as a learning tool in a project that asks students to measure certain areas—their rooms, the distance from their front door to the sidewalk, the width of the playground—and perhaps extend that to large distances that connect communities and cultures, all in the name of it being fun to learn.

The TD tools are invaluable, and I plan to build a sizeable file. Applying new knowledge to the classroom is an ever-challenging task, but for the generation of students who are movie-goers, here’s a fun website that connects volcanoes and popular culture.

Doug’s blog mentions human stories, an important connection. Dan’s blog offers something I found irresistible—a corny volcano song. I found Janet’s writing about images and sounds of earthquakes and waves evocative. And Alison’s restatement of lessons on P waves and S waves was also very helpful.

Module Three

EXPLORE ALASKA

MODULE III

I recently traveled to Anchorage and flew back two days later on Alaska Air’s “milk run,” which provides service from Anchorage to Juneau with stops in Cordova and Yakutat. The view as we approached Cordova was of a wide, long beach/wetland, curling streams flowing broadside across the beach, now and then a straight mark that I told myself couldn’t be a road. In later research, I learned that I had been looking at a length of the Copper River Delta, part of which is recognized by the Western Hemispheric Shorebird Reserve Network as possessing “Hemispheric Importance” (Audubon). The Audubon Society calls this area “the single most important stopover site for Western Sandpiper and the Pacific population of the Dunlin.” Even my relatively brief glimpse of the mountains, waterways, beaches, and wetlands that have been formed here over geologic time convinced me that the place is significant indeed, not only to the countless shorebirds that find it such a rich stopping place in their migrations, but also to the many animals and fish that succeed so well in this environment, and to the people who are drawn here by the same resources that attract and nurture so many other examples of abundant life.

http://iba.audubon.org/iba/profileReport.do?siteId=2716&navSite=search&pagerOffset=0&page=1

The effect of our environment on our lives is evident in all of the land that is now Alaska. Although ecoregions are defined by vegetation and climate, our understanding of our environment is also shaped by a region’s important physical features, which in turn shape our understanding of the environment. In fact, to a large extent, those physical features control our interaction with our natural surroundings. Rivers and mountains comprise the most obvious elements that influence our interaction with our physical environment, but certainly vegetation, climate, and animals affect how we interact, how we travel, where we live.

Our choices are shaped by the weather—no one could fly out of Anchorage when a large volcano near Anchorage puffed out ash; no one could fly out of Sitka when most of northern Southeast Alaska was covered by a blanket of thick fog. I decide not to walk to the store when there’s word of a bear nearby. When we expect a windy night, sailors tend to their boats. 

Our choices are shaped by our environment—I won’t try to grow something that won’t grow in this soil or in this climate, elements that might have been shaped by the movement of the tectonic plates that scientists agree on nowadays. It’s clear that almost all of our choices are affected by our environment in some way. How much more would the weather, the presence of game and edible plants, the availability of fresh water, the direction of the wind and the size of the rain-shadow influence long-term cultural choices such as settlements and exploration and ceremony.

On the plane, Yakutat was our next stop, a quick 30 minutes after we left Cordova. The village of Yakutat has long been somewhat isolated; it remains the northernmost settlement in Lingit Aani, the homeland of the Tlingit people. The view as we approached Yakutat was quite different: there were no wetlands/beaches/deltas to wonder about. There were simply mountains that seemed to reach right down to the ocean, with tree-covered islands a distance from the coastline. The environment of a southeast town. As soon as I looked at the surroundings of the town, with its mountains and islands and sea, I was reminded of some history I’ve heard, elements of which some people believe may have taken place quite nearby.

Most stories are intellectual property: a person who doesn’t possess the specific right to repeat the story mustn’t do so. A person who has been given permission to describe the events in the story is not to do so without proper attribution to the group that owns the story. By and large, most intellectual property is owned by the clan—the clan has often paid for that story with the life of one of its members, and its retelling is not to be taken lightly.

Among the many stories told about the land and the beings that live upon them is a story that is quite well-known and often told. It doesn’t fall into the specific sort of property rights that applies to most stories, songs, and history, but rather is part of a larger cycle that can be told by people other than a specific clan member.

It seems that when there was no light upon the world, curious Raven decided he would do something about the darkness, and through much scheming and investigation and plotting—as well as things going wrong—he finally carried out his deeds, and there was light in the world. There are people who believe that when this happened, everything upon the earth became frightened at the light. I can agree.

Think about the recently rescued miners who had been trapped under ground for such a long time that they had to wear sunglasses for days when then came to the surface. How must it have been, then, to experience light after a lifetime of darkness. Everything must have been frightened. Even the animals must have scattered and fled. Some say that even the mountains trembled. And some say that those mountains that trembled are near Yakutat. It might have been those very mountains that I looked at as we approached the landing place at Yakutat. They say that as light flooded the world, Raven transformed himself into his original form and flew away. When he did that, some people say, the people were deeply alarmed. They say that this time, even the mountains were frightened.

Paul Marks said that people once lived by the moon. Nowadays we no longer do that, because we now have a degree of artificial light that some think is actually light pollution. Be that as it may, there is some truth in the statement. We don’t really live by our environment any more, either, until a disaster strikes or some sort of anomaly can be made frightening by the media on a slow news day. We might more likely be like the people who say they will always come back to a place, even after there are no more fish and no more berries. Rather than living by the light and by the seasons, we are guided by printed calendars and scheduled meals. But we can return in some form, whether it’s because we are among the fortunate who return to a place summer after summer, not to fish, not to pick berries, but to laugh and become part of the land again, or whether it’s because we perform our hunting and berry-picking in the manner of the twenty-first century. We know that in the ancient way of understanding—the human way, as it were—to gather is to share.

            Although I’ve been in some discomfort and perhaps unable to devote the degree of concentration I would have liked, I have taken a great deal from this week’s module. I especially enjoyed learning about the innumerable ways in which people style their experiences. How others blend their past and their future, how they blend their varied cultural identities, how they balance new lives in places far from home, how they live and love one place while remaining betrothed to another place, how others use contemporary information to illuminate and enhance traditional knowledge, are all important and long-lasting benefits I will continue to learn from as the weeks and years wear on. Thanks!

Resource:

Western Hemisphere Shorebird Reserve Network (http://www.whsrn.org/sites/default/files/images/wetland.jpg)

Module Two

Explore Alaska Module II
Ernestine Hayes

The first assertion in Explore Alaska’s Module II about connectedness—that the elder’s understanding that “all life, time, energy and the physical world” are connected “is not far removed from the geoscientist’s understanding that everything is connected in the earth system”—isn’t as self-evident to me as I would hope. To my mind, it is the nature of the connectedness that is primary.

An awareness of interdependence and a respect for all things emerge from a worldview that sees itself as part of the woven web, while from the other, it sometimes seems that the woven world is to be observed rather than experienced. This dissimilarity in worldviews is perhaps exemplified by ways of knowing listed in the Western science portion of the Venn diagram: that the Western scientist is skeptical, that evidence must be verified, that the thing to be known must be explained to the scientist’s satisfaction. To my mind, this approach leaves the individual in a place apart from the web, while the holistic way of knowing places the individual within the interwoven world.

In fact, I suggest that we consider the phrase “In order to integrate Alaska Native ways of knowing with Western scientific ways” and at least for a few moments think about a charge that asks us to see our work from that other perspective: let’s work to integrate Western scientific ways into Alaska Native ways of knowing. Instead of having a goal to “Facilitate the inclusion of local and traditional knowledge into research and science,” let’s have a goal to “facilitate the inclusion of research and science into local and traditional knowledge.” Instead of asking the question “In what ways [does] traditional native knowledge compliment modern scientific knowledge?” let’s ask “In what ways does modern scientific knowledge complement traditional Native knowledge?”

Perhaps the most valuable common ground would be the knowledge of cycles. Being witness to the cycle of birth, life, death in many things allows us to apply that knowledge to things that appear unchanging, and it allows us to apply that knowledge to ourselves, one of the most challenging lessons we face.

Educational opportunities arise from applying both ways to any learning situation. The Native way of knowing invites us to see the connectedness in all things at all times, something that might be difficult to accomplish if we allow ourselves to be constrained by rigid categorization. It’s difficult to perceive interconnectedness when we isolate subjects and confine our interests. Our challenge is to constantly remind ourselves that the greater message, that of connectedness, presents itself when invited.

We are surrounded by useful resources: weather, seasons, plants, animals, paths, the ground, mountains, trees, sky. Seeing the world as interconnected and alive refines perception, cultivates respect, and nurtures sense of self and sense of place. It readies us to engage our lives, and as a later video makes clear, builds character, develops patience, makes us bold, strengthens courage, and enhances creativity.

The first submission from one of the blogs from our course exemplifies this interaction with the land. Esther Gust posts about returning to the family fish camp at Lewis Point near Bristol Bay, summer after summer, generation by generation, connects a family to the land and sea in the most important of ways: the family depends on the place for subsistence, and the place benefits from the family’s interaction in important ways that highlight the interconnectedness of all life: we are part of the food chain.

This appreciation and interdependence of life is also exemplified in a video produced some time ago by the University of Alaska Southeast, titled A Time of Gathering. The understanding of interconnectedness is evident throughout the video, from the words spoken by each participant as they recalled times when the family would travel to that part of what is now Glacier Bay to gather berries, to the song sung to the land upon leaving it: a song acknowledging that the people would miss the land, and the land itself would be bereft without the people.

Native understanding of spirit probably cannot be understood from a purely Western point of view. Whatever Western scholars draw on to believe and to hope—to accept—is probably the means by which Western thinkers can approach Native understanding. Embracing an unfamiliar way of knowing in this manner is not as difficult as it sounds: Native people have been doing it for decades.

Sila and Inua are the terms that the module presents as the Iñupiaq or Inuit words to express the spirit that connects all things, and can also be described as temperature or atmosphere. Modern scientific knowledge complements traditional Native knowledge by adding yet another facet to a multi-faceted way of knowing. While modern scientific knowledge can and often does disprove itself and abandon its own favorite theories, the events that bring about these changes are compatible with the Native way of knowing, and embracing new events offers no threat to Native ways of knowing. This concept is illustrated in another blog for week one, where Martha Gould-Lehe’s favorite place has probably changed only insofar as the constant flow of water has worn a deeper groove into the smooth rock, while the people in the kayak personify the changes that have come about in terms of clothing, gear, and material. Yet the happiness that comes from enjoying this favorite place in Prince William Sound, near Whittier, remains the same, timeless human experience.

Some descriptions of the roles of modern and traditional ways of knowing still seem to be uttered from a perspective that is a bit biased toward the scientific method. For instance, when referring to Ecological and Non-Ecological Knowledge, ANSC asserts, speaking of Native people who have undergone Western-style “formal” schooling and contact with biologists, “In fact, their experiences often validate, inform and give new meaning and value to traditional knowledge.” I suggest that we say “their experiences often validate, inform and give new meaning and value to scientific knowledge.”

On a personal level, I value the “participation of Alaska Natives at all levels of science” to a high degree; in fact, I value Alaska Native participation in all levels of all fields of study, especially those that involve Alaska Native subjects. A Western bias that minimizes Native experience and sometimes even the land itself can be seen in the practice of naming. For instance, a blog by James White, one of the participants in this program, acknowledges the Native name of the place where he and his family hold a cabin: Xootsnuwu, the original name for the island showing a characteristic of the land itself—Fortress of the Brown Bear. The name that was inflicted on the place after it was taken describes not the land, but rather a person or perhaps a rank in the military.

I was born in the Public Health hospital in the Juneau Indian Village at the end of the Second World War. I was born at the edge of a great ice field that caused our winter Taku winds. I was born at the edge of the rich waters of what is now Southeast Alaska and what was not long ago Lingit Aani. I was born at the edge of the rich dark nurturing dangerous forest.

I was born at the edge of the village at the hem of two worlds. The forces that shaped the cultural landscape into which I was born carried with them irresistible colonial powers. By the time of my birth, Western style education had replaced old ways of teaching and old ways of learning. Instead of being part of the age-old successful method of watch, do, learn, I was sent out of my home to a hard place with hard chairs and a hard teacher, where I was told I must learn someone else’s language, someone else’s stories, someone else’s history, and someone else’s values. Now that I am a professor at a university, I often wonder how much has really changed.

In February 2009, I traveled to Nome to give a week-long writing workshop, give a reading, and visit schools. Part of my visit included flying to the village of Savoonga on St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Sea for two or three days, where I stayed in the community hall and visited classes during the day. Students were often still very sleepy when school started, and since it remained dark until later in the day, it seemed as though school started when it was still nighttime. Of course the hours couldn’t be adjusted to reflect the very short days, but it did seem as though school could start somewhat later in consideration of the hours kept by students and their families during the winter. When I broached that subject with school people, I was told that Savoonga kept the hours all the other schools in the district kept and would not be changed, a seeming failure of blending two cultures.

Some students did visit with me, and they spoke of summertime hours, when they traveled to nearby ancient village sites, and they went on mouse-hunts, and they raced across the island to favorite spots to explore. Interaction with the landscape was evident—they gathered driftwood for fires, they spoke of walrus hunting, and they spoke of the size of a particular tree that was growing year-round for the first time. They spoke of seeing wildlife that didn’t used to be seen on the island. They spoke of changes the weather seemed to be bringing. They spoke of change.

The extent of their interaction with the land was evident when I looked at it on Google Earth. Scott Momaday, when speaking of his grandmother’s people in The Way to Rainy Mountain, said they measured their stature by the distance they could see. I imagine that the same thing can be said of the people of Savoonga, the Siberian Yup’ik people of St. Lawrence Island, who can see great distances across the island and across the water. If so, I hope that they still measure their stature in this way.

I have taken quite a bit of new learning from this module, not the least of which lies soundly in technology. For a number of years, I have tried to keep up with technology, but even keeping new technological tools on the horizon is a challenge. For instance, I’ve only recently been given an Iphone by my youngest son, who loves his own Iphone, as do his children, who are 19 and 17 years old. Now I text, but rather slowly, and I have a FaceBook page, but I don’t update it as often as I should.

Apart from all the technological possibilities I’m beginning to see with the help of this module, I’ve learned a good deal about some of the fundamental Western science precepts, notably some of the icons of science who are revered by teachers and children of today.

The Teachers Domain is an extremely helpful tool, and I look forward to using it in any way I can. I am sometimes asked to teach Alaska Studies for the MAT program at UAS, and I’m sure that being able to introduce students to that site and others will be useful and productive.

Waters of Southeast Alaska

Around the year 1996, just after I began working my way through college at the age of 50, I signed on as shipboard culturalist with a small cruise ship. On the evening of the first day, we sailed southbound out of the downtown Juneau harbor, circled Douglas Island, and steamed north in Lynn Canal. We spent the next day in Haines and then on to Skagway. That evening, we sailed down Lynn Canal and into Icy Straits. We were joined by a USFS naturalist in Barlow Cove early the next morning, and then we spent the whole day in Glacier Bay. The next morning, we lingered at Pt. Adolphus, then steamed south on Chatham Strait, into Peril Cove, and spent the next day in Sitka. That evening, we sailed back up Neva and Olga Straits, into Peril Straits, past Poison Cove and Deadman's Reach, and continued sailing throughout the night to offload passengers in Juneau in the morning, take on stores, and board another load of passengers that night, to sail again northbound in Lynn Canal. In the following summers, I worked on four-passenger dayboats that went no farther than Point Retreat and on state ferries with ports of call as far as Bellingham. I never tired of it: If I knew I had only one year to live, I would spend my last summer on the waters of Southeast Alaska.

Week One Explore Alaska

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