When the Spirit Beings came to make the world for humans, they pondered how the people would live. How would they cross rivers, for they had no wood? As they sat near the Klamath and thought about this, someone suddenly sprung up from the earth and grew very fast. The Spirit Beings wanted to know its name, and it answered, “Do you not know who I am? I am called Redwood (Keehl) and they will make boats of me and cross the river. They will put pitch on my head and pitch on my stern and a necklace around my neck. This is the way I like it.” The Spirit Beings rejoiced at Redwood’s arrival because they knew the humans would now live properly.
– IN YUROK MYTHS
Keehl came to us during creation, solidifying the relationship between Yurok people and the redwood as one of reciprocity, respect, and responsibility. Keehl is our relative, our protector, our guardian, and as the story above depicts, our interdependent relationship with this Spirit Being who became a tree allows us to truly live properly.
Campfire Stories: The Redwood Coast – Tales & Travel Companion is a collection of stories that evoke an authentic sense of place, from arboreal giants soaring into the mist overhead to the swordferns, moss, and sorrel carpet underfoot. Readers immerse themselves in a unique blend of literature and lore about the Redwoods, including classic passages, original essays, poems, natural history, and more.
In our culture everything is alive. Everything has an energy and a place and role in our society. Keehl’s role is significant. Our traditional houses are made of redwood plank, the stools we sit on in our houses are made of redwood, and canoes that allow us to travel the rivers are made of redwood. When the ohl-we’-yoch is carved, it is given kidneys, a heart, and lungs. Its heart beats and its lungs breathe in sync as boat and paddler become one on the water. Every ride we take in a canoe reestablishes our connection to the being that gave itself to become a boat so we could survive. Every ride we take, we thank it.
When I was in college at Humboldt State University, I used to pass by one of our traditional canoes every time I went to the library. The canoe sat at the entrance to a stairwell on the first floor. There was a sign placed in front of it that said, “Please do not touch.” I always ignored the sign and greeted the boat with words and with touch. I thanked Keehl for becoming a boat. I put my hands on its heart so it could feel my presence. I knew it was alive and I knew it must have been lonely there in the stairwell, on display but longing to be on the water. This canoe was also special to me because some years earlier my dad had helped build it. He was a student a few years before me at Humboldt and part of the group of carvers who spent months making the boat. I remember how happy he was to be part of its creation and how excited he was when he shared with me details of the canoe’s first journey on Humboldt Bay. My dad put part of himself into the boat, and so I was part of it, too. I tried to make it feel loved whenever I could. It did the same for me during the times I felt lonely and out of place in college. I would often go and visit the canoe so I could feel closer to my dad, closer to home, and closer to Creation.
The redwood log used by my dad and his carving crew was acquired through a grant and originated somewhere in Redwood National and State Parks. If not for the creation of the national park in 1933, there probably wouldn’t be any redwoods left on the North Coast. The timber companies were bent on logging every last tree, and we Tribal people were not in any position to defend them. Though the Parks stepped in at a critical time in history, only 5 percent of old-growth redwoods remain. Ninety-five percent of our old guardians are gone forever. It’s hard to comprehend, but then so are a lot of things we have lost. In the early years of establishment, the Parks weren’t always friendly to Tribal people, especially those requesting logs for canoes or to gather materials for our baskets. There were times when we weren’t friendly, either. But to be honest, it’s never been easy for us to ask for or to have to buy back, through grants or other means, those things that have always been integral to our way of life—essential parts of our being.
The Tribal relationship with the Parks has evolved since the early 1990s when my dad worked on the canoe, but I don’t know if they will ever truly understand the depth of our connection to Keehl. Our worldviews are so different. Our belief system is interwoven with reciprocity, the idea that Keehl is here to protect us and to be purposed by us for our survival. The Parks see the redwood groves as needing to be preserved, owned and managed by the government for public enjoyment. Which is, of course, not a bad thing. It’s just not the same kind of relationship that we share with Keehl. Today, we work hard at finding common ground with the Parks in the middle of our differences. We work hard to help them better understand who we are.
Somewhere just downriver from where Blue Creek flows into the Klamath River was a sacred redwood tree that was said to hold up the world. A few miles upriver from this gigantic tree was a smaller grove of redwoods that were integral to our fish dam ceremony near the old village of Kepel. Those trees were extremely important to our cosmology and ceremonial beliefs. They held great responsibilities and we counted on them to do their part. Each of those trees is gone now. The one who held up the world was swept away in a flood. The small grove so essential to the fish dam ceremony was logged, much to the dismay of Yurok people. We couldn’t protect them then, but we honor them now by sharing the responsibility, by living right, by living properly. We honor them because we, too, hold up the world. Our high dances are called world renewal ceremonies. When we dance we hold up the world for everyone, for everything. We hold up the world as we carry the prayers of the people up the mountain trail for the Deerskin Dance. We hold up the world as we stamp out the bad and bring back balance during our Jump Dance. We hold up world and make it new.
My call to my people has always been to remember who we are. To remember our beauty and return to ceremony. To remember our responsibility to take care of this place the Spirit Beings made for us. To remember the gifts they gave and that we are not separate from earth and sky, from river and redwood. To remember…
We are river warriors and land reclaimers,
ocean stewards and dam breakers,
we are fixing the earth
through songs and smoke and prayer.
We are canoe carvers and basketmakers,
flower dancers and Milky Way gazers,
we are the night spirits from across-the-ocean-Land,
the People before the Park.
We have redwood hearts and salmon skin,
flicker-feathered hair and tattooed chins,
we are the blood and bones
of those who came before.
We are Deerskin Dance singers and medicine makers,
acorn pickers and baby rattle shakers,
We are Poh-lik-lah, Pey-cheek-lah, Ner-er-ner
We are Keehl
and we hold up the world.
About This Story
By Ilyssa and Dave Kyu
We discovered the poetry of Shaunna Oteka McCovey, who is both Yurok and Karuk and a member of the Yurok Tribe, while browsing in the Cal Poly Humboldt (formerly Humboldt State University) special collections. We later learned that she is a graduate and a distinguished alumna of Humboldt State. When we spotted her work again in Ka’m-t’em: A Journey Toward Healing, a book on Indigenous knowledge, we knew we needed to include McCovey in this collection and were excited to invite her to write a new piece for Campfire Stories.
McCovey is an enrolled member of the Yurok Tribe and grew up on the Yurok and Hoopa Valley Indian Reservations, as well as in Karuk Country in Northern California. Yurok people have always lived in their ancestral territory and there are now four federally recognized Tribes of Yurok people. The institution of more formal tribal governments has given each Tribe a stronger voice and more self-determined future. Tribal sovereignty is of utmost importance to the Tribes in the Redwood region, and they continue to act in ways to uphold their sovereignty, including the stewardship of lands and waters.
McCovey’s piece tells us of the three Rs of Yurok wisdom: reciprocity, respect, and responsibility. Many Indigenous scholars will add a fourth R, relationship, but the lessons are the same—that everything is alive and has an energy and role in society, and must be treated as such. Keehl is not just a resource, but our relative, our protector, our guardian. This perspective is in stark contrast to that of the 49ers, the Gold Rush prospectors whose mad dash to get rich resulted in the displacement and murder of Native peoples and devastation of the environment.
Behind the Redwood Curtain
By Ilyssa and Dave Kyu
Many locals enjoyed casually unfurling the phrase “behind the Redwood Curtain” in conversation with us, but its meaning was often elusive. For some, it’s a point of pride for the unique community tucked away behind a wall of majestic redwood forests; being “behind the curtain” together fosters self-reliance, a sense of identity, and a feeling of community, and reinforces the choice of many here to disconnect from the rest of the world.
For others, the curtain encapsulates a sense of isolation created by geography or dreary weather. Sometimes landslides or downed trees leave them cut off from main routes. While the Redwood Coast continues to attract residents and visitors for its stunning forests, sweeping coastal beaches, and charming small towns, this access to beauty doesn’t come without the extremes and risks often found in wild places. For starters, the same fog that delivers water to the redwoods also casts a gray gloom over the coast. The region is also prone to seismic activity due to its location on top of the Cascadia subduction zone and proximity to the Mendocino Triple Junction, a point where three tectonic plates meet. Earthquakes on land or offshore can trigger tsunamis. In 1964, a series of five waves set off by an earthquake in Alaska hit Crescent City in a devastating tsunami that killed a number of residents and wiped out its downtown, destroying 29 city blocks and more than 289 buildings and homes.
For many, “behind the Redwood Curtain” also evokes a painful—and not-too-distant—hidden history. This traces back to the acculturation, discrimination, racism, and a violent history of expulsion and murder that people have faced here. To collect stories that accurately represent this place, we knew we had to look past the allure of the majestic forests to understand the history of human occupation. As with many other natural areas in North America, behind this complex landscape is also a complex human history.
For thousands of years, Indigenous people stewarded these lands that we now enjoy, and Chinese immigrants built the roads that enable us to travel here. In Muir Woods, ranger Mia Monroe explained that the visitor center exhibits once told only the story of how, in 1903, Elizabeth and William Kent, wealthy and well-known figures in Marin County, bought the land that is now the national monument. They donated it to the government in order to preserve it, asking that it be named after their inspiring friend John Muir. “We told this story because it’s true,” Mia said, “and also because we wanted everyone to realize that there’s something everyone can do, big or small. But it left out ten thousand years of Miwok people that were stewarding the land. It left out all the women’s garden clubs that Elizabeth was part of who were really the movers and shakers behind those famous guys. It really left out that William Kent was a racist. . . . You know, it left out a lot of things.” While the Kents’ legacy of conservation efforts is enduring, it’s also important to recognize that William fought to exclude Japanese and Chinese immigrants throughout his three terms in the US House of Representatives (1911 to 1917).
We also cannot overlook the greed of white settlers scrambling for gold after its discovery in the Klamath, Trinity, and Salmon Rivers in 1849, which resulted in the violent removal, expulsion, and genocide of Native peoples. For tens of thousands of years, Indigenous tribes—predominantly the Chilula, Karuk, Hupa, Tolowa, Wiyot, and Yurok—lived in balance with the land. Tribes maintained their own laws and customs, and often intermarried and participated in each other’s ceremonies. Living in small groups, Native peoples often established permanent settlements near food and water sources, with a few dozen redwood plank houses built into the ground, their roofs peeking out aboveground with openings just big enough for humans and too small for the once-native grizzlies. Through hunting and gathering, they subsisted on the bounty of the region: tanoak acorns, deer, elk, salmon, steelhead, and other river fish. Even today, many of the tribes prepare for the fall salmon runs with ceremonies, fish camps, and other social gatherings.
When European settlers arrived, Native tribes were forced to relocate to reservations or remote areas, ceding tribal lands, or assimilate into American society. The small tracts of land that the US government offered displaced Northern California tribes were called rancherías instead of reservations, a nod to the history of Spanish settlement. After decades of broken treaties and terminations, Indigenous advocates gained enough traction to establish many of the remaining rancherías as federally recognized tribal entities, with rights to self-governance and access to resources and services. Many Indigenous people from the local tribes still live in the region and remain active members of the community and stewards of this land. More than thirty of the tribes operate casinos on their land with the promise of economic independence.
[…]
In spite of this ugly history, in many ways Northern California has now become a model for what facing our past and shaping our future could look like. After two centuries of displacement, genocide, and restricted access to their traditional lands, Indigenous tribes in Northern California are collaborating with parks and state agencies in the management, renewal, and restoration of Native lands. Renewal of the forests is critical for the preservation of their culture and the land sacred to them, as well as the entirety of our planet and in combating our collective biggest threat: the climate crisis. As one of our contributors, Shaunna McCovey, writes in her piece, tribes are “working with the Parks to find common ground in the middle of our differences.”
Shaunna Oteka McCovey is an advocate, poet, and author of The Smokehouse Boys. She is Yurok and Karuk, and a member of the Yurok Tribe. She is a graduate of Humboldt State University (Cal Poly Humboldt) where she is a Distinguished Alumni; holds a master’s degree in social work from Arizona State University; earned both a master’s degree in environmental law and policy and a Juris Doctorate from Vermont Law School; and received an Honorary Doctorate from Marlboro College for her contributions to poetry and her Tribal people.
Ilyssa Kyu is a design researcher focused on storytelling and creative solutions at the intersection of nature, design, and inclusion and the founder of Amble, a sabbatical program for creative professionals to take time away with purpose in support of nature conservancies. Dave Kyu is a socially engaged artist, writer, and arts administrator. Born in Seoul, South Korea, and raised in the United States, he explores the creative tensions of identity, community, and public space in his work. They live with their two daughters outside of Philadelphia and are always seeking adventure and connection in the outdoors. Find them online at campfirestoriesbook.com.
Header photo by Stephen Moehle, courtesy Shutterstock.
